It got worse. “Life insurance.”
The corridors of the Primary Research Lab were empty, which magnified the echo-chamber effect. To relieve tension, Malcolm Frazier coughed to play with the acoustic bounciness. Shouting or yodeling wouldn’t have been dignified even if no one was listening. During the day, as Chief of NTS-51 Operational Security, he roamed the underground with a cocky swagger that intimidated the rank and file. He liked being feared and had no regrets that his watchers were universally hated. That meant they were doing their jobs. Without fear, how was order to be maintained? The temptation to exploit the asset was simply too great for the geeks. He had contempt for them, and always felt a rush of superiority when he saw them in the strip ’n’ scan, fat and puffy or thin and weak, never fit and well-muscled like his lot. Shackleton, he recalled, was one of the thin and weak ones, snappable like a plank of balsa wood.
He gravitated to the special elevator and called it up with an access key. The descent was so smooth it was almost imperceptible, and when he emerged he was the only soul on the Vault level. His motion would trigger a monitor and one of his men would be watching, but he was permitted to be there, he knew the entry codes, and he was one of the few authorized to pass through the heavy steel doors.
The power of the Vault was visceral. Frazier felt his back straighten as if an iron rod had been rammed through his spine. His chest swelled and his senses heightened, his depth perception-even in the subdued cool-blue light-so acute he was almost seeing in 3-D. Some men felt tiny in the vastness of the place, but the Vault made him feel large and powerful. Tonight, in the midst of the most serious security breech in the history of Area 51, he needed to be there.
He stepped into the chilled dehumidified atmosphere. Five feet, ten, twenty, a hundred. He wasn’t planning to walk its full length; he didn’t have the time. He went far enough to fully experience the magnitude of its domed ceiling and stadium dimensions. He let the fingertips of his right hand brush one of the bindings. Strictly speaking, contact was not allowed, but he wasn’t exactly pulling it off the shelf-it was just an affirmation.
The leather was smooth and cool, the color of mottled buckskin. Tooled onto the spine was the year: 1863. There were rows of 1863s. The Civil War. And Lord knew what else was going on in the rest of the world. He wasn’t a historian.
At one side of the Vault a narrow stairway led to a catwalk where one could take in the full panorama. He went there and climbed to the top. There were thousands of gunmetal-gray bookcases stretching into the distance, nearly 700,000 thick leather books, over 240 billion inscribed names. The only way to get your mind around these numbers, he was convinced, was to stand there and take it in with your own eyes. All the information had long been stored on disks, and if you were one of the geeks, you were impressed with all the terabits of data or some such bullshit, but there was no substitute for actually being in the Library. He grabbed the railing, leaned into it and breathed slow, deep breaths.
Nelson Elder was having a pretty good morning. He was at his favorite table in the company cafeteria tucking into an egg-white omelet and the morning paper. He was energized from a good run, a good steam shower, and renewed confidence in the future. Of all the things in his life that affected his mood, the single biggest factor was the Desert Life stock quote. In the last month the stock was up 7.2 percent, rising a full 1.5 percent the day before on an analyst upgrade. It was too early for this craziness with Peter Benedict to affect his bottom line, but he could predict with mathematical certainty that denying coverage to life insurance applicants with an impending date of death, and risk-adjusting the premiums for those with an intermediate death horizon, would turn his company into a cash machine.
To top that off, Bert Myers’s walk on the wild side with his Connecticut hedge fund was turning the corner, with double-digit yields in July. Elder translated his bullishness into a new, more aggressive tone with investors and research analysts, and the Street was taking notice. The sentiment on Desert Life was shifting.
He didn’t care how this odd-duck Benedict had access to his magical database or where it came from or how it was even possible. A moral philosopher, he wasn’t. He only cared about Desert Life, and now he had an edge that none of his competitors could ever match. He had paid Benedict $5 million out of his own pocket to avoid his auditors picking up a corporate transaction and asking questions. He already had enough worries about Bert’s hedge fund adventure.
But it was money well spent. The value of his personal stock holdings had appreciated by $10 million, a damned good return on investment in one month! He would keep his own counsel on the Benedict business. No one knew, even Bert. It was too bizarre and too dangerous. He had enough trouble explaining to his head of underwriting why he needed to receive a daily nationwide list of all new life insurance applicants.
Bert saw him eating alone and came by grinning and wagging a finger. “I know your secret, Nelson!”
That startled the older man. “What are you talking about?” he asked sternly.
“You’re ditching us this afternoon and playing golf.”
Elder exhaled and smiled. “How’d you know?”
“I know everything around here,” the CFO boasted.
“Not everything. I’ve got a couple of things up my sleeves.”
“You got my bonus up there too?”
“You keep the high yields coming and you’ll be buying an island in a couple of years. Want to join me for breakfast?”
“Can’t. Budget meeting. Who’re you playing with?”
“It’s a charity thing over at the Wynn. I don’t even know who’s in my four.”
“Well, enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”
Elder winked at him. “You’re right. I do.”
Nancy couldn’t concentrate on the bank robbery file. She turned a page only to realize that none of it registered and she had to go back and read it again. She had a meeting with John Mueller later in the morning, and he was expecting some kind of briefing. Every few minutes she compulsively opened the browser and searched the Web for new articles on Will, but the same AP story was being recycled around the world. Finally, she couldn’t wait any longer.
Sue Sanchez saw her in the hall and hailed her from a distance. Sue was among the last people Nancy wanted to see but she couldn’t very well pretend she hadn’t noticed her.
The strain on Sue’s face was remarkable. The corner of her left eye was twitching and there was a quaver in her voice. “Nancy,” she said, drawing so close it made her uncomfortable. “Has he tried to contact you?”
Nancy made sure her handbag was closed and zippered. “You asked me last night. The answer’s still no.”
“I have to ask. He was your partner. Partners get close.” The statement made Nancy nervous, and Sue picked up on it and backtracked. “I don’t mean close in that way. You know, bonding, friendship.”
“He hasn’t called or e-mailed. Besides, you’d know if he had,” she blurted out.
“I haven’t authorized a tap on him or you!” Sue insisted. “If we were doing a tap I’d be aware of it. I’m his superior!”
“Sue, I know a lot less than you do about what’s going on, but would you really be shocked if some other agencies were calling the shots?”
Sue looked hurt and defensive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Nancy shrugged, and Sue recovered her composure. “Where are you going?”
“To the drugstore. Need anything?” Nancy said, moving toward the elevator bank.
“No. I’m fine.” She didn’t sound convincing.
Nancy walked five blocks before reaching into her bag for the prepaid phone. She checked one more time for tags and punched the number.
He picked up on the second ring. “Joe’s Tacos.”
“Sounds appetizing,” she said.
“I’m glad you called.” He sounded bone weary. “I was getting lonely.”
“Where are you?”
“Someplace as flat as a pool table.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Sign says Indiana.”
“You didn’t go all night, did you?”
“I believe I did.”
