The corporate offices and manu- facturing faculties of AeroTech sat in a manicured industrial subdi- vision of a Detroit suburb in a low, sprawling, windowless building among a dozen similar buildings carefully arranged amid the lawns and pruned trees. A gardener was laboring in a flower bed as the FBI car swung into the parking lot.
Agent Lloyd Dreyfus decided that the goddess of the post-indus- trial revolution had come, conquered, and already departed this corner of Michigan. Smokestacks now belonged only to the inter- city poor and wretched Third World peasants. Not a single one of the antique structures blighted the skyline in any direction.
After a display of credentials to the wide-eyed receptionist, the agents were ushered in to see the president of the company, who had trouble understanding just why the FBI were here at the Aero- Tech facilities. No, Dreyfus did not have a search warrant. He had not thought one necessary since AeroTech was a defense contrac- tor with annual billings in the millions and the agents were here to investigate, not to search. But he could, of course, get such a war- rant if the official thought it necessary. Did he? No. Company employees examined security clearance documents with care and led the government men to an empty conference room.
The investigation took time. At 9 P.M. the FBI team had estab- lished that the data contained on the E-PROM chip from the TRX prototype that crashed in Nevada did not correspond to the data that AeroTech had used to manufacture its chips. Yes, a call had been received last week from a TRX engineer in Tonopah, and yes, he had updated the data base via computer modem. The company had manufactured new E-PROM chips based on the revised data. The new chips had been taken to the mail room for overnight shipment. Yes, the records in the mailroom showed three chips sent by a bonded commercial overnight courier. ’
So at 9 P.M. Dreyfus sat in the conference room and scratched his head. He had been making notes all evening on a yellow pad, and now he went over them again, placing a tick mark by each item after he considered it carefiilly. One of the agents had gone out for burgers, and now Dreyfus munched a cold cheeseburger and sipped a Coke in which all the ice had melted.
He decided he had two problems, and he decided to tackle the one that he thought would be the simpler first. He asked to see the company president, who was shown into the conference room and motioned into a chair beside Dreyfus.
“Sorry we’re taking so long,” Dreyfus said as he wadded up the cheeseburger wrapper and tossed it at a waste can.
“Quite all right,” the president said cheerfully enough. His name was Homer T. Wiggins. The company prospectus, which Dreyfus had thumbed through earlier in the evening at a slow moment, said he was the largest shareholder of AeroTech and one of its four founders.
“It appears we have a little problem that necessitates a search. Now, when we got here this afternoon I told you we were here to investigate, not search. Now we want to search. We can do so with your permission, or we can go get a warrant. It’s your choice.” Dreyfus got out his pipe and tobacco and began the charging rit- ual.
“Why do you want to search?” Wiggins asked.
Dreyfus shrugged. “I can’t tell you. I should tell you, though, that I believe I have enough information to persuade a judge to find probable cause and issue a search warrant.”
“On what grounds? Just what is it you’re investigating?”
Dreyfus took his time lighting his pipe. He puffed experimen- tally to ensure it was lit and drawing properly. Finally satisfied, he tucked his lighter into a pocket and took a deep drag on the pipe. “I can’t tell you.”
Homer T. Wiggins had the look of a very sick man. “Just what is it you want to search for?”
“Oh! Didn’t I tell you? E-PROM chips.”
Bewilderment replaced the pain on Wiggins’ face. “Go right ahead. Search to your heart’s content.”
After escorting the president out of the conference room and posting an agent to guard the paper spread out on the table, Drey- fus led the other two down the hall and around the corner to the mail room. “Okay,” he said. “I want computer chips. Start look- ing.”
It took an hour. One agent found three chips in a package with- out an address within fifteen minutes, but it was an hour before Dreyfus decided those were the only chips in the room. Back he went to see the president with the chips in hand. The president’s eyes expanded dramatically.
“Okay. Now I want one of your engineers to put these on your testing machine and let me know what these chips are.”
With a glance at the clock, Wiggins picked up his phone. A half hour later a rumpled, unhappy engineer with long hair and the faint odor of bourbon about him appeared in the door. “Sorry, Tom, but these men want some tests run this evening. Apparently it can’t wait until tomorrow.” He held out the bag with the chips in it.
“Go with him, Frank, and explain what we want,” Dreyfus told one of the agents, then resumed his exploration of an industry magazine that resided on a side table.
The agent appeared in the door at five minutes before midnight and motioned to Dreyfus, who joined him in the hall. “Okay, Dreyfus. Those were the chips that they manufactured last week with the new data from TRX. The engineer is printing out the data now, but it’s exactly the same.”
“Good. The guy in the mail room just sent the wrong chips to Tonopah.”
“But when the chips reached Tonopah, wouldn’t TRX test them before installation?”
“No doubt they should have, but I suspect someone will admit that there was a mistake, human error, and somehow or other the chips that did get installed didn’t get checked.” After all, Dreyfus knew, mistakes made the world the happy place it is today. What should have happened and what did happen were usually vastly different things.
“Then where the hell did the bad chips come from?”
“From here. Right here.” The question was, how did AeroTech get the erroneous data that was burned into the bad chips? That data was the stuff Admiral Henry said was in the Pentagon com- puter, stuff that Harold Strong had been the last man to revise. A phone call from Camacho earlier in the afternoon had given Drey- fus that fact. And the bad data had been cooked onto chips at AeroTech.
“Well, Frank, it looks like it’s going to be a long night. I want you to go back to the local office and wake up someone in the U.S. Attorney’s office. Have him get cracking. I want a search-and- seizure warrant for all AeroTech’s travel, long-distance-telephone and expense-account records and all the data-base files. Until we have the warrant, we’ll lock this place up and post a guard. Some- one around here has a nasty little secret. If we can find the smoking gun, we’ll know who and when and can save ourselves the trouble of listening to a lot of lies.”
“You’ll need to come down to the office and write the affidavit.”
“Yeah.” He was going to have to call Camacho at home. No doubt Luis Camacho could think of a plausible story for the judge.
The phone call came at 2 A.M. and woke Camacho from a sound sleep. He listened to Dreyfus’ recitation of the events of the evening as he tried to move noiselessly around the bedroom and put on his robe and slippers. When Dreyfus had completed his summary, Ca- macho told him to call back in five minutes. He was down in the kitchen sipping a glass of milk when the phone rang again.
“Dreyfus again, boss. What do I put on the affidavit?”
“The truth. Suspected illegal sale of classified defense informa- tion. Don’t name any names.”
“I don’t have any names to name yet.”
“Don’t give me that, you pilgrim!”
“Oh, you don’t want me to use Smoke Judy’s name? Oh! Okay, John Doe strikes again. Anything else?”
“Bye.”
“Night, Luis.”
The lights were off over at Albright’s house. Camacho checked from the backyard as he walked out to the swing. It was a hot, still, muggy night. He didn’t stay on the swing long. The gnats and mosquitoes were still hunting for rich, red blood. Cursing, Cama- cho swatted furiously until he regained the safety of his kitchen and got the sliding glass door closed behind him.
Wide awake now, he nipped on the radio and twiddled the dial.
They were still playing a ball game out on the Coast. Baltimore versus Oakland. Eleventh inning, three runs apiece-
Jose Canseco was coming to the plate. The A’s announcer was all atwitter. Camacho searched through the cupboard for some- thing to eat. Didn’t she have some crackers in here? Cookies? Or did the teenage food monster
