Capitol Reflections (49 page)

Authors: Jonathan Javitt

Tags: #Thriller

BOOK: Capitol Reflections

11.25Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

“And yet,” said Karn, “Pequod’s isn’t a national fad simply on the merits of its taste. The molecule is finding friendly receptor sites somewhere in the nervous system, probably in the brain stem, and that’s what we need you to find out: how and where does the d-caffeine work?”

Gallagher scratched his head, which was covered in straight, fine hair that rebelled against the comb’s attempts to keep it in line. “I’ll look at that plant and what’s left of the bean. Van Rankin had a run at this, you say? Good man. I like him. I’ll also see what’s in the actual coffee. I don’t suppose you want to tell me why you’re bringing this to me?”

Gwen explained the working theory that the mirror image of the caffeine molecule was causing seizures.

Gallagher’s eyes opened wide as he walked to his office door. “Stevens!” he yelled. “Get in here!”

A slightly out-of-breath technician appeared at the office threshold within ten seconds.

“I’ve got a job for you and your team,” Gallagher said like a drill sergeant. “Put it on your A-list, and nobody outside the division knows what you’re doing. Do I make myself clear?”

Jan and Peter sat in front of Jamie Robinson’s Apple II.

“It’s actually quite amazing what this thing could do, considering that it was the first real computer to hit the mass market,” Peter said.

“Even more amazing is what Jamie did to the machine using the expansion slots. Fingerprint recognition? A back-up drive? I would have hired this kid in a New York minute.”

“But how do we break in?” asked Jan. “My interface didn’t even recognize the connection.”

“We use a binary unscrambler.”

“Never heard of such a thing. But then I’ve never heard of most of your gadgets and techniques.”

Peter smiled at Jan warmly. “That’s why you need to keep me around.”

The words hung between them for a moment before Peter turned back to the machine. “I’m presuming, as you yourself did, that Jamie used an alphanumeric password. The unscrambler breaks up the code into two bits of information at a time. Cracking the entire code could take weeks, but getting two characters at a time is very doable. There are ten numerical digits—0 through 9—and twenty-six letters in the alphabet. That’s thirty-six possible digits to use in an alphanumeric code. Take any digit, and it can combine with thirty-five other characters.”

“But how do we know which number or letter starts each pair of password characters?”

“Trial and error, my dear. We start with 0 and follow it with A through Z, seeing if we get a match. If we get no results, then we move up to 1 and proceed in the same fashion from A through Z.”

“That’s pretty cool. But what about the fingerprint recognition? At least Jamie’s parents still had a key to unlock the machine, but this recognition interface he created presents a different problem. I was just going to disconnect it.”

“My techniques are rubbing off on you already,” Peter said, jerking the pad from its port. “Not many people would have known back in 1977, but the damned thing only makes a difference as long as it’s hooked to the machine. Other than that—useless. Disconnecting it doesn’t affect access in the least.”

“Got it. So let’s start unscrambling.”

Suddenly the cabin began vibrating with a distant but deep penetration. Gradually it grew louder and louder until the bass rumble caused pictures on the wall to shake and a paperclip to dance across the desk where Peter and Jan were working.

“What in blazes is that?” asked Jan.

Peter put his finger to his lips, motioning for silence. He got up and went to the window, Jan following.

“What’s going on?” she whispered.

“Get down,” Peter said, pulling Jan away from the window.

The vibration developed into a thundering sound, growing higher in pitch before falling rapidly again.

“A low-flying helicopter,” said Peter. “Very low. It may be nothing; this close to the nation’s capitol, it’s hard to say. Law enforcement has hundreds of bases in the area. But if we’re buzzed again, I’m calling Rick.”

“I’m worried,” said Jan.

“Let’s get back to unscrambling,” said Peter. “If we’re hassled, we need to have that information ready for the others.”

They returned to the desk and applied themselves to the Apple.

Thirty minutes later, Peter’s unscrambler had the first digit.

“You’re taking too much of a risk,” Rick told Mark as they neared the New Jersey correctional facility where Mickey Spangler lay dying. “Besides, you look like Indiana Jones on spring break.”

Mark sat up straight in the back of the Quest, pulling the soft, wide-brimmed hat down over his eyes in the fashion that Harrison Ford made famous. He wore conventional sunglasses and zipped up a jacket despite temperatures in the high eighties outside the van.

“I have to talk to Spangler as well,” Mark said adamantly. “I’ve spent my life getting information from people. This is my strength, not yours.”

“If you say so, but it’s your funeral if we’re busted. Maybe mine, too, as an accessory to aiding and abetting a fugitive. And it was such a promising political career.”

“Relax. I’ll say I kidnapped you or something.”

“I think the sun got to you down in Panama.”

“What kind of deal?” asked Mickey Spangler.

“You get to go home,” said Rick, “and die with a little dignity.” Rick looked at the hospital ward. “It’s not Alcatraz here, but you could do better. Like I said, we’re just looking for some information about the death of that kid at Princeton.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Spangler asked, coughing. Mark guessed the guy weighed no more than 110 pounds. Lung cancer, chemotherapy, and radiation had exacted a heavy toll on the petty thief who had taken one too many wrong turns in life.

“I have connections,” said Rick. “Lots of ’em. Depending on what you have to say, I go to the one I think is in the best position to help you, and we cut a deal. Anyway, the police aren’t looking to double-cross a sick man. Frankly, the Department of Corrections would rather let Medicare pay for your last days. The authorities are after a much bigger fish.”

Spangler, his bloodshot eyes sunken and suspicious, looked at Rick and Mark. “What is it you want to know? You already told me you have the police report about the kid.”

“Your statement is that you saw Jamie Robinson mount his bike and ride across Washington Street. Right?”

“Right.”

“Who was the man standing next to Jamie?”

“Dunno. It’s been a long time.”

Mark was standing next to the bedside. He pulled up a chair and positioned it next to Rick’s. This was going too slowly. “It’s in the police report, Mickey. The man was a student named Henry Broome. Now he’s a U.S. senator.”

“Broome. Sounds about right.”

It was unclear whether Spangler was reticent to talk or had genuinely forgotten a name from half a lifetime ago, a name he’d perhaps chosen to forget.

“Is this the man?” asked Rick, producing two pictures. One was a college picture of Broome, the other a shot from a decade back when Broome made his first foray into politics.

The breathing tubes in Mickey’s nostrils made a constant, unnatural hissing sound. “Yeah, that’s him all right. You still haven’t told me what you want to know. It was an accident. I swear.”

“We want to know—”

“The truth,” Mark said, interrupting his friend. Anything that Spangler said would have to be the result of information volunteered. Neither Mark nor Rick could go on a fishing expedition, hoping to stumble onto the right scenario. Spangler wanted to get out of the ward, and Mark knew he would probably verify anything Rick said. “What if I told you Broome is claiming you ran over the kid on purpose? What if I told you that good ol’ Henry Broome says the kid saw you breaking into one of the buildings on campus and lifting some expensive scientific equipment?”

Mickey tried to sit up but couldn’t. “That lousy bastard! I did no such thing.”

“Broome’s a politician,” Mark continued. “Might even run for the White House. People check the background of someone like that pretty carefully.”

“Then the lousy motherfucker is afraid they’ll find out what he really did. I never killed no kid in my life—not the Robinson kid, not nobody.”

Rick glanced at Mark. “Then what really happened, Mickey?”

Another cough. The slim green breathing tubes hissed. Mark wondered if Spangler was going to make it through the next few minutes, let alone have the chance to go home—wherever that was.

“Before the cops got there,” Spangler said, “this guy Broome pulls me over and starts telling me that if I say what I really saw, he’ll tell the police about a truckload of color TVs I helped drive away for a friend of mine. Hell, to this day I don’t know how the guy knew I was in on that heist. But he had a crazy look in his eye. So I said it was an accident—said that Broome had tried to hold the kid back, but that the kid jumped on his bike and rode out into the street. Later that night, he called to make sure I was still on board with his story. Kept making threats.”

“So what you told the police is not what happened?”

“Hell no. I’ve played the thing out in my head a million times. It all happened so fast, but I’m sure of it. Broome pushed the kid, plain and simple. Hand was on Robinson’s shoulder plain as day. Broome was a big guy. Just pushed the kid right out in front of the truck. My orders were to drive down Washington Street. I didn’t know anything like this was gonna happen, though. I swear on my mother’s grave. I thought I was on my way to make a pickup, and don’t ask me what I was gonna haul, because people didn’t usually tell and I never asked. Jesus, the whole thing was awful. Broome outright threatened me is what he done.”

Mark glanced down at the mini tape recorder in his hand, again making sure the green RECORD light was on.

“But look,” said Spangler, now wheezing from agitation and exertion, “I didn’t have nothing to do with them two cheerleaders that died a couple days later. That was Ignatz’s number.”

“Who’s Ignatz?” asked Rick.

“Never did know his real name. He did the dirty work back then around Trenton. The real dirty work, if you know what I mean. Princeton was a pretty upscale place to work. I drove loads of cargo to the Pine Barrens for him but never messed with any of it. There was always guys with shovels waiting when I got there. You gotta believe me on this one.”

“We do, Mickey,” said Mark. “Did Ignatz get his orders from Broome?”

“I dunno. You’d have to ask Ignatz.” Spangler was barely able to speak now. “I … I … ”

“Go ahead and rest,” said Mark.

“Yeah,” said Rick. “Take it easy. I’m going to talk with some friends and see if the prison will cut you some slack.”

Spangler swallowed hard and nodded his head. It was all he could manage.

Outside, Mark and Rick got back into the Quest.

“Who’s the right person for this little bombshell?” asked Mark.

“To nail Senator Henry Broome? The attorney general.”

“Of New Jersey?”