a weapon; jet fighters would have been if Hitler could have deployed a sufficient quantity. Our way of life is on the table, Admiral. The stakes are too high.'
'And Revelation? Is it a quantum leap? A new paradigm?'
'I think so, yes.'
'Did the Russians steal it? Is that why
'I don't know.'
'What do your Russian sources say? The ones who told you the Russian government knew about Blackbeard, about your sub-stealing team?'
DeGarmo didn't even glare. He merely waggled a finger at Jake. 'Don't leap to conclusions. Blackbeard was canceled for reasons that do not touch on this investigation.'
Jake Grafton refused to be intimidated. 'If the Russians didn't swipe that boat, who did?'
'I don't know,' Avery Edmond DeGarmo said bitterly. 'I wish to Christ I did.'
Jake Grafton stood up. 'If there is a mole in the United States government, sir, we are going to discover that fact. Then I'll be back to see you with more questions. A lot more.'
DeGarmo let out a roar. 'Goddamn it, sailor. You are in way over your head. I feel like I am explaining the facts of life to Inspector Clouseau.' He sprang from his chair with a grace that surprised Jake. 'It's not just torpedoes! Supercavitation could revolutionize naval warfare. Antisubmarine bullets fired from airplanes, two- hundred-knot submarines… Think of it! A two-hundred-knot submarine! A half dozen of those might well obsolesce the entire world's fleet of surface combatants. What the hell do you think Stuffy Stalnaker worries about in the middle of the night? Everyone wants this! Everyone! The British, the Chinese, Germany, France, the United States…'
DeGarmo sat down and leaned forward in his chair. 'And it is not just submarines. There is a parallel technology that might have aerodynamic applications. There are rumors that the Russians are working on plasma research, firing a beam of microwaves ahead of an aircraft, ripping the air into a plasma of ions and electrons. Flying in plasma would dramatically reduce the drag on an aircraft, allow hypersonic speeds, kill the sonic boom. And yes, plasma absorbs radio waves, so plasma fighters would be invisible to radar. Think stealth at Mach five.' Words failed him and he fell silent.
'Tell me what you think,' Jake Grafton prompted. 'Is supercavitation real? Or magnificent fiction? Complex, fascinating disinformation?'
DeGarmo took a deep breath, gathered himself, and levered his bulk out of his chair. He came around the desk, casually took Jake's elbow, and began steering him toward the door. Jake had run out of questions, so he was willing to go.
'Maybe there's hope for you after all, Admiral. Good luck with your investigation. Keep me advised on what you find out.'
With those parting words DeGarmo eased Jake through the door and pulled it firmly closed.
Out in the hallway Jake remembered that he had wanted to ask the director about Janos Ilin. Too late now, but he would be talking to DeGarmo again soon.
'Yes, Carmellini, what is it?'
Two floors below and a light-year away from the director's office, Tommy Carmellini stuck his head into his department head's office and asked if he might have a few minutes. Now he stepped inside, pulled the door shut, and seated himself across the desk from the great man, whose name was Herman Watring.
'Mr. Watring, I wanted to discuss the reasons why you didn't give me a performance bonus this year. I think I deserve one and so did my supervisor, who gave me the highest recommendation in the department.'
'I saw his recommendation. Ridiculous!'
Carmellini wrapped his hands around the arms of the chair he was seated in and squeezed. 'I have done an outstanding job all year. In addition, I invented the energy grenade, got a classified patent and assigned it to the agency. If I hadn't invented the thing and financed the prototype, they wouldn't exist.'
'The agency is reimbursing you for your expenses,' Watring said without enthusiasm. 'I don't think you are entitled to anything else.'
'I think I'm entitled to reimbursement and a performance bonus for my efforts, and so does my supervisor.'
'Energy grenades! Pfft! You read classified summaries about the research into directed energy weapons. Your so-called invention was nothing new. The patent office should never have granted you that patent.'
Tommy Carmellini struggled to keep his voice under control. 'I'm not going to argue with you about what the patent office should have done. They did grant a patent, and I did assign it to the agency.'
'As the law requires.'
'Yes, sir. And the regulations contemplate that I will be rewarded for my industry and diligence. After all, I could have just sat on my ass like most of the people around here, swilling coffee and waiting for the eagle to shit me a paycheck.' Watring's fondness for gourmet coffee was legendary.
Now Herman Watring leaned forward in his chair and a finger shot out, one pointed at Carmellini's chest. 'I'm not going to take any more insubordination from you, foul mouth. Your supervisor made the bonus recommendation and I turned it down. That's the way it was and the way it's going to stay. I don't think you deserve a bonus. You aren't a team player, Carmellini. You're a thief. A burglar. A criminal. You are fortunate that you aren't in jail. Personally I find it difficult to understand why the agency keeps you on the payroll.'
'So fire me! Send me out into the big wide world to starve on the sidewalks, to beg for quarters from employed civil servants on their way to their offices to earn their daily crust. Fire me! If you have the guts.'
'As much as I'd like to, you know I haven't the authority.'
'Okay, okay! I'm the cross you have to drag through life. My heart bleeds. Let's cut through the personal animosity, shall we?
What about the energy grenades? Surely you see how valuable they are?'
'Valuable to thieves and terrorists, perhaps. Not to an agency of the United States government.'
'You say that like the CIA was the post office.' Keeping himself under tight control, Tommy Carmellini rose from his chair and headed for the door. 'You're a foolish, incompetent, vindictive knave, Herman.'
'You can't call me names! Who the hell do you think you are? You can't march into this office and insult me!'
Why was he wasting his life conning women and picking locks for these pinheads? 'Fire me!' he told Watring again. 'Knave, varlet, fathead, toady, gossip, brownnoser, nincompoop—'
'Out!' Watring shouted, pointing toward the door, his face beet red and jowls quivering. 'Out! Don't ever come through that door again unless I send for you. Understand?'
Carmellini went. He was in the hallway when the thought occurred to him that perhaps he should try quitting. Just turn in a letter of resignation and wait to see what happened. After all, this is America, he reminded himself. You gotta admit, it's a helluva country — people quit jobs every day. The CIA had had its pound of flesh: They wouldn't prosecute him for those old burglaries. Would they?
When he was a young man, Flap Le Beau never went anywhere without two knives secreted under his clothes, a throwing knife that he liked to keep in a sheath hanging behind his neck, and a fighting, or slashing, knife that he often wore behind his belt or up a sleeve. 'Without the knives I feel sort of naked, you know,' he had once explained to Jake Grafton, who met Flap and flew with him after the Vietnam War when Jake had the misfortune to be sent to a marine A-6 squadron aboard an aircraft carrier. That was long ago, Jake reflected ruefully as he shook hands this morning with Flap and lowered himself into a stuffed leather chair at the end of the commandant's desk.
Of course the room was outrageously decorated in red and gold, with the marine's globe and anchor emblem plastered on everything, from the paperweights to the carpet and furniture. Jake related the substance of the conversation with Director DeGarmo. Flap tapped a pencil on the desk as he listened, asking no questions. When Jake was done, he said, 'Come on,' and bolted for the door. Grafton trailed along in his wake as Flap strode through the outer office, not even breaking stride to talk to his executive assistant, a colonel. 'We're going to see Stuffy Stalnaker. Be back in a bit.'
Stalnaker was in a meeting, but he stepped into an adjacent meeting room to spend a few minutes with the marine general. 'We need some background on this CIA operation that didn't fly, Operation Blackbeard. Why was it canceled?'
