“Good luck,” Jeannie said.
They got in the Lincoln Mark VIII and drove to the Pentagon. They parked in the biggest parking lot in the world. In the Midwest there were
When he was thirteen Steve had been taken on a visitor’s tour of the place by a tall young man with an impossibly short haircut. The building consisted of five concentric rings linked by ten corridors like the spokes of a wheel. There were five floors and no elevators. He had lost his sense of direction within seconds. The main thing he remembered was that in the middle of the central courtyard was a building called Ground Zero which was a hotdog stand.
Now his father led the way past a closed barbershop, a restaurant, and a metro entrance to a security checkpoint. Steve showed his passport and was signed in as a visitor and given a pass to stick to his shirtfront.
There were relatively few people here on a Saturday evening, and the corridors were deserted but for a few late workers, mostly in uniform, and one or two of the golf carts used for transporting bulky objects and VIPs. Last time he was here Steve had been reassured by the monolithic might of the building: it was all there to protect him. Now he felt differently. Somewhere in this maze of rings and corridors a plot had been hatched, the plot that had created him and his doppelgangers. This bureaucratic haystack existed to hide the truth he sought, and the men and women in crisp army, navy, and air force uniforms were now his foes.
They went along a corridor, up a staircase, and around a ring to another security point. This one took longer. Steve’s full name and address had to be keyed in, and they waited a minute or two for the computer to clear him. For the first time in his life he felt that a security check was aimed at him; he was the one they were looking for. He felt furtive and guilty, although he had done nothing wrong. It was a weird sensation. Criminals must feel like this all the time, he thought. And spies, and smugglers, and unfaithful husbands.
They passed on, turned several more corners, and came to a pair of glass doors. Beyond the doors, a dozen or so young soldiers were sitting in front of computer screens, keying in data, or feeding paper documents into optical character recognition machines. A guard outside the door checked Steve’s passport yet again, then let them in.
The room was carpeted and quiet, windowless and softly lit, with the characterless atmosphere of purified air. The operation was being run by a colonel, a gray-haired man with a pencil-line mustache. He did not know Steve’s father, but he was expecting them. His tone was brisk as he directed them to the terminal they would use: perhaps he regarded their visit as a nuisance.
Dad told him: “We need to search the medical records of babies born in military hospitals around twenty-two years ago.”
“Those records are not held here.”
Steve’s heart sank. Surely they could not be defeated that easily?
“Where are they held?”
“In St. Louis.”
“Can’t you access them from here?”
“You need priority clearance to use the data link. You don’t have that.”
“I didn’t anticipate this problem, Colonel,” Dad said testily. “Do you want me to call General Krohner again? He may not thank us for bothering him unnecessarily on a Saturday night, but I will if you insist.”
The colonel weighed a minor breach of rules against the risk of irritating a general. “I guess that’ll be okay. The line isn’t being used, and we need to test it sometime this weekend.”
“Thank you.”
The colonel called over a woman in lieutenant’s uniform and introduced her as Caroline Gambol. She was about fifty, overweight, and corseted, with the manner of a headmistress. Dad repeated what he had told the colonel.
Lieutenant Gambol said: “Are you aware that those records are governed by the privacy act, sir?”
“Yes, and we have authorization.”
She sat at the terminal and touched the keyboard. After a few minutes she said: “What kind of search do you want to run?”
“We have our own search program.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be glad to load that for you.”
Dad looked at Steve. Steve shrugged and handed the woman the floppy disks.
As she was loading the program she looked curiously at Steve. “Who wrote this software?”
“A professor at Jones Falls.”
“It’s very clever,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” She looked at the colonel, who was watching over her shoulder. “Have you, sir?”
He shook his head.
“It’s loaded. Shall I run the search?”
“Go ahead.”
Lieutenant Gambol pressed Enter.
49
A HUNCH MADE BERRINGTON FOLLOW COLONEL LOGAN’S black Lincoln Mark VIII when it emerged from the driveway of the Georgetown house. He was not sure whether Jeannie was in the car; he could see only the colonel and Steve in the front, but it was a coupe, and she might have been in the back.
He was glad to have something to do. The combination of inactivity and pressing anxiety was wearying. His back ached and his legs were stiff. He wished he could give it all up and go. He might be sitting in a restaurant with a good bottle of wine, or at home listening to a CD of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony, or undressing Pippa Harpenden. But then he thought of the rewards that the takeover would bring. First there would be the money: sixty million dollars was his share. Then the chance of political power, with Jim Proust in the White House and himself as surgeon general. Finally, if they succeeded, a new and different America for the twenty-first century, America as it used to be, strong and brave and pure. So he gritted his teeth and persisted with this grubby exercise in snooping.
For a while he found it relatively easy to track Logan through the slow-moving Washington traffic. He stayed two cars behind, as in the gumshoe movies. The Mark VIII was elegant, he thought idly. Maybe he should trade in his Town Car. The sedan had presence, but it was middle-aged: the coupe was more dashing. He wondered how much he would get trading in the Town Car. Then he remembered that by Monday night he would be rich. He could buy a Ferrari, if he wanted to look dashing.
Then the Mark VIII went through a light and around a corner, the light turned red, the car in front of Berrington stopped, and he lost sight of Logan’s car. He cursed and leaned on his horn. He had been woolgathering. He shook his head to clear it. The tedium of surveillance was sapping his concentration. When the light turned green again he screeched around the corner and accelerated hard.
A few moments later he saw the black coupe waiting at a light, and he breathed easier.
They drove around the Lincoln Memorial, then crossed the Potomac by Arlington Bridge. Were they heading for National Airport? They took Washington Boulevard, and Berrington realized their destination must be the Pentagon.
He followed them down the off-ramp into the Pentagon’s immense parking lot. He found a slot in the next lane, turned off his engine, and watched. Steve and his father got out of the car and headed for the building.
He checked the Mark VIII. There was no one left inside. Jeannie must have stayed behind at the house in Georgetown. What were Steve and his father up to? And Jeannie?
He walked twenty or thirty yards behind them. He hated this. He dreaded being spotted. What would he say if they confronted him? It would be unbearably humiliating.
Thankfully, neither of them looked back. They went up a flight of steps and entered the building. He stayed with them until they passed through a security barrier and he had to turn back.
He found a pay phone and called Jim Proust. “I’m at the Pentagon. I followed Jeannie to the Logan house, then trailed Steve Logan and his father here. I’m worried, Jim,”
