McIntyre froze. It took a second to figure out that the FBI agent wanted him to make the coffee stronger.
“Mr. Fisher has a theory,” said Howe.
McIntyre’s fingers trembled and he dropped the scoop.
“Let me do that,” said Fisher, getting up. “Have a seat.”
McIntyre’s robe fell open as he pulled out the chair. He fussed at it in slow motion, pulling it together, feeling suddenly cold in the room. Howe began to talk as he tightened it.
He was talking about the laser, about Cyclops One — not what had happened on the ground.
Fisher thought the laser had been put into another aircraft to be used during the augmented-ABM trials.
McIntyre couldn’t believe that was why they were here. He hoped it was, though — he wanted it to be, wanted the boy back alive, back before him, breathing or even crying, but alive.
“It would take a lot of people to pull it off,” said Howe.
“Just the right people,” said Fisher.
He put the coffee down in front of McIntyre. It was stronger than he was used to; the aroma alone was enough to jar McIntyre’s senses. It helped drive the dream away.
“There were traces of the chemicals used in the laser system at the site,” McIntyre told them. “I was briefed on the preliminary findings by Gorman.”
“Yeah.” Fisher took a gulp of the coffee. “There’s traces but no real volume. Lab people pointed that out. Unfortunately, we don’t have anything to compare it to. I suggested we blow up the other plane but nobody went for that.”
He didn’t seem to be joking.
“I have another idea,” said Fisher. “We watch the ABM test and see what happens.”
“They’ll know we’re watching,” said McIntyre. The coffee was good for his head, but what was it doing to his stomach?
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Fisher. “Probably it’s just a wild goose chase.”
“I think we ought to do it,” said Howe.
McIntyre didn’t know if the theory made any sense or not; he just knew he didn’t want to be alone, fearing the nightmare might return.
“Tell me more about your theory,” he said.
“There’s not much more to it,” said Fisher.
Howe glanced at him, frowning as if he knew he were lying, but the Air Force officer said nothing himself.
“Another time,” said Fisher, getting up.
“Wait.” McIntyre looked toward the doorway, as if he expected the child to appear. “It wouldn’t be too hard to set up, but I’d have to talk to Dr. Blitz about it.”
“Good,” said Fisher. “Where’s your phone?”
An hour and ten minutes after being woken by McIntyre’s phone call, Dr. Blitz sat behind his desk in the West Wing of the White House, trying to run the fatigue from his eyes. McIntyre still looked shell-shocked from his experience in India, and Colonel Howe just looked exhausted. But the FBI agent, Andy Fisher, smirked in a way that suggested he didn’t need the coffee he was chugging. His offhand manner was difficult to decipher; Blitz couldn’t tell if he was trying to provoke a response or was just naturally a jerk.
“I don’t believe any of this,” Blitz told Fisher after he outlined his theory.
“Yeah, it is pretty far-fetched,” said the FBI agent. “It’s out there.”
“So why are you here?”
Fisher leaned his face forward as if he were going to say something utterly profound. Instead he scratched his ear. “You came to D.C. from teaching, right?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Blitz had the distinct impression that Fisher was examining him as he spoke, watching his reactions the way a miner panned through sediment, looking for gold.
“Nothing.” Fisher leaned back against the chair, resuming his slump. Blitz knew the agent had been involved in high-level espionage and technology cases before, and assumed he wasn’t the dummy he pretended to be.
And then suddenly he realized the import of the question he had just been asked.
“You think I’m involved, don’t you?”
“Are you?” answered Fisher.
“I ought to throw you out of here.”
“It’s happened before.”
Blitz locked his eyes with the FBI agent.
“Don’t be a wiseass, Mr. Fisher.” Blitz turned to McIntyre. “The launch-surveillance satellites can’t pick up the laser discharge except under very specific circumstances.”
“I’m aware of that,” said McIntyre. “But we could use the test monitoring plane, the RC-135.”
“It’ll tip them off.” He looked over toward Fisher.
“Probably,” said the agent.
“It won’t matter if they know,” said McIntyre. “That’s the point, isn’t it? You want them to know you’re watching, because you’re hoping they’ll do something you can trace. And if they don’t and you’re right, their missile will miss and that’ll be evidence anyway.”
Everybody looked at Fisher.
“Anybody mind if I smoke in here?” he asked.
Chapter 8
Bonham knew he had convinced Howe that Fisher was crazy, but that didn’t completely eliminate the FBI agent as a threat. Before going to bed, he sent another E-mail to Megan emphasizing the importance of carrying out the dismantling program and in the morning picked up where he had left off in his campaign to reassure himself that the others weren’t stepping around him. Bonham decided he could use Fisher to his advantage and discreetly mentioned the FBI agent’s visit during several phone calls. He also decided he would have it out personally with Segrest, and so arranged to have lunch with him. Segrest suggested a Chinese restaurant well out of town; Bonham didn’t particularly care for Chinese food but he decided to go there anyway, since the setting would give them freer rein to talk.
At twelve-thirty in the afternoon he left his office and drove farther out into rural Virginia, passing green hills divided into horse paddocks by thick, flat rails of white pine. If he hadn’t been following the directions carefully, he would have missed the turn, and if he hadn’t known about the restaurant, he never would have seen it. It was an old farmhouse marked only by a small wooden sign near the driveway.
Inside, the two-hundred-year-old structure had been gutted and given a sophisticated sheen. Wide chestnut planks with thick varnish greeted him in the foyer, along with a very short and thin Asian-American who bent nearly to the waist. The man led him into a large room whose far wall was now old brick; spotlights played on the empty fireplace, and two waiters stood in the corners, though there were no other guests at the small tables.
Bonham told him he was waiting for someone and opted for water rather than a drink.
Eric Hovanek walked in a few minutes later, towering over his host as he was shown to the table.
“Where’s Segrest?” demanded Bonham.
“Relax, General. Something came up.” Hovanek ordered a martini. “They don’t have menus,” he told Bonham. “You can ask for anything you want or just let them feed you.”
“Why isn’t Segrest here?” Bonham thought of leaving: Hovanek was just a sophisticated gofer, a former stockbroker whom Segrest had befriended. After a short stint as Segrest’s personal “moneyman,” he had taken on the role of clone, sitting on boards and attending meetings the wealthy young bastard was too lazy to attend.
“Something came up. You said the meeting was important, and so he sent me instead of canceling at the last minute.”
