A War of Shadows

TWENTY-SIX

“Three-4-7-3-6-8-8-3-6-8-7-3-2-8-4-8,” said the computer technician. “I wish there’d been a better, more effective code. Do you know how many combinations that makes? And most of these sons of bitches used non-standard abbreviations like mad.”

Jake Edelman was sympathetic. “Remember, these people have risked more than their necks for us,” he said. “And this was the most unobtrusive manner of getting information to us. So—what have we got on this one?”

She sighed. “Well, of all the ones the computer flashed past we think we have it. It came in on the number for a Sam Cornish. The back-billing on the 800 exchange gave us a small chemistry lab in Westminster, Maryland. As far as we can tell, the lab’s clean.” She handed him the paper.

The general idea was to assign each plant a separate 800 number, so when he or she called in they could immediately tell who it was—and by that also know who not to shoot, if it came to that. Since the 800 numbers were toll-free only to the calling party, the recipient had the long-distance record of what number and area made the call, which made it easier.

The code was simplicity itself. You just used the letters still on most phone dials to spell out your message. This meant three possible combinations per number, unless it was a “Q” or “Z”, which were not on the dial, in which case the “1” was a “Q” and the “0” a “Z”. So the first three letter combinations were punched and run up and down until they made some kind of sense, then the next was added, and so on. The problem was in abbreviations and strange geographical expressions.

Jake Edelman looked at the paper. FHSE MT •VENUS DC TGT, it read. He looked up at the technician. “F-H-S-E?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Firehouse, farm house, something like that,” she guessed. “Believe me, it could be anything. Those first four are the big questions.”

“What’s this ‘Mt. Venus?’ ” he asked. “Couldn’t it be something else to go with the first four?”

“It could be,” she said, “but I punched up the Carroll County atlas for Westminster and started looking. There’s a Mt. Venus Road #1 and a Mt. Venus Road #2 in Carroll, although they’re a ways from Westminster. Still, it checks. And no firehouses on the roads. I’d say they’re in a farmhouse on Mt. Venus Road in Carroll County, about twenty kilometers northwest of Westminster, Maryland. There’s an emergency shuttle service from there through Manchester and then to Westminster. I’d say it checks out.”

He nodded approvingly. “Well done.” He looked back at the paper. “D.C. target, huh? How many does this make?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Fourteen now, with the batch that came in in the last day and a half. We have the locations for most of the major cities. Of the tops, we’re only missing Chicago, the Bay Area, Houston, St. Louis, Detroit, and New Orleans.”

The Chief Inspector gave her lavish praise and she left, but inwardly he was disturbed. He called for Hartman, who saw his superior’s concern.

“What’s the matter? I thought you’d be overjoyed,” he asked, stifling a yawn.

“It’s good, all right,” Edelman said. “It’s too good. If we got results like this on a routine counterespionage case or a syndicate plot, I’d smell something there, too.” He looked up at the sleepy younger agent. “Don’t you see, Bob? How many plants did we have? All told?”

“Thirty-five or forty, I think,” Hartman said. “Want me to check?”

Edelman dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. “So, let’s say forty. Now, they’re going to hit the twenty top U.S. cities—maybe the top twenty-five, but the ones we have are all in the top twenty so let’s stick to that.” He shifted, looking directly into the eyes of the other man. “Bob, even if the impossible happened and all of our plants got through undetected—an incredible result for a makeshift organization like this—what would be the odds of us getting plants on fourteen different teams out of a possible twenty? Or fifty, for that matter. See what I mean?”

Hartman was awake now, and his mouth opened a bit in surprise. “So that’s the answer,” he said.

Edelman nodded. “That’s right. It all ties together now. All of it, a hundred percent. I don’t think we have to hold off on those raids for fear of warning the others any longer. Let’s hit them.”

Hartman nodded. “And then what?”

Edelman’s face was grim, his tone of voice more chilling than Hartman could ever remember. “Bob,” the older man said, “I came into this agency when it was rocked up and down by abuses of power. In reaction, they weakened it beyond its ability to function, lots of nasty things happened, and we got a compromise that lasted until the emergency. Secrecy was the rule, yes, and we played by the rules. Absolutely. Or we got tossed in the pen ourselves. Besides, I believed that my grandparents had been gassed to death by a system that abused its absolute power, opening up the worst in human beings. I was never going to let that power rule me, never let the temptations of abuse creep up on me, for that would be a betrayal of the principles for which my grandparents died.” He sighed. “And now, after all this time, I realize that when this crunch came it was a cage, a prison. It was one of the reasons they put me on this investigation. Hell, Bob, the Nazis of my grandparents’ Germany arose in a democracy, and took over and dominated an enlightened and educated population. That was because the Nazis didn’t play by any rules, Bob—and in opposing them, you had to debase your principles or you would be debased by them. My ancestors didn’t, and they died.”

Hartman, who had no such connections to the past and no particular feeling for it, still saw the older man’s point.

Edelman’s fist slammed down on the desk, making papers and objects jump. “Damn it! I’ve been used—we’ve all been used—by the spiritual children of those Nazis! I’m mad, Bob. Damned mad. They set up this emergency, they created this crisis, and all so they could play by these rules, gain this absolute power. Well, by damn, I’m not going to be another good Jew who’s marched to the ovens! We’re the authority, too, for a while—as long as they let us.

And we’ve got all the powers they gave themselves for the emergency. Well, now we’re going to use them! I’ll still play by the rules—their rules! Let’s see how they like it!”

The last was said with such bitter acidity that it made even Hartman uncomfortable. “Easy, Jake. You know your heart—”

“Heart be damned!” he said. “That’s the other reason it’s me in this chair, Bob. When they don’t need me any more, a little syringe filled with air and —zap! The old man’s ticker went out. Hero’s burial.” He calmed down a little. “What about our mysterious phone number?”

Hartman’s eyebrows rose. He was taken aback by the sudden change in tone. “Well, the 500 exchange is the overload from the 800s,” he replied. “A lot of it’s legit business. The 555 exchange, however, is strictly Executive Branch, White House. The number goes into a centrex computer inside the White House and is routed according to a preprogrammed codex. No way to trace it specifically unless we were inside the computer with somebody who really knew what was what, and that’s out of the question.”

“Not Health and Welfare?” Edelman was genuinely surprised.

Hartman shook his head. “No, that’s 517. This is White House.”

Jake Edelman sighed and assumed his thinking pose. Hartman knew better than to disturb him, and, frankly, he felt like hell and didn’t want to, anyway. Finally the senior agent broke out of it, lit a cigar, blew a big cloud of bluish-gray smoke into the air, and said, “Bob, I’m going to take a gamble. It’s a big one, but solid, I think. If not, it won’t make much difference anyway. I’m asking you to handle it, so the initial hot potato is in your lap. It can kill you, Bob. Are you game?”

The younger agent was puzzled, but nodded. “You know I am, Jake.”

“You know Allen Honner?”

Hartman whistled. “The Chief of Staff? By reputation. I’ve never met him.”

“Well, I have, many times,” Edelman said. “He’s the. President’s man on the crisis committee. I checked out a lot of that committee, Bob. Several of them are fans of Mickey Mouse. But Honner—hell. He could do anything—program that centrex computer, get the goods on anybody blackmailable, even rig the assignments of Secret Service. And, if I were running a plot as elaborate as this, I sure as hell would be on the committee to solve my own crisis, wouldn’t you? It’d be the only way to know whether the plan was working, developing cracks, whatever. I’m betting on him, Bob.”

“Logical,” Hartman admitted. “So?”

“I want you to put the snatch on Honner, Bob,” Edelman said icily. “I want him snatched, then stashed at a safe house so secure even you don’t know where it is. I want Bart Romans from Bethesda brought in, and I want a complete mind probe. A hundred percent. I want names, dates, places. When you get him established, call me on the green box line and I’ll get there. Clear?”

Hartman shook his head slowly from side to side. “You don’t want much, do you?” he sighed. “Wow! Kidnapping and mind-probing the Chief of Staff!” He looked up. “Where’ll you be until my call comes in? Here?”

“An even better alibi,” Edelman said. “I’m going to personally lead a raid on the D.C. target team over in western Maryland.”

The younger man yawned again, got up, and stretched. “Well, okay. Have fun. I’m going to go run some Mickey Mouse fan names through the little computer. We’ll see just what the hell is going on here.”

The house was easy to spot; there wasn’t anybody living in the others and hadn’t been for some time. Although the target showed signs of occupancy, it still looked as if no one was home.

They had it ringed and targeted, and were ready for just about anything when they delivered the utimatum through bullhorns.

The lack of any response worried Edelman. Soldiers and agents finally rushed the place, and got no response, either. The door was blown open and they ran inside, quickly fanning out all over the house.

The only human they found was one handsome, muscular black man bound and gagged in one of the bedrooms. In the kitchen, though, they found the remains of the paraphernalia used to administer the vaccine and a number of blue cylinders. None of them were leaking, but the gauges on three of them showed them to be partially empty.

Edelman had no trouble identifying Sam Cornish; he had a photo and prints to settle his plant’s identity.

Cornish was upset. “You the head man?” he asked the Chief Inspector. Edelman nodded. “Good! They’re crazy! She’s the craziest of the bunch!”

“Did they make you?” Edelman asked. “And, if so, how come you’re still breathing?”

Cornish shook his head almost in disbelief. “No!

At least, I don’t think so. I got them to check out the vaccine, though. I had this feeling all along we were gettin’ played for suckers. And we were! It’s water—Plain water! And she knew it! Knew it and still sent ’em out, after icing me to make sure I wouldn’t tip ’em! Water!”

It took a little pressing to get the full story from the distraught man, and when they got it they were all a little upset.

“She must have decided they couldn’t wait for the deadline,” Edelman said. “Not unless she wanted to kill you. So they’re gone. In action with what they could take. The mean of the true fanatic, I guess.”

Sam Cornish still couldn’t believe it. “But—we were had and she knew it! Those phony Air Force and State Troopers—they weren’t phony. Camp Liberty—hell, I bet those jets I saw so regular overhead were official flights. I bet it’s in Nevada or something!”

Edelman smiled. “You guessed a lot, didn’t you? I think maybe you’d better give us what you can on the other people so we can stop them if possible. Then you’re coming with me.”

“Hey, inspector!” one of the agents called. Edelman turned. “You won’t believe this, but in this briefcase is everyplace they’re going to strike!” the agent said. “God! They didn’t even bother to take the stuff with ’em or destroy it.”

Sam Cornish nodded slowly. “Wasn’t any use,” he said. “Suzy knew they weren’t long for this world after the mission”

For the next hour and a half they went over descriptions while the place was dusted. Before Edelman and Cornish reached Washington again, the bureau’s computers had already made eight of them.

Edelman stopped only long enough to call in. There was a message from Hartman, but he could only tell the other man to take it on his own. Somewhere in or nearing Washington right now were ten terrorists armed with the Wilderness Organism, nine who thought they were immune and a tenth who was so fanatical she would go on with it anyway.

“She’s spent her whole life in the revolutionary movement,” Sam explained. “One of the tenets of the faith was that you induced a repressive fascism as the setup for revolution. I guess if you really believe that shit you might do what she’s doing, even though you know you’re a fascist tool.”

Edelman nodded agreement. “She just was too much of a true believer in her own peculiar brand of religion. But—she loved you, Mr. Cornish. Loved you enough to save you when she knew she had to die.”

Sam Cornish’s face was sad, and there seemed a distant look in his eyes. He turned slowly to Edelman and said, “Can I go with them to Suzy’s target? I—I’d like to be there. Maybe I…”

Edelman nodded. “I’ll take you there. She’s to board the Metro at Connecticut and Calvert, and ride it out to Glebe Road in Arlington. She has only the one spray, and it’s got to look like hair spray or something to get by the checkpoints. She’ll spray the train and station. The best time would be just before rush hour, or possibly during it. After four—which gives us a little over fifteen minutes.” He paused, a thought rising in his mind. “You don’t suppose she’ll vary the plan? Get on elsewhere?”

Cornish was positive. “No, not Suzy. Once the plan was made and rehearsed, she followed it to the letter, always.”

By the time they made the station, several other things had been accomplished. The partial prints and Sam’s descriptions had been computer matched and they knew the identities and general appearances of all of them now, along with their targets. Additionally, while the station was open, Metro trains were ordered to skip it. The crowds were backing up, but the soldiers at the station checkpoints looking at ID cards had kept things even slower.

“If she sees you she might not use the spray,” Edelman said hopefully. “We’ll see. We have to take the chance. Too many people down there to do a general shootout unless it’s the last resort.”

“Worth a try,” Cornish said, his nerves tensing, stomach tight.

Behind them, special Army trucks were pulling up, and men climbed into strange looking suits like spacesuits and checked out nasty-looking tanks with insulated hoses terminating in what looked like single-barrelled shotgun housings.

Now Edelman and Cornish joined a group of FBI and DC police personnel for the walk down into the station.

The well-lit station was spacious and clean under the monitors of Metro security. The station itself was a distinctive work of architecture, cool and efficient. While the field agents continued on into the gathering crowd, Edelman pulled his charge over to one of the security booths. “Let’s see if we can pick her up on the circuit first,” he said, adding ominously, “If it’s clear she’s already started any spraying or is about to, the flamethrowing team will come in full force. Remember that.” Cornish nodded but said nothing.

The cameras started their sweep, the technician adjusting so that the faces of many of the people could be seen. They were looking for lone female figures of small stature, and they found several, but Cornish shook his head “no” to each as they looked. Finally they reached all the way down to the end of the platform, where, off by herself, a slight female was reading a paper, a standard shoulder purse suspended from a strap around her neck.

“Hold that one!” Cornish ordered. “Can you blow it up a little more?”

They tried, but as long as the newspaper was up little could be seen but the top of long, reddish-brown hair. Suzy’s was short and jet black, but she’d brought wigs while in Westminster. The big man stared hard, praying that it was she, not quite understanding his own feelings at this point, nor even why he’d insisted on coming along, participating in the crackdown. He wasn’t sure what he’d do it if was Suzy behind that paper. He could only wait and hold his breath, while the other cameras continued to pan and the security and police teams mingled below, trying to get a make on her.

Two figures walked, hand-in-hand, along the sidewalk next to the Congressional Office Building. They looked like two lovers out enjoying a break from whatever routine they normally followed. They turned a corner, and someone with a walkie-talkie in the part just across the street whispered, “It’s a make. Go!”

Men and women armed with automatic weapons seemed to pop out of every place at once. A bullhorn barked, “You on the corner! Stop and put both hands in the air!”

The couple broke apart, and the man reached into the woman’s bag for something as both dropped as one to the sidewalk. It wasn’t good enough. From all over hundreds of rounds poured into them, making in split seconds an awfully bloody mess. Now figures in the white pressure-suits moved up, a confirmation was made on what remained of the dead, and it was noted that there were several holes in the leather purse. One of the suited figures reached in and pulled out a metal object looking much like an ordinary can of shaving cream complete with brand name and trademark. There was a nick in it, but it looked unopened and undamaged. A bomb-disposal truck was called, and the can was placed inside. They were about to clear the mess when they noticed a slight bulge under the man’s coat. They opened it to see two small pressurized cylinders strapped to his underarms, and long, thin plastic tubes running down the sleeves. There was no way to tell quickly if the stuff was on.

They stood back and bathed the dead bodies and most of the street corner until it was ablaze with white-hot liquid fire.

The National Visitor’s Center used to be the train station when trains were the chief mode of transportation; it still was for some, a center for commuter trains and high-speed megalopolis runs. Out of one train from Baltimore stepped a hesitant young woman, looking nervously around. She got three steps off the platform when figures moved in back of her, grabbing her arms while one shot an injection that knocked her cold. The jets, fed by two small cylinders worn under her blouse and shooting downward to the ground, had obviously not been activated.

A young-looking officer, an Air Force captain in full uniform, got off the bus at the Pentagon and showed his credentials. He was carefully checked by the first team and waved on, making his way, courier-style briefcase in hand, across the inner parking area toward one of the entrances. A check-point sergeant, after waving him on, lifted his walkie-talkie and said a few words.

As the captain neared the last rows of cars, figures popped up all around him, weapons pointing directly at him from all directions. He stopped, looked completely around, saw there was no way out, then smiled, shrugged, and put up his hands, the brief-case, unopened, still in his right hand.

The frail, elderly woman in the wheelchair being pushed by a younger man up to the entrance of the Sheraton Washington looked terribly harmless. The man, however, met all but one of the criteria the personnel on guard had on the people they were looking for; he was clean-shaven, but moustaches are easily removed. They decided to take no chances. Armed men and women popped out of the bushes and nearby cars.

The man looked confused and let go of the wheel-chair. The old woman started rolling downhill, and, as she did so, a couple of the cops moved to stop her. Quickly the blanket fell, revealing a submachine gun with which the “old woman” opened fire. Also unmasked were two bologna-shaped modules on either side of her in the chair, aimed slightly down.

Two men in white pressure-suits suddenly popped up just in front of her and, as she tried to shift the submachine gun to them they opened up with liquid fire. Back near the hotel entrance, the younger man stood frozen, then slowly raised his hands in the air. There was fear on his face and panic in his voice as he screamed, “I haven’t triggered it! Don’t burn me!

For God’s sake, don’t burn me!”

And so it went across the city. Some were uglier than others, needing extensive flamethrowing, then sanitizing and scientific teams from the Bureau of Standards to determine that none of the Wilderness Organism were loose, and a few innocent bystanders were caught in the mess as some of the terrorists surrendered and others resisted to the death.

“It’s Suzy,” Cornish said softly as the woman lowered the newspaper a bit. There was no mistaking her now.

He and Edelman walked down to the platform, and were joined by several others as they made their way toward the far end. Calls were already going out to stop all westbound trains, and slowly soldiers moved in to start clearing away the people already down there.

Suzanne Martine was a survivor. She smelled the wrongness and felt the danger even before she saw anything to justify it. Still, she was calm, folding the newspaper and putting it on the bench carefully before casually looking up and around.

She made her hunters easily; they were the only people moving toward her. She went through the various options quickly as she continued to pretend that she hadn’t seen them, picked the one that seemed most likely to provide some sort of chance, and walked slowly over to the edge of the platform.

Pistols came out, and the men and women of the authority she hated so much started running toward her.

“Suzy! No! Don’t!” she heard a familiar voice scream, and for a split-second she hesitated, seeing Sam. Then, suddenly, as the first shots started, she jumped down onto the trackbed, managing somehow to keep her balance, and ran into the tunnel as shots ricocheted around and near her.

Sam Cornish got to the edge, turned to Edelman, and said, “Please! Let me go!”

The Chief Inspector thought for a second, then nodded. “Okay, son,” he said, “but flame squads will be at both ends. Talk her out or I won’t be able to stop them.” Again the split-second hesitation, then he reached into his jacket and brought out his .38. “Take this.”

Sam stared at the pistol for a second, as if he’d never considered the possibilities before. Then he took it, turned, and jumped down onto the track bed. “Watch that third rail!” somebody shouted, but he was gone into the darkness.