Savant

'You mean—' Trask thought he meant downtown.

'The old tasty fountains,' Reid said to him, in the kind of codephrase an old colleague would remember. They had once talked at great length about great fountain sodas 'just like they used to make.' Only this one small greasy spoon still made them—or so they had agreed.

'Ah! The fountains of our youth.'

'That's the place.'

'Yeah.' It was a few minutes away. 'When?'

Reid gave him a time, and Victor Trask thanked him, hung up the phone, and headed for the bathroom. The thought of burgling KCM had loosened his thirty-six-year-old wimpy bowels.

| Go to Table of Contents |

18

Marlon, Illinois

Dr. Norman had a large stack of mail waiting for him when he returned to his office. He sorted through it quickly, not opening the envelopes, which he was in the habit of slitting himself, going through the obvious offers, junk mail, and work-related communications from various sectors of the scientific, penal, or other government agencies with whom he had contact. He was used to a great deal of mail, and much of it was discarded.

There were three packages, one of which immediately froze him the second he saw the address. A crudely sealed envelope, which appeared to have been run over by a truck, had been addressed with a black Magic Marker, the writer using overly hard strokes, mushing the tip down as he pressed his marks into the paper, making block letters. The handwriting immediately identified the sender. He looked at the address, afraid—it was only natural— wondering if the contents would hurt him physically in some way. The address was this: 'DR. NORMAN, Ph.D., Marion Federal Penetentiary (sic), U.S. Prison System, Marion, Illinois.' Daniel did not have enough information to address the package correctly, and since he'd never been permitted to receive mail during the periods when he was incarcerated, he did not know the exact address of the place where he'd spent several years of his life.

Should he get some bomb-squad personnel to open it for him? That was ridiculous. If Daniel was going to send him a mail bomb he'd do it much more cleverly than this. No-this was not going to be a bomb. He brushed aside the packages from Justice and NSC, gently touching Daniel's envelope. It was not hard. He lifted it. Relatively light.

Norman got a metal box and placed the package in it very carefully, trying to decide whether or not to X-ray it. It had already passed through the prison detector. Of course, that in itself was no guarantee of anything. Daniel could have something in here that would be sufficiently ingenious to appear innocuous and still inflict a terrible death on the unwary. Dr. Norman could imagine him turning to one of the secret pages he'd torn from his ledger, building a small contraption that would scratch the recipient in such a way as to infect that unlucky person with an HIV-positive blood specimen. He'd know a thousand ways to maim, kill, burn, slice, explode, infect, poison, blind, or otherwise incapacitate the target with something as ordinary as a hastily sealed envelope.

Logic won out. Dr. Norman slit the envelope open, wearing face-shield and gloves, holding it behind an impromptu screen, just in case he'd misjudged Daniel's sense of humor.

A plastic bag, the kitchen type, sealed with duct tape. There had barely been time for Daniel to react to the dossier and he would, of course, be enraged by the implant. He would not forgive Dr. Norman for the liberties they'd had to take with him, but there was nothing to be done about that now. What Daniel had sent him was his way of responding—letting him know that he'd be coming for him in due time. The moment he saw it he knew precisely what it was, and scientific detachment notwithstanding, it had the desired effect. Seeing the object was like being cursed by one's own son. Norman put the bag down and went to his desk. The message had hit him hard.

He picked up the classified directory and punched in a number over his sanitized landline. In the operations section of a unit known as Clandestine Services, a secure phone rang and was answered by a warrant officer. Norman established bona fides and made his request.

'I need a team to locate and isolate a female Caucasian who was last believed to reside in Kansas City, Kansas. She is probably in her late sixties or early seventies. The name she went by was Nadine Garbella.' He spelled it, and gave an address on Bunker. He was reading from Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski's dossier. 'If this woman is still alive, it is vital she be fould and taken immediately to a safe location. It is also imperative I then be notified the moment that is accomplished. If there are any encumbrances, get in touch with me as soon as possible.'

Inside the bag, browned with blood, was the heart from a small animal. Dr. Norman fully understood the nature of the insult, and its attendant implicit threat. The heart of the dead opossum spoke volumes.

| Go to Table of Contents |

19

Kansas City, Missouri

Okay, Buzz. I think I get the idea. And I could get all that stuff—you know—without a problem?'

'Go over a few blocks to Radio Shack, man. Get everything you need to build a great bug.' He shook his head. 'Get your earplug or headset, your connectors, your listening unit, monitor, recording unit, everything you'd need to be in business.'

'I didn't know it was so easy to record private conversations.'

'For all we know this could be recorded. The guy who owns it is worried one of his waitresses is running setups, okay? People eating steaks and lobster and paying half their tab. The waitress and the customers are both ripping him off. Happens.' He shrugged again. 'He thinks the cook's in on it. So he bugs a few of the booths and tables. We could be on tape right now. You called the station—for all we know that's on tape. It's absurdly easy to record conversations.'

'But you wouldn't use the, uh, jammer thing.'

'No. See—that tells them you're hip to being recorded. Hell, if somebody is bugging you, get smart. Get even. Bug them.' The thin, wiry man took a noisy sip of coffee. 'Fuck 'em all, down with everything, and up with the ladies' dresses.'

Trask laughed quietly and unfolded a twelve-by-eighteen-inch sheet of art paper he'd been working on—a rough layout of the radio station. 'Recognize it?'

Reid just stared for a minute.

'KCM.'

'Yeah. I see it. There's the front doors. What's all that shit?' Reid pointed.

'That's the second floor—see—upstairs?

'Um.'

'Wow, Buzz. You mean you don't think I'm too great an artist, eh? Man, I'm hurt.'

'I wouldn't give up your other job yet.'

'Okay. Anyway, let's say you wanted to do what we had discussed? How would you do it? You got a twenty- four-hour security guy right here.'

'Okay. That's easy. You come in to work. Do your thing. Go home. But you forget something. You go back—all right? This is about three-thirty-five A.M. There are fewer employees between three-thirty A.M. and four-thirty than at any other time. Right?'

'Yeah.'

'You come back. 'I forgot something, damn it,' you say as you bullshit with the guard. I assume you bullshit back and forth, right?'

'Not really. They just wave you on in. We don't talk that much back and forth.'

'Okay. You go in. Walk back, go in the elevator. Get off on the second floor, and you go right back to Engineering. Now the last time I was there they had monitor cameras here, here, and here.' Reid made dots in the foyer, in the elevator, and across from the programming department in the hallway.