one?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Bug his airplane?” Trent suggested with a chuckle. “If we can confirm this, I'd like to be there when Fowler shoves it up his ass! God damn it! I lost votes over this!” That he'd carried his district 58–42 was, for the moment, beside the point. “Well, the President wants us to back him up on this one. Problems from your side of the aisle, Sam?”
“Probably not.”
“I'd just as soon stay clear of the political side of this, gentlemen. I'm just here as a messenger, remember?”
“Jack Ryan, last of the virgins.” Trent laughed. “Good report, thanks for coming down. Let us know if the President wants us to authorize the new and improved TAPDANCE.”
“He'll never try. You're looking at two or three hundred million bucks, and bucks are tight,” Fellows noted. “I want to see better data before we spring for it. We've dropped too much money down these black holes.”
“All I can say, Congressman, is that I'm taking it very seriously. So is the FBI.”
“And Ron Olson?” Trent asked.
“He's circling his wagons.”
“You'll have a better chance if he asks,” Fellows told Ryan.
“I know. Well, at least we'll have our system up and running in three more weeks. We've started turning out the first set of discs and doing preliminary tests now.”
“How so?”
“We use a computer to look for non-randomness. The big one, the Cray YMP. We brought in a consultant from MIT's Artificial Intelligence Laboratory to do a new kind of type-token program. In another week — ten days, call it — we'll know if the system is what we expect it to be. Then we'll start sending the hardware out.”
“I really hope you're wrong on this,” Trent said, as the meeting closed.
“So do I, man, but my instincts say otherwise.”
“And how much is it going to cost?” Fowler asked over lunch.
“From what I gather, two or three hundred million.”
“No. We've got budget problems enough.”
“I agree,” Liz Elliot said. “But I wanted to discuss it with you first. It's Ryan's idea. Olson at NSA says he's full of it, says the systems are secure, but Ryan's really crazed about this new encoding system. You know he pushed the same thing through for the Agency — even went to Congress directly.”
“Oh, really?” Fowler looked up from his plate. “He didn't go through OMB? What gives?”
“Bob, he delivered his pitch for the new NSA system to Trent and Fellows before he came to see me!”
“Who the hell does he think he is!”
“I keep telling you, Bob.”
“He's out, Elizabeth. Out. O-U-T. Get moving on it.”
“Okay, I think I know how to do it.”
Circumstances made it easy. One of Ernest Wellington's investigators had been staking out the 7-Eleven for a week. The Zimmer family business was just off U.S. Route 50 between Washington and Annapolis, and was adjacent to a large housing development, from which it drew much of its business. The investigator parked his van at the end of a street that gave him both a view of the business building and the family house which was only fifty yards away from it. The van was a typical covert-surveillance vehicle, custom-built by one of several specialty firms. The roof vent concealed a sophisticated periscope, whose two lenses were connected respectively to a TV camera and a 35mm Canon. The investigator had a cooler full of soft drinks, a large Thermos of coffee and a chemical toilet. He thought of the cramped van as his own personal space vehicle, and some of its high-tech gadgetry was at least as good as NASA had installed on the Shuttle.
“Bingo!” the radio crackled. “Subject vehicle is taking the exit. Breaking off now.”
The man in the van lifted his own microphone. “Roger, out.”
Clark had noticed the Mercury two days earlier. One of the problems with commuting was that the same vehicles kept showing up from time to time, and he'd decided that's all it was. It never got close, and never followed them off the main road. In this case, as he took the exit, it didn't follow. Clark shifted his attention to other matters. He hadn't noticed that the guy was using a microphone… but those new cellular things had you talking into the visor, and — wasn't technology wonderful? A good chase car need not tip himself off anymore. He pulled into the 7-Eleven parking lot, his eyes scanning for trouble. He saw none. Clark and Ryan exited the car at the same instant. Clark's topcoat was unbuttoned, as was his suit jacket, the easier to allow access to the Beretta 10mm pistol riding on his right hip. The sun was setting, casting a lovely orange glow in the western sky, and it was unseasonably warm, shirt-sleeve weather that made him regret the raincoat he was wearing. D.C.-area weather was as predictably unpredictable as anywhere in the world.
“Hello, Dr. Ryan,” one of the Zimmer kids said. “Mom's over at the house.”
“Okay.” Ryan walked back outside, and headed for the flagstone walk to the Zimmer residence. He spotted Carol in the back, with her youngest on the new swing seat. Clark trailed, alert as ever, seeing nothing but still- green lawns and parked cars, a few kids throwing a football. Such temperate weather in the beginning of December worried Clark. He believed it heralded a bastard of a winter.
“Hi, Carol!” Jack called. Mrs. Zimmer was closely observing her youngest in the swing seat.
“Doc Ryan, you like the new swing seat?”
Jack nodded a little guiltily. He should have helped get it together. He was an expert on assembling toys. He leaned over. “How's the little munchkin?”
“She won't get out, and it's dinnertime,” Carol said. “You help?”
“How's everyone else?”
“Peter accepted in college, too! Full scholarship MIT.”
“Great!” Jack gave her a congratulatory hug. What's the old joke? “The doctor is five and the lawyer is three?” God, wouldn't Buck be proud of how these kids are turning out? It was little more than the normal Asian obsession with education, of course, the same thing that had stood Jewish Americans in such good stead. If an opportunity presents itself, grab it by the throat. He bent down to the newest Zimmer, who held her arms up for her Uncle Jack.
“Come on, Jackie.” He picked her up, and got a kiss for his trouble. Ryan looked up when he heard the noise.
“Gotcha.” It's a simple trick, and an effective one. Even if you know it's coming, you can't do much to prevent it. The van had several buttons which, when pressed, beeped the horn. It was a sound the human brain recognized as a danger signal, and one instinctively looked towards whatever direction it had come from to see if there was any cause for concern. The investigator hit the nearest one, and, sure enough, Ryan looked up towards the sound, with an armful of kid. He'd caught the hug for the woman, and the kiss from the kid, and now he had a full-face shot on the 12oo-speed film in his camera to backup the videotape. That simple. He had the goods on this Ryan guy. Amazing that a man with such a lovely wife would feel the need to screw around, but that was life, wasn't it? A CIA bodyguard to keep everything nice and secure. A kid involved, too. What a shit, the man thought, as the motor-drive whirred away on the Canon.
“You stay for dinnah! This time you stay. We celebrate Peter scholarship.”
“Can't say no to that one, Doc,” Clark observed.
“Okay.” Ryan carried Jacqueline Theresa Zimmer into the house. Neither he nor Clark noticed that the van parked fifty yards away pulled off a few minutes later.
It was the most delicate part of the process. The plutonium was set into cerium sulfide ceramic crucibles. The crucibles were carried to the electric furnace. Fromm closed and locked the door. A vacuum pump evacuated the enclosure and replaced argon.
“Air has oxygen,” Fromm explained. “Argon is an inert gas. We take no chances. Plutonium is highly reactive and pyrophoric. The ceramic crucibles are also inert and non-reactive. We use more than one crucible to avoid the possibility of forming a critical mass and starting a premature atomic reaction.”
“The phase-transformations?” Ghosn asked.
“Correct.”
“How long?” This question from Qati.
