the grounds hadn’t already been discovered. “Let’s go,” he said.
“I don’t know what sort of trouble you’re in, sir, but don’t do this. You’ll just be compounding.
“And you don’t want to know,” McAllister said, prodding him in the back with the gun. “Down the hall. Now.”
Adam French’s office was at the end of the corridor, which branched left and right. Since he was head of the Soviet Russian Division, immediate access could be obtained to records through his terminal. That is, McAllister thought, if they hadn’t changed the access code on him over the past three years. A lot of ifs here; too many. He made both guards lie facedown on the corridor floor while he selected a slender, case-hardened steel pin from the tool kit he’d taken out of the Thunderbird’s trunk, and had the door lock picked in under twenty seconds. “Inside,” he told the two men.
They got to their feet, a deep scowl on Watson’s face, a look of terror on the other’s, and they entered the office, where McAllister made them lie face down on the carpeting as he closed and relocked the door. “I’ll only be a couple of minutes,” McAllister said. “If you cause no trouble, I promise you won’t be harmed.”
“You won’t get away with this,” Watson snarled. “You’d better hope I do,” McAllister said, sitting down at French’s desk, and flipping on his computer terminal. The screen came to life, with the single word: READY.
This terminal, like hundreds of others in the building, was connected to the computer’s mainframe in the basement. Records were compartmentalized, access given only on a section-by-section and need-to-know basis. Three years ago the Soviet Russian Division’s access code was SIR DIV METTLESOME. It had been someone’s abstruse comment on our Soviet policy.
He typed in the words, and hit the ENTER key. FILE? the word in amber letters popped up on the screen. McAllister glanced at the guards who hadn’t moved, then turned back to the keyboard and typed the most obvious choice. O’HAIRE NETWORK, then hit the ENTER key again.
ACCESS RESTRICTED-PASSWORD?
He stared at the screen, suddenly conscious of just how little time he had left. He’d been afraid that the file might be restricted, and now it was anyone’s guess what the correct password might be. The major problem was that he only had three chances to get it right. After three incorrect tries an alarm was set off on the mainframe, indicating that someone was attempting to gain access to a restricted file.
Where to begin? He had come this far, he wasn’t going to back out. Not yet.
He typed the first thing that came to mind. ZEBRA, and touched the ENTER key.
INCORRECT PASSWORD.
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. The O’Haires had operated what was widely considered to be the most damaging spy network against the United States since the Second World War. There was a certain logic to these passwords.
He typed: SPIES, and hesitated a moment before touching the ENTER key.
INCORRECT PASSWORD.
Again McAllister glanced over at the two guards on the floor. TomWatson had raised his head and was glaring up at him. “You don’t want to see this, Tom. Believe me, it’s for your own good.”
“Give it up, sir.”
“Put your head down.”
Watson complied after a moment, and McAllister turned back to the terminal, another thought striking him. This would be his last chance. He typed: ARBEZ, and hit ENTER.
INCORRECT PASSWORD.
He stared at the screen for a long moment or two, conscious of his heart hammering in his chest. He had begun to sweat again. The clock was running now. Someone would be coming to see what the trouble was up here. If they had already guessed he was somewhere on the grounds this now would bring them on the run. He had lost. Yet he had come so close. So tantalizingly close. The O’Haire files were somewhere in the computer. One word. One key and he would know..
In desperation he typed the only other thing he could think of. HIGHNOTE, and the ENTER key.
This time the screen was suddenly filled with a long list of file choices, labeled alphabetically under the heading: ZEBRA NETWORK DIRECTORY.
“Bingo,” he murmured, running his finger down the individual file choices, among them: History and Background, Investigating Authorities, Budget Line Summaries, Damage Assessments, Transcripts — Telephone, Transcripts-Nonsubject Interviews, Transcripts-Subject Interviews, and under the label Code M, the file, SUSPECTS.
He typed M and the ENTER key.
Instantly the directory was replaced by a list of four names, a brief bit of information on each, and instructions for bringing up other files that contained more detailed information.
Four names.
Reaching over he turned on the printer and touched the PRINT key; immediately the machine started to whine as the computer spit out a hard copy of what had come up on the screen.
“Gun or no gun, I won’t stand for this,” Tom Watson shouted, jumping up and lunging over the desk. McAllister had barely enough time to rear backward out of Watson’s grasp, and grab for his gun lying on the desk, when the telephone rang. Watson lashed out at him, then reached the telephone and snatched it off its hook.
“It’s McAllister!” Watson cried.
The other guard had jumped up. McAllister had no choice. He smashed the butt of his heavy pistol down onto the base of Watson’s skull, and the man cried out and crashed off the desk to the floor. The second guard reached the door when McAllister aimed the pistol at him. “Stop,” he shouted.
The man, his hands fumbling with the door lock, looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide with fear, and he froze.
The printer stopped and in the sudden silence McAllister could hear a thin, shrill voice calling his name as from a great distance. It took him a moment to realize it was Stephanie on the telephone. He jumped up and came around the desk. Watson, out cold, had dragged the receiver off the desk with him. McAllister picked up the phone.
“It’s me,” he said, keeping his eye on the guard at the door. “Kingman and the others just left in a big hurry,” she shouted in a rush. “When?” McAllister demanded. There was no time to wonder how she had known he was here.
“No more than two minutes ago. Get out of there, Mac.”
“On my way,” McAllister said, and he yanked the telephone cord out of the wall.
He bent down over Watson and felt for a pulse in the man’s neck.
It was strong and regular. The man was out, but not dead, and McAllister gave silent thanks for that much at least.
Back behind the desk, he tore the computer readout from the printer and shut down the terminal.
“All right, Frank, we’re getting out of here now.”
“What about Tom?” the guard asked fearfully. “He’ll be all right, and so will you if you do as I say,” McAllister said. “Where is your pickup truck parked?”
“In the back, by the elevator.”
“Let’s go,” McAllister said. The guard unlocked the door. The corridor was still deserted. No one had come up from the computer mainframe yet to check on the restricted access-code violation, but someone would be showing up at any minute. They hurried down the corridor and back through the bulkhead door into the new building.
McAllister was just relocking the padlock when the walkie-talkie
in his pocket came to life. “Security Four, Control.” The guard stiffened. “Is it you?” McAllister asked. The
