“I didn’t note that,” Maher said. “Why?”
“It could be significant. Is it all bagged up?”
“Of course.”
“Can I just have a peek? For a second? Through the plastic?”
Maher sighed. Then he flipped open his metal case, took out a two-by-three-inch evidence bag, and gingerly handed it to me.
“Sandisk,” I said. “One gigabyte. Probably came from Radio Shack.”
“Is that important?” Maher said. “What does it mean?”
“That you should get out more,” I said, tossing the package across the table to Varley.
THIRTY-THREE
Time was, you wanted to threaten someone, you’d leave them a note.
You could use a pen and paper, and write with your “wrong” hand. Or you could type. Or cut the letters out of newspapers. If it was for a whole community, you could phone a radio station with a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.
But now we have computers.
The application of technology really is universal.
Varley told Weston to dig out a stand-alone laptop, and as soon as it had booted up he slotted the memory stick into a USB port at the side of the machine. The end of the stick flickered blue, and after a moment a dialogue box opened on the computer screen. The title bar read REMOVABLE DISK (E:). A note said the disk contained video files, and a series of options was listed underneath.
“Click on the bottom one,” Maher said. “ Take no action. Then give the thing back to me and let me take it to the lab.”
Weston chose OPEN FOLDER TO VIEW FILES. Another window opened. It contained a single icon. The image looked like a quarter of a DVD superimposed over a strip of movie film. Beneath that was a file name. Or rather a number: 320. There was no extension. The description was InterVideo Media File, and the given size was 10,082 KB.
“That’s a chunky file,” Weston said. “Shall I play it?”
“No,” Varley said. “Let’s absorb the information via ESP.”
Weston double-clicked on the icon and an image appeared like the front of a 1950s television, filling the screen. It was blank. At first it was silent, but after a moment you could hear a soft heartbeat. It sounded human. It started quietly, almost subliminally, and grew louder by the second.
“Like Dark Side of the Moon,” Lavine said. “Cool.”
The figure three appeared. Then a two. Then a zero. The digits were white. They swelled up until they filled the screen and shrank back to the center in time with the steady pulse. Out and in, out and in, hypnotically, for fifteen seconds. Then the numbers were replaced by images. A one-legged child leaning on an improvised wooden crutch. Burned-out cars strewn by the side of desert roads. An old lady cowering in the shattered remains of her home. A filthy hospital corridor crammed with listless amputees on stretchers. Each new scene emerged from the center of the last as if pushed out by the relentless throbbing heartbeat until at last the screen faded to red. The number 320 returned. And then text started to appear, scrolling from left to right, one letter at time like an old vidiprinter display.
Each day that passes, you crush a little tighter the heart of our nation.
Now, we strike back in symbolic vengeance.
Leave our soil, or more shall drown in their own blood.
“David was right,” Varley said. “It is a warning. But it’s the weirdest one I’ve ever seen.”
“Talk about cryptic,” Lavine said.
“Strike at the heart of our nation?” Weston said. “Symbolic vengeance? That can only mean one thing. An attack on D.C.”
“That gives them hundreds of targets,” Lavine said. “Which one? Or ones?”
“No need to panic,” Varley said. “We have contingencies for this. They’re well rehearsed. All we need is an idea of the time frame.”
“What about this number?” Weston said. “Three twenty? Why does it keep flashing up all the time?”
“I don’t know,” Lavine said. “Three twenty. That’s the area code for Minnesota. Could that be what they take as the heart of the nation? It’s kind of in the middle. East to west, anyway.”
“Or an Airbus 320?” Weston said. “Another hijack?”
“No,” Maher said. “It’s not a number. It’s a date. Like 9/11.”
“March 20?” Lavine said. “Why pick that?”
“Where were those photos taken, do you think?” Maher said.
“Iraq, obviously,” Lavine said.
“What happened to Iraq on March 20?” Maher said.
No one answered.
“Two thousand three?” Maher said.
Silence.
“Shock and awe got your tongues?” Maher said. “That’s when we invaded the place.”
“Are you sure that was the date?” Varley said.
“Certain,” Maher said.
“Then it can’t be a coincidence,” Varley said. “But March 20? That’s tomorrow. We’ve got less than twenty- four hours.”
“Much less,” I said. “If they’re really being symbolic.”
“Of course,” Varley said. “The time, as well. They’ll go for 3:20 A.M. ”
Lavine checked his watch.
“That’s less than four and a half hours,” he said. “We’ve got no chance.”
“Yes we have,” Varley said, getting to his feet. “Make the call. Right now. You know the codes. Kyle, get the car. La Guardia, on the double. Doc, you get to the lab. David, are you coming with us?”
“No,” I said. “I can’t help feeling we’re missing something.”
“Yeah,” Varley said. “The chance to save lives, if we don’t haul ass.”
“Think about it,” I said. “Something here doesn’t add up. Why did Tungsten use Tanya to deliver the warning, for a start?”
“I don’t know,” Weston said. “But it does seem strange.”
“We know she was curious,” Lavine said. “Maybe she went snooping around and they caught her?”
“I can’t see it,” Weston said. “That video must have taken time to produce. They must have had a plan for delivering it. Relying on catching a snooper wouldn’t work. And was Tanya really stupid enough to go down there, alone?”
“No, she wasn’t,” I said. “And anyway, she told me they were waiting at her apartment.”
“Which begs the question, why would Tungsten be staking her out?” Weston said.
“Good questions,” Varley said. “I don’t know the answers. We can unpick it later. But right now, stopping the bombs is our priority.”
“You should hold fire until we’re clear about what’s going on here,” I said. “You have hordes of guys in Washington. Can’t you put them on it?”
“No,” Varley said. “This is too high-profile. We need to get our boots on the sidewalk.”
“Here’s another thought,” I said. “Why ask for me in particular?”
“Tanya knew you,” Lavine said. “She trusted you.”
“But Tungsten didn’t,” I said. “Why would they want me at the clinic? They didn’t know I existed when they made that video. Delivering it was critical. Why make that hinge on me?”
“Time’s up,” Varley said. “We’ve got to move. Come with us, David. We’ll piece it together on the plane.”
