Authors: Ronald Klueh
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rick Saul sighed, looked around his office, and decided to call it a day. Another long day of digging through mushrooming e-mails from field offices, trying to ferret out information on their quarry. Every day more agents came into SWISILREC and had to be let in on details. Every day he and Spanner prepared reports for Bureau management to pass on to Administration officials at the endless meetings held to “contain” the crisis.
The phone rang.
“Mr. Saul, Sheena Mosely here. Finally, I got through to you. How do you like my stories thus far?”
“Like I told you when we met on the street, I’ve got nothing to say,” he said, fingering the report on his desk from the hijacking task force: no progress. They tracked down the two Boston men rumored to have been away for a couple of months in May and June. Both claimed to be in Texas looking for jobs in the booming oil industry.
“I won’t need your help for the next story that goes into more detail on the hijacking and who else besides Austin was involved.”
To Saul, her British accent seemed stronger on the phone. Was it Scottish or Irish? He wondered as his mind clicked over people who knew details of the thefts. Kraft, bitter with a ruined career, was a possibility, because the picture of Austin was his NNSA badge picture, to which Kraft had access. The only trouble with that was that Mosely was on the story well before they knew about Kraft and Austin. Then again, Saul probably knew only a small percentage of the people who knew the details and could pass on the information as well as the picture.
“Where do you get this information?” he asked. “How did you find out about Austin and get his picture?” He remembered the Trojan horse and trap door in the NNSA’s computer. Could that have been used to get information? Who but the late Steve Austin could use the trap door? “Do you have a government source?”
“That’s why I called. My source is some guy on the phone who also e-mailed the Austin photo. I know the official government word is that what I wrote is a rumor and no nuclear material was stolen. You and I know better. So I’ll make you an offer. If you are willing to admit the investigation is going on, just send somebody to my office and tap my phone for when they call again. That’s what you guys do, right? Meantime, I’ll forward the e-mail I received with Austin’s picture. Maybe you can trace its source”
His computer dinged, notifying him of new e-mail—the forwarded message with picture attached. The originating e-mail address was: [email protected]. Saul wondered how Mosely got his e-mail address. Would Spanner, Dowel, and the POC agree to tap her phones, thus admitting there was an ongoing investigation?
“Now that you got what you want, Mr. Saul, tell me about the investigation.”
“What investigation?”
“Why play games, Mr. Saul?”
“If there was an investigation, I am sure it would be going great.”
Really going great, he thought. After his meeting with Logson, Ebert, and Sukiomo, he and Spanner decided that when the hijackers lost the genius of Austin, they would need to recruit a new computer expert. Because the sign-out record of Austin’s foray into DOE’s classified library indicated his interest in chemistry of plutonium and uranium, they also needed a chemist. Saul spent time in the NCI computer missing-persons files. He found no missing scientists, although it usually took weeks before missing persons turned up in NCI files.
Once Saul and Spanner agreed on an approach, Spanner had to sell it to the Bureau hierarchy, who had to sell it to the Planning and Operations Committee for SWISILREC at the White House. Approval by POC or not, Spanner figured the course they proposed would be “like trying to find a Winston-Churchill-type statesman in Washington.” When POC approved, Saul ordered field offices to determine if any scientists or engineers were missing in their area.
“If the investigation’s going so great,” Mosely said, “how soon before you make arrests?”
Arrests? How about a suspect, he thought.
“Are you saving your insights for Senator Hughson?” She continued. “Since his press secretary happens to be your wife, it must be easy to get information to him.”
“I keep my information confidential.”
“I guess that’s right, since Hughson didn’t have anything but your standard senatorial bullshit. What do guys like you see in young blondes? You are older than your wife, aren’t you?”
When he didn’t answer, she said, “She’s like most sweet young things these days, the thick golden hair, dyed of course. She likes to toss it back and run her hand through it whenever she can’t think of the right thing to say. They really go for that type on Capitol Hill. She was ever so attentive to the great man during our interview, laughing at all his jokes, like a college sophomore. Is she that way with you?”
What’s with this bitch? “She graduated from college.”
“I’m sure her college degree and other credentials got her that job. But that college-girl act must get old to someone as sophisticated as you, a man with a law degree. What you need is an older woman with sophistication, one with experience.”
Saul recalled Spanner saying Mosely was fifty-one. When he met her on Tenth Street, it was too dark to get a good look at her. He’d seen her interviewed on TV, and she looked pretty good there. “What are you proposing?” Was she using her cunt to get the stories she’d been writing?
She laughed. “Me, with an FBI man?” She laughed again. “I’m sure you’ve seen my record with the law. Lawmen aren’t my type, although I’m sure I could show you some things a cute little sophomore never heard of. Then again, she might be getting lessons from some mighty experienced persons. I understand her Senator is quite the cocksman.”
Enough of this shit. “I appreciate your call, Miss Mosely, and your offer to have us set up surveillance on your phone.”
“I thought maybe we could make a trade.”
Saul had an idea. Perhaps they could get her to turn up the identity of Brian Applenu and Eric. Their only leads were Austin’s DOE badge picture and the sketches of his two friends that they had not yet released to the public. Applenu was not the science attaché he claimed to be. Nobody at the British Embassy ever heard of him or recognized the sketch, and he was probably not a native of Britain based on Patricia Hunter’s description.
Trouble was, the accuracy of the sketches was questionable. Marge Alsop had little recollection of Eric, since she’d only met him once. Although Patricia Hunter wouldn’t admit it, she slept with Applenu. Presumably, the sketch made from her description was better. Unfortunately, both men wore beards, and sketches of men with dark beards had a tendency to all look alike.
How to distribute the sketches while maintaining government secrecy was a problem. Saul and Spanner wanted to release them to the press along with the story of the lost nuclear material. “Not just yet,” was the POC’s first reaction. Then yesterday, POC decreed that the sketches could be released, but under a cover story that the men were wanted for a brutal double murder. In that form, the best they could expect was for the story to show up on back pages of a few newspapers scattered around the country. How about a leak to Mosely?
“What kind of trade did you have in mind?” Saul asked, glancing up and seeing Jeremy Slaughter in the doorway.
“The way I figure it, in the next few days, you fine upstanding law enforcement officers are going to leak information whenever it benefits you. I’d like to be the person you leak to. I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.” She began to laugh.
He decided to check it out with Spanner.
When Saul didn’t reply, she said, “I’ll take your silence to mean you’re thinking about it. I’ll keep in touch, okay?”
“Suit yourself,” Saul said and hung up. He looked up at Jeremy Slaughter and motioned him to the chair in front of the desk.
“I see where you’re a regular item in the newspapers these days,” Slaughter said, laughing and plopping his lanky body into the chair. Slaughter was System Administrator for FBI Headquarters computers. He and Saul hit it off because of Saul’s electrical engineering and computer background, and they often discussed computer hardware and software.
“I came by to tell you I knew Steve Austin and considered him a friend. He was sharp. He helped me upgrade our computer security. From what I know from friends in the same business Steve and I are in, he was known by a lot of government computer people. Fact is, I met him through a friend who runs the computer complex on Capitol Hill.”
“Are you saying Austin had access to our computers here at Headquarters?”
When Slaughter nodded, Saul explained the Trojan horses and trap doors on the Kirtland and NNSA computers. “Could he have done the same thing to our computer?”
Slaughter shrugged. “Maybe. He helped me write code for the security upgrade, so he had access to our machines. But what could he do with it?”
“That’s the question I’ve been asking myself about the trap door on the NNSA computer,” Saul said, looking to Slaughter for an answer but getting none. “How about this: he was intending to quit NNSA, maybe just leave when things got hot after the hijacking, and the trap door would allow him to get back into the computer so he could keep track what was happening on the case?”
“Sounds plausible,” Slaughter said, standing. “He could get even more information from our computer. I better get back and see if there’s a Trojan horse and trap door on ours.”
“Do that. However, even if they are there, they aren’t important anymore, since the late Steve Austin is no longer in the picture.”
- - - - -
Despite Applenu’s plan, Drafton didn’t show up the day after the accident or the next day. According to Applenu, they sent Drafton to a specialist in New York.
Applenu sent Curt to the computer room, while he, Surling, Simmons, Markum, and Maxwell spent the next two days cleaning up the radioactive mess in the furnace room caused by the explosion. On the third day, Applenu and Simmons spent their time with Surling to familiarize themselves with Drafton’s job on processing plutonium. According to Surling, Applenu spent his evenings studying Hearn’s and Drafton’s notes on processing. If Drafton didn’t make it back, they would carry on without him.
Left alone in the computer room with Beecher patrolling the hall outside the door, Curt wrote machining programs for plutonium, happy to have the computer to help him forget Drafton. Even with Drafton gone, his mind would not shut down the memory. Trying to forget was like throwing away a boomerang. Regardless of what subject it pursued, it always circled back to Drafton.
Curt was also happy to get away from Surling. Embittered by the loss of their escape ticket, Surling turned to drinking, and it had the same effect liquor had on Dad after Curt’s accident. He went from being a decent guy to being your sarcastic buddy.
Sitting behind the computer, Curt combed his brain for escape ideas, searching a mind stuffed with metallurgical facts, computer programming techniques, ideas about artificial intelligence, and robotics. Escape plans defied scientific analysis and led to thoughts of prayer. Maybe Mom’s prayers would spring him. At least salvation no longer hinged on homosexual intercourse.
That’s what he thought, but five days after the accident, a thin-faced stranger appeared at the door to their quarters. “Are you guys ready to get to work?” He asked.
Curt and Surling stared up from their breakfast, simultaneously recognizing a clean-shaven Drafton, his brown hair shaved down to his white skull, giving him the appearance of a concentration-camp survivor.
Drafton’s eyes locked onto Curt.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Brian Applenu jumped when the “Applenu” cell phone chirped, since neither it nor the “Deby” phone rang often. Was it Sherbani or Lormes, the only people with the number? Good news or bad? He pushed back from the desk and fished the phone from his pocket. “Hello.”
“How goes it old chap? Long time no talk.”
“Ste…Derek? You’re…you’re…what happened? How can…”
“It is I, mate, alive and well. You didn’t really believe I could stay in that job after the incident? I had our Mr. Lormes arrange a transition, all part of the detailed plan. Now I am the strategist for our program.”
“I thought the original plan had you down here to help manufacture the product.”
“We set you up to run that part of the project. We even recruited employees to help, and you’re doing a great job. I understand you had some problems recently, but you are handling it. How is our friend doing?”
“He needs specialized medical treatment. He’ll be happy to hear you’re okay. Maybe you can get him the medical treatment he needs.”
“Don’t tell him anything about me.”
“Why…”
“Just don’t,” he said, his friendly tone of voice transforming to gruff. “The reason I called was that I understand you’ve made some demands on our boss and given him an ultimatum. He’s not too happy about that. We lived up to our bargain on the payments: two two-million payments, and as soon as the first product is machined, there will be a third payment of two-million. When will that occur?”
“In a few weeks, say four-to-six, if my demands are met.”
“Great! After that payment, the other four-million will come when you finish the job. You are a rich bloke, mate, and when you finish the project, we’ll also deliver your personnel. If we gave you that part now, you might just walk away.”
“You and I know that wouldn’t be possible, because our bosses would be watching me and my personnel. I know what our bosses can do. I want my personnel transported to Amsterdam within five days, or else I will walk. I don’t trust them to deliver after the job is finished.”
“Your walking won’t help your personnel. Besides, we know you cleaned up the mess our friend made, even though you said you wouldn’t.”
Applenu realized Simmons had reported. “Give me what was promised or else.”
“I’ll get back to you. Keep up the good work, old chap.”
- - - - -
Curt stared at the computer screen: the last program for machining radioactive uranium was finished. When would he and Surling be finished? Once again, everything depended on Drafton—their savior and Curt’s demon.
Since Drafton’s return a week earlier, everyone threw themselves into their work. Surling complained about Applenu’s determination to get all he could from Drafton, for if Drafton went down, Applenu would step in and carry on.
Drafton and Surling produced the first plutonium metal in quantity that was ready to be machined with one of Curt’s programs. In addition to plutonium, they transferred several pieces of uranium into the hot cell for machining into a bomb-ready nuclear explosive. They would soon have nuclear explosives for their first bombs.
Atomic bombs were the least of Curt’s worries. Immediately after Drafton returned and he and Surling were again alone drinking coffee, the first thing Surling said was: “He’s a goner.”
“He said he’s fine.” Drafton told them earlier that the nausea and vomiting he experienced the first few days after the accident had gone away. Two doctors in New York had treated him and couldn’t detect any radioactivity.
“They probably had him examined by some doctors they’ve got on their payroll,” Surling said. “The quacks could go to the literature and see what procedures are used. But that’s a long shot for your ordinary doctor to carry out effectively.”
“In other words they’re sacrificing him.”
“What else can they do? They can’t go to a real specialist and say, ‘Look, we’ve got this guy who inhaled plutonium oxide.’”
Curt tried to ignore the mix of feelings that stirred inside, tried not to think about what he wanted for Drafton.
“He’s our only hope,” Surling said. “Now we’ve got to hope he lasts long enough to help us. Another long shot.”
Curt sipped his coffee, waiting.
“Did you see how he looked at you? We don’t have a choice. You don’t have a choice.”
- - - - -
Despite hearing Austin’s voice last night, Applenu found it difficult to believe he was alive, but he knew he needed to take advantage of this unexpected turn of events. He had made a threat, and now he needed to carry it out.
He got out his laptop and went to his Yahoo e-mail account and composed an e-mail to [email protected], the address Austin set up for himself for them to communicate anonymously. In the e-mail, he laid out the terms of his threat. He promised to keep working as usual for the next five days. However, if his parents, sisters, and brother were not in Amsterdam by the end of that time, he would disappear from the project.
After a brief hesitation, he clicked the send button.
- - - - -
“I wish we could go somewhere and really relax,” a rail-thin Drafton told Curt as he pulled up his pants. They were in the computer room again, alone, the blankets spread on the floor in front of the computer. When he pulled his shirt over his head, his ribs rumpled his chest like the slats in Beth’s doll bed. “It won’t be long now, Curt. We’ll be finished, and we can really be together.”
Curt stepped into his khaki work pants. Together, he thought. He wanted to be together with his daughter, sitting on the edge of her bed reading a bedtime story, a task he resisted in the past. Lori read the stories and took Beth for walks, while he slaved away at his computer. When he tried to conjure up thoughts of him and Lori in bed, he saw only Drafton. Right now he just wanted to return to the safety of his prison. Trouble is, there was another selling job, and he always did his jobs. Always selling, always doing favors.
“You’ll make sure Bob and I are set free, won’t you, Eric?”
Before Drafton could answer, he coughed, drawn out explosions that erupted from deep inside his chest. He dragged the chair from under the table with the bomb drawings and sat facing Curt. “Why do you keep worrying about that, Curt? You’ll be paid and set free. I talked to Brian about it, and he says that’s the deal.”
“That assumes Applenu is in charge. Lormes and his men with the guns might not go along with him. Will they trust us with what we know?”
Curt’s mind reverberated with the turmoil that shattered all possibility of mental peace. Did he want to be free? Forget that and sell, he told himself. Press now or Surling won’t forgive him. He tried his businessman’s smile. His lover’s smile?
“They’re going to kill us, Eric. Applenu’s a scientist, and he probably wants us to go free. Lormes and his people don’t care about Bob and me…or about you, for that matter.”
“They will let you go. There will be conditions but…” He clamped his handkerchief to his mouth and roared into it. His face blossomed a bright red as he fought to regain his breath. “When it’s over,” he wheezed, fighting to stifle a cough, “we’ll be together…companions forever.”
Forever: Eric’s constant refrain. “We’ll be together only if you help us escape.”
Drafton stood, waited for Curt to stand, and threw his arms around him, hugging Curt, his smooth cheek nuzzling Curt’s, reminding him of Lori. They kissed.
Kisses: Curt kissed naturally now, trying not to think. Mind over matter? Don’t think, just do the job. Drafton’s kisses seemed different since he got back, a different wetness to his mouth.
“Please help us escape, Eric.”
“Everything will turn out okay.”
All for nothing, he thought; it wouldn’t work. The clammy hand that threatened to rip out his guts in Miami Beach again had a firm grip. They held each other until Drafton jerked loose to cough.
- - - - -
After long weeks of waiting and having accepted her pregnancy, Lori Reedan finally discovered blood. Before Beth, there had been a miscarriage, preceded by the same reddish-brown spots on the tissue she now found when she wiped. Not heavy, just enough for another worry. When pregnant with Beth, the spotting became heavy, and the doctor put her on extensive bed rest during her second and third months. Spotting came along with the morning sickness.
More bad news appeared in the Oak Ridger and Knoxville News Sentinel, for now she knew what they were mixed up in. Now she could tell the police why Curt was missing. Trouble is, she had no information to help them find Curt, only enough to get them all killed.
On TV, a senator spoke heatedly about a foreign country stealing nuclear material to get an atom bomb. The tall one and the older fat man that threatened her were foreigners; the man on the phone from Miami sounded foreign, too. Maybe that would help the police.
There was no way she could go to the police.
- - - - -
Surling studied Drafton out of the corner of his eye, watching him suck the flattened cigarette. No use lying to myself, he thought. The skinny queer looks like shit. Each day his eyes receded further into the hollow sockets of his naked face, like a wild animal backing into a dark hole. And that cough: a death chant.
For the past four evenings, Drafton appeared for dinner, although he hardly ate anything. Afterwards, the three of them sat around the oak table and drank Drafton’s wine and smoked his weed. Evidently, Drafton was too tired to go to the computer room with Reedan anymore, which cheered Reedan up, as if anything could cheer him.
Reedan’s worries had expanded to include AIDS, even though they wouldn’t be around long enough to catch another cold. Now Reedan sat across the table, silently waiting for a chance to inhale all the smoke he possibly could. And he claimed he’d never smoked the shit before.
“I’ve thought about what you two are worrying about,” Drafton said, reaching out to Surling for the cigarette. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Lormes can’t turn you loose.”
Why did it take young people so long to see the truth? Surling wondered. If only his son Al hadn’t acted so rashly. “They’ll never be able to trust us,” Surling said.
Drafton glanced at Reedan. “There’s no way I’m going to be involved with murder. I think Applenu’s like me, a scientist who wouldn’t even think about such a thing. He’s in charge of getting the bombs made, but I’m not sure this is where he wants to be. I think they’ve got something on him, and he has to be here. I’m also having second thoughts about helping them—whoever them really is. I had the same feeling when Derek first brought it up, but he insisted. He wanted to get rich.”
Drafton paused and contemplated the cigarette between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, then quickly brought the balled up handkerchief in his left hand to the front of his face, anticipating another cough. Choking it back, he smiled, his water-filled red eyes threatening to overflow. “A couple of times Derek fantasized about collecting our money and then delivering inactivated bombs. You know, making them turn out to be duds. He might have found a way to do it, too, although sometimes I thought it might be an act to make me feel good about what I was doing.”
Drafton sucked on the cigarette. Smoke barely hit his lungs before he twisted sideways and coughed into the handkerchief. Once, twice, and then it caught in a continuous rasping convulsion that shook his entire body. Eyes brimming with tears, he sucked a deep breath to stifle another cough, and then smiled at Reedan and handed him the cigarette. He turned to Surling. “You two helped me when I got into trouble, so now I’ll help you.”
Surling caught Reedan’s victorious glance, as if to say they did it. Maybe now Reedan would be convinced he was justified in his actions. Surling smiled at Drafton and wondered how much time the spindly fairy had before plutonium got him. Could he possibly last long enough?
“We’ll need a plan, perhaps…” Drafton’s words drowned in the cough that seemed to erupt from a greater depth each night, as if gradually engulfing his skinny body.
“Have you seen a doctor about that cough?” Surling asked.
Before Drafton could answer, another one erupted, his small head of close-cropped hair atop his thin neck waving wildly over the table. Between coughs, he unfolded his handkerchief, and on the next one, a crimson splash shot onto the cloth.
“When did you start spitting blood, for God’s sake?” Surling demanded, realizing now it was only a matter of time before their reissued escape ticket would be completely invalidated.
“Yesterday morning,” Drafton wheezed. “The doctor said it was a lung infection. I’m taking antibiotics.” Drafton’s voice ignited another cough, rattling his entire body.
Surling tried to remember what he’d learned years ago about radiation sickness: loss of weight, bleeding from mucous membranes. It was all there. He glanced at Reedan, who held the cigarette poised in front of his face while he watched Drafton spit blood into his handkerchief. Reedan studied the soaked end of the cigarette Drafton had just handed him. After a couple seconds of mental debate, he stuck it into his mouth. Eyes closed, he sucked the smoke into his lungs.
- - - - -
Only after five chirps could Applenu extract himself from his deep sleep to recognize that it was the cell phone and not the alarm clock. Eleven and twelve hour days were exacting a toll. Almost four o’clock, according to the glowing dial, two hours until the alarm.
He blinked himself fully awake before he turned on the light. Although each morning he ached to turn over and go back to sleep, more and more he looked forward to work. It excited him that they were about to complete a job that everyone thought was impossible. Besides that, once finished he could get away from Sherbani, and now Austin again. More importantly, he could help his family if Sherbani lived up to his promise.
Not too long now. They had already machined enough uranium for two bombs. Like an automobile body without a motor is not an automobile, a bomb body and firing mechanism without a nuclear explosive is not an atomic bomb. You mate the body and engine and you’ve got an auto; once they mated the machined material to the bomb mechanism—only a matter of mechanics—they had a bomb.