McManus started to speak, hesitated, then pressed on: Are you sure you want to know the answers?
Sighing: Absolutely. General, in many ways I'm the apotheosis of the common man. I'm not so stupid that I don't know I have limitations, and it has been my pride- which goeth before a fall-that my political career was not built on compromises with corruption. Not that I knew about. He remained silent for a moment. Then, It was Warren Harding who said he could handle his enemies but his friends were ruining him. I won't be another Harding. He leaned over and activated the intercom. Jeanette, buzz Walt Kalvin for me; remind him I-we-have a pep talk scheduled for those hardcore media liberals at two-fifteen. Oh, and Jeanette: that telephone maintenance never happened. It was a non-event. He toggled the intercom off. I'm still not certain Walt has betrayed me, McManus. But I'll admit I'm seeing rat tracks everywhere.
Now even Harman was getting jumpy, and Bobby Lathrop had to admit the situation was out of control. No one was using Ramsay's apartment; the man had still not surfaced. Nor had the kid, or the Garza chick. Because they didn't want to risk butting heads with NBN security on its own turf, both men staked themselves out at the mall. Ramsay was a Name, and sooner or later he'd show up at the studios, probably by the back entrance where Bobby would see him.
It was beyond hope that Ramsay would come bouncing across the parking lot with a hot-looking number beside him; beyond dreaming that the chick would be Garza. But they must have been using Garza's red Honda. Bobby barely had time to use his comm set to bring Harman on the run, before he put himself on an intercept course on foot. As it happened, his path took him within a few feet of that damned Genie, which he hadn't looked under because he had too much sense to risk jouncing it even a little. Hot damn, nothing but dry holes for an eternity, and now two birds at once!
Bobby's coat was wide so it would hide the stubby little Ingram stuttergun. It was no trouble at all for him to move ahead of them near the back entrance, then turn as they approached, letting the muzzle protrude so that it showed but would be inconspicuous to distant shoppers. No yelling or running, folks, he said as the two of them were even with the yellow Genie, and he saw Ramsay's gaze fixate on the Ingram. Or I'll drop you right here.
The Garza hotsy stumbled when she recognized Bobby, saw him in all his commanding potency. To think I used to follow your orders, she said.
Ramsay had one hand in a jacket pocket and Bobby nearly wasted him as the guy jerked his hands up to steady the woman. But the hands were empty. You must be suicidal. We're being watched, was all he said.
Nice try, Bobby said, seeing no one and feeling pretty good. Now I want you to turn around and walk nice and steady out to my van.
The woman looked around, panicky, and Ramsay was pale too, but kept his head. If I do, I'm dead, he said. And before Bobby could stop him, he leaned on the Genie!
Bobby almost fainted. Get away from there! he screamed, flinching, dropping the Ingram's muzzle, and that's when the Garza bimbo started slashing him with her nails.
Bobby hunched, the big shoulders flexing, and elbowed her in the boobs and nobody would have been fooled by that roundhouse right that Ramsay threw except that Bobby's attention was split, and he took only part of the blow on his pectorals, the rest of it rattling his china, and then the silly bastard was trying to wrestle the Ingram away from a man who could bench press the Washington Monument.
The woman started yodeling for help but she had both hands on Bobby's head, too, razoring across his eyes, and to shake her off he spun to the left and suddenly Ramsay's footwork got lucky, tangling Bobby's feet, and when they fell onto the hood of the car all Bobby could see was yellow, and in his mind, a gigantic black mushroom lifting them all into the sky. Bobby started yelling some himself at that point, trying to tell the crazy sonofabitch that little car was about to blow, but while his mouth was open Ramsay butted him even though Bobby still had a good grip on the Ingram and could have taken the older guy with one hand behind him only the Ingram burped, just three rounds but they all went past Bobby's cheek, and between trying to protect the trigger and flailing to get up off of the rocking, shuddering Genie, there wasn't much concentration left for martial arts.
Bobby took another head butt in the mouth, his personal chimes ringing like a carillon, and that's when he began to lose it, wondering when the fucking bomb would blow, sliding into blackness, letting go of the gun. At the edge of his awareness, he could hear big feet pounding near and voices that sounded anything but pleased. Then Bobby let go of everything.
When he came to, the first thing he saw was Harman, acting all surprised and innocent with his forty-five in the hands of a guy in plain clothes and with Harman himself in the hands of two other guys, and then somebody was reading them their Mirandas. Don't shove the fucking car, Bobby managed to say as they hauled him to his feet. Blow um all to shit, he explained through broken incisors.
I doubt it, said the balding plainclothesman. Your little surprise was disarmed ten minutes after you put it there.
Lithen, thith ith a mithtake, we're in intelligenthe too, Bobby said.
You know what you're in, said the old guy. You're in the dumper. And we're about to flush it.
Walter Kalvin strolled across the opening from the Executive Office Building to the West Wing shortly before two p.m. with the Donnersprache mike in an inside pocket and a set of unanswered questions beating in his skull. If Unruh didn't produce Ramsay or the kid by sundown, it would be time for some give and take with Harry Rand. Harry, devout do-gooder that he was, was still only a man, with a human failing where power was concerned. And whatever else Walt might have done, he could claim that he'd done it for Harry, and for the American people.
And if that didn't work, there was always that little fling Harry had taken with Pam Garza a decade before. Harry would give a lot to keep that out of the news, and even more to keep it from Bea Rand.
Before going to the Oval Office Kalvin detoured quickly down to the theatre, nodding to the security staff, taking a quick look through a viewport into the theatre. He had the list of attendees, but you never knew when Showers might lobby to have a couple of extras, and-
Kalvin blinked, denying the testimony of his eyes, while a flood of liquid helium poured through his veins. All the major networks were represented, which was merely irksome. The horrifying image was the sight of Alan Ramsay, looking as though he could hardly wait for Harry's little speech.
And why would Ramsay let himself be dragged within a mile of the White House, knowing what he knew? Only if he had protection I don't know about, Kalvin's pessimism replied.
Walter Kalvin turned on his heel and hurried up the stairs, not quite running. No one seemed to notice when he trotted from the West Wing back toward his own office, but he was breathless as he turned the corner in the hallway. In thirty seconds he could have the spare Donnersprache, the fake ID, and the money he kept in his wall safe.
His secretary was not on duty, and that alerted him. What electrified him were the men he saw as he eased a two-inch crack in the door to his inner office. Burly, clean-cut, in dark three piece suits, they were doing a careful toss of his office. Or rather, one was doing the toss, very quietly. The other stood before the wall safe, attending to a digital meter with leads to suction cups on the face of the safe. Probably FBI.
Kalvin took several steps backward in silence. As he reached the hallway he began to run.
Though Falls Church adjoins Arlington, it retains its own frumpy character. Kalvin left the Greyhound local and then watched the sun disappear beyond the old rooftops along Broad Street, expecting the car from the east, toward Arlington, because that was where Unruh lived. Kalvin had lost his touch with this kind of skulking in thirty years, and did not recognize the blue Caddie until it nearly ran him down.
Terry Unruh had been a good-looking specimen only a few months before. Late shadows accentuated the ravages to the flesh of his face. Unruh's was a death's head, almost bald, with a gray pallor. My wife
tried to stop me, said Unruh as the Caddie bore them toward a pink sunset. She outweighs me, now.
Kalvin was in no mood to make small talk, and changed the subject. They'll be watching every major airport, but of course you'd know that, he said.
The death's head nodded. Leesburg Municipal is not a major airport, it said. You have the full exfiltration kit? Enough cash?
Enough. But I couldn't take the risk of hitting my safe deposit boxes. I did transfer a small fortune from one offshore bank to another; both Brit. I wonder what you'd do if you knew that Bermuda account of yours was gutted now. You might suspect that if you knew I was low on cash.
Unruh drove expertly for a dead man. He overtook a limo, probably headed for Dulles, and settled back into the traffic stream. We'll have to wait 'til dark. After that it's only a two hour hop to Canada, he said.
Kalvin made no reply, keeping his frustrations in check because Unruh was his lifeline. A few miles farther, Unruh snapped on his lights. You know, I never did have a clear picture what you were up to, Kalvin.
You'll hear enough about it, I'm sure.
Oh, I already have, right after I got your mayday this afternoon. Mid-level spook, friend of mine. He didn't dream I might be connected with you; must be kicking himself by now. A long silence ensued. Unruh broke it himself. I had the idea that this was just some little political edge of yours, nothing that'd change things much, no worse than the nits you find in any administration. Imagine my surprise, he added with rich sarcasm.
I'd rather not discuss it, Kalvin said, as Unruh swung the Caddie off of the Leesburg Pike.
Why not? You must be the most convincing discusser since Moses heard from the burning bush. Why didn't you use that charisma machine yourself?
It helps to have the right voice to begin with, Kalvin said grudgingly. And the right background.
Like being born with U.S. citizenship? That occurred to me this afternoon.'' Now Unruh turned off the paved county road onto a rutted farm access path. To their right, no more than a few miles distant, an airport beacon flashed its brief surge of welcome. The Caddie slowed, then stopped.
Don't tell me, said Kalvin, keeping his tone steady despite a thrill of alarm.
No, you tell me, said Unruh, sounding very tired. Use your powers of electronic persuasion. Or won't it work without a boxful of equipment?
Start the fucking car, Terry, said Kalvin; and when Unruh did not move, he drew the Donnersprache mike from his coat. Here it is. Is this your price for getting me exfiltrated? Take it, he said. With the microfilmed diagrams in my billfold, I can build more when I get to Argentina.
As Terence Unruh took the cordless mike, like a cold sceptre signaling the transfer of power, he laughed briefly. It became a cough, and required all of Unruh's strength to control. You've already paid my price, he said, and drew a stubby little automatic with his left hand. But there's a price for freedom; everybody's, I mean. They always told me that price was eternal vigilance. Sounds terribly mundane, doesn't it?
Walter Kalvin said nothing, waiting for Unruh to pick up the dialogue; to lead him to some further compromise. The last, and most horrifying, surprise of his life was the simultaneous sound and shock of a short nine-millimeter round entering his left side.
No messy trials for us, Kalvin, said Unruh.
Because the little weapon had only modest impact, Kalvin was able to turn, grappling for the pistol, though he already felt something hideously wrong with his lungs. The second and third rounds seemed not quite so loud, their impacts less astounding. No! Enough, he said, and oddly enough, Unruh did not fire again. Through a vast sense of disappointment, and shock that had somehow not entirely converted to pain, Kalvin realized that he was going to die more in curiosity than in agony. You expect to use it yourself?
Only the instrument cluster lit the face of Terence Unruh, a corpse face in faint green reflection. No. This is more important than money to my children. I'm turning it in.
Now Kalvin felt himself sliding sideways and fumbled in his pocket with his right hand for the microphone's remote controller. No you won't, he said, now with a sense of fullness as internal bleeding took its course. He could no longer see Unruh, but he could feel the device in his pocket.
The cordless microphone contained only fifty grams of explosive, not enough to completely demolish the car. But the concussion wave and flying particles were enough to eliminate all pain and disappointment from both men forever.
NINETEEN
...And so it seems that we live by catch phrases, said Alan Ramsay, beginning his windup of 'The Ramsay File' before eighty million Americans. In less than forty-eight hours, the Donnersprache unit from Kalvin's wall safe had been disarmed and analyzed. Ramsay leaned against a display table as he spoke, sometimes using the cordless mike to demonstrate it, while the pointers of delicate meters responded to enhanced elements of resonance and pitch. But we can be destroyed by catch phrases, too, when they happen to be the wrong ones, made artificially attractive.
He raised the microphone again. Violence never settled anything, he intoned, glancing at the meters, adding, and if you believe that, you never saw a war, a catfight, or a football game. Now he smiled faintly. You can't cheat an honest man. Democracy means that all opinions are equal. And finally, cheaters never win. He lowered the mike, looking at it as though it were something to scrape off his shoe. Well, in this case the cheater finally lost; but we'd be well advised not to count on it.
And what's to be done with this little device, now that our Chief Executive has denounced its use? That isn't my decision, of course. But it seems that we have several options: make it available from Radio Shack for twenty-nine ninety-five, perhaps. Outlaw it as we did anabolic steroids and subliminal advertising? Maybe. Our chief defense springs from the same technology that created it; now that we can spot it, we'll know when it's being used against us.
Because it is a weapon against us, against the kind of critical thinking that separates truth from lies. Nazi Germany had a leader who used Donnersprache with deliberate savagery. The measure of Harrison Rand is that, even though the device-arguably-put him in the White House, he reacted with courage, and outrage, when he discovered it. In the game of politics, where power is the name of the game, how could we ask for more?
From Washington, this is Alan Ramsay for NBN.
As the monitor light winked out, Ramsay turned to retrieve the central exhibit, handing it to one of the team detailed to secure it. Grinning, the man said, Radio Shack! Don't hold your breath.
Avoid giving long odds, Ramsay said. Your grandfather could've bought a kingdom for a radar detector.
Irv, his headset awry, gripped Ramsay's arm with both hands in jubilation. Knockout, Alan, just bleeding dynamite! If this didn't outdraw the Super Bowl, I'll buy dinner.
I'll take a rain check; got a date with two gorgeous creatures, Ramsay cracked, pulling off his tie, hurrying toward a floorman who offered the usual towel so that he could begin ridding himself of makeup.
Minutes later, face scrubbed, Ramsay found Laurie waiting with Pam Garza. Laurie seemed undecided whether to shake his hand or leap into his arms and compromised by hugging him around the midriff. You were great, Dad, she beamed.
Pam gave him a chaste kiss and fell in step with the Ramsays. You showed a lot of restraint, she said. If I hadn't listened carefully I wouldn't have known you had any personal involvement.
Modest heroism is my forte, he said, deadpan, then winked. Anyway, I already knew I'm scheduled for the cover of Newsweek. Laurie squealed and applauded. I passed over Tom Cusick's group, too; their idea, actually. Publicity wouldn't do them any good. Unruh's family, either. From that note he left, he must've known he wasn't coming back. There's poetic justice for you; some people I loved aren't coming back either because of him.
Hey, you haven't mentioned our new outfits, Pam said, trying to divert his train of thought, preening in her finery. You said 'just short of formal,' but you didn't say which McDonald's you
had in mind.
Smartass, Ramsay replied. Let's just say someone else is picking up the tab for the limo.
Limo? Wow, Dad, Laurie marveled. You've gotta tell us where.
Well, uh-believe it or not, the White House, pudd'n.
Pam hesitated. Me, too? Alan, you know why I can't- much as I'd love to.
Sure you can, he said. All that stuff happened a long time ago, to two different people. Just look him in the eye, but curtsy while you do it.
My God, she said, and then giggled. He's probably after your vote.
Trotting down the stairs toward the front entrance, Ramsay laughed aloud. That'll be the day; our retreaded preacher is a lousy judge of character. But I have an idea he'd be a great companion on a hunting trip.
He leaned forward to open a door and stumbled, laughing at himself, as it was opened for him. Outside, the limo waited.
The End
Dean Ing - Silent Thunder Page 14