F Paul Wilson - Sims 05 (2 page)

 
          
Romy
nodded, still staring at the check. “Uh-huh. It was drawn on the First Federal
Bank of
Arlington
,
Virginia
.” She looked up at him, her eyes so bright they fairly glowed. “From
the account of something called Manassas Ventures.”

 
          
“I
don’t get it,” Patrick said. His stomach lurched as one of the
Federal
Plaza
elevators lifted them toward OPRR’s
offices.

 
          
They’d
held off talking about
Alice
during the ride over from
Alphabet
City
. The odds that one of
New York
’s current
crop
of
cabbies would know enough English to follow their discussion were astronomical,
but still they hadn’t wanted to risk it. Now they had an elevator car to
themselves.

 
          
“I
think I do,” Romy said. “I think she did perform some service for SimGen in its
early years, maybe even before it started calling itself SimGen. And it may
well have had something to do with a baby.”

 
          
“What
about the space alien angle? You’re not buying into—”

 
          
“Of course not.
I’m no psychologist, but I can see how she
may have felt very guilty about what she did. Combine that with not being too
tightly wrapped in the first place, and you can understand someone unraveling.
She structured a fantastic scenario that blended fact and fiction.”

 
          
“But Mercer Sinclair?”

 
          
“More
mixing of fact and fiction,” Romy said. “
Alice
must have had some direct contact with him
because he keeps reappearing in her story—taking the sim baby, signing her
check.”

 
          
“Right.
The check.
Why did she
think it had changed?”

 
          
“You
heard her. She hadn’t looked at it for years, and during that time it did
change—in her mind. Maybe Mercer Sinclair had given it to her himself. She
remembered that and so over the years her loosely hinged mind substituted his
signature for
whoever
really signed it. And since
Mercer Sinclair is synonymous with SimGen, she began to remember it as a SimGen
check
.”

 
          
“Poor lady.
I’d give anything to know the truth about her.”

 
          
“I
don’t think even she knows anymore.”

 
          
He
slipped an arm over Romy’s shoulders and pulled her closer. “You were good with
her.”

 
          
“I
felt sorry for the poor thing.”

 
          
It
had taken Romy a while, but finally she’d managed to calm Alice Fredericks,
telling her she was safe now: The aliens had what they wanted and so they
wouldn’t be bothering her again. She could take down the foil, let some fresh
air into the room, and stop worrying.
Alice
seemed to buy it. She hadn’t seemed quite
ready yet to peel the foil from the walls, but she’d been in better spirits,
and even gave them the check to take with them. After all, it wasn’t the real
thing, so it was no use to her.

 
          
“How
old do you think she is?” Patrick said.

 
          
“She
said she was forty-seven.”

 
          
“Yeah,
but is that reliable? She looks sixty.”

 
          
“Poverty
and madness can age you pretty fast.”

 
          
“Yeah,
well…” He sighed. “I guess there’s no way to find out what really went on
between her and SimGen—or rather, the proto-SimGen being directly financed by
Manassas
.
Which leaves us no
closer finding out who’s behind
Manassas
.
”

 
          
“But
we’ve got a Manassas Ventures check, and it’s signed. That’s somebody’s
signature.”

 
          
“Right.”
With his free hand Patrick pulled the old check
from his pocket and held it up. “A C-like letter connected to a squiggle, and
then an L-like thing connected to another squiggle, on a check drawn on a
Virginia bank that was no doubt gobbled up by another bank that merged with yet
another bank which was taken over by still another bank.”

 
          
“But
the check’s dated back when all that appropriation money was being funneled
into SIRG. If we can connect SIRG to that Arlington Federal account…”

 
          
“Fat chance.”

 
          
“Don’t
be so sure. I’ve got Uncle Miltie working on SIRG.”

 
          
Patrick
had to laugh. “How do you get your superior to do your scut work?”

 
          
She
lifted her chin defiantly. “I’ll have you know I’m superior to Milton Ware in
every way.”

 
          
“Except
in seniority, position, and salary, right?”

 
          
“Mere details.
Besides, he’s crazy about me.”

 
          
“Aren’t
we all?”

 
          
“And
he’s an expert at tracking down funding.
Nobody better.
Knows a ton of passwords and can sniff out an unclaimed research dollar at a
thousand paces. That’s how I sicced him on SIRG. I told him this group got zillions
in funding without ever revealing what it was doing. Maybe if OPRR learned its
secret…”

 
          
“And
he bought it?”

 
          
“Why not?
It’s true, isn’t it?”

 
          
“Did
you tell him it hasn’t received a dime in years?”

 
          
“Of course.
But I suggested that if he could find where all
that funding came from, maybe some of it might still be around for OPRR to tap
into.”

 
          
“And
he bit?”

 
          
“Like
a dog on a bone. And Milton Ware is the kind of dog who’ll work a bone until
there’s nothing left.”

 
          
They
reached the OPRR offices, a nondescript suite on the eighteenth floor. Romy led
Patrick to a windowed office where a peppy, white-haired little man sat hunched
before a computer. The plaque on his desk read MILTON
WARE .

 
          
“Any
luck?” she said.

 
          
The
man looked up and regarded them with bright blue eyes. “Yes and no.”

 
          
After
Romy made introductions, Ware took off his glasses and pointed to the inch-high
stack of printouts on his desk.

 
          
“The
good news is that I know where Social Impact Research Group’s money came from.
The bad news is that OPRR won’t be able to get any of it.”

 
          
“Why not?”
Romy said.

 
          
“Because
its
ultimate source was the Department of Defense.”

 
          
“Knew it!”
Romy said, clapping her hands once. “Just like
SOG—military bucks laundered through an innocent-sounding subagency. Any
indication where the money went after it was cleared through SIRG?”

 
          
“Hell,”
Patrick said, “we know damn well—” But a quick look from Romy shut him up.

 
          
Right.
They both suspected that the money had marched
through a parade of holding companies until it reached Manassas Ventures, which
used it to fund the nascent SimGen. But Milton Ware knew nothing of this.

 
          
“We
know it wasn’t anything legit,” Romy said, jumping in to cover for him.
“Otherwise they would have been more open about the funding.”

 
          
“I
don’t see why it matters,” Ware said. “It doesn’t exist anymore. No trace of it
in anyone’s budget anymore.”

 
          
Patrick
leaned back and thought a moment. They knew SIRG was still active—Daniel Palmer
had said the name before his speech center blew a fuse. But where was it
getting its funding now? The path to the answer might not lie with government
agencies but with people. He’d seen it happen time and again during his labor
relations practice: certain shady characters, on both the labor and management
sides, would be found out and sent packing, only to pop up in another company
or union local the following year.

 
          
“SIRG
might be operating under a different name,” he said, “but I bet the personnel
are the same.
Any idea who headed SIRG?”

 
          
Ware
leaned forward and put on his glasses. “Yes. I remember coming across that
somewhere…” He began shuffling through his printouts. “Here it is: the director
was a Lieutenant Colonel Conrad Landon.”

 
          
“And
where is he now?”

 
          
“Easy enough to find out.”
Ware turned to his computer.
After a number of flamenco bursts on his keyboard, he leaned closer to the
screen and said, “Conrad Landon retired as a full bird colonel.”

 
          
“Damn.
When?”

 
          
Ware
stared at the monitor. “The same year the funding died.”

 
          
“What
a surprise,” Romy murmured.

 
          
Patrick
leaned across the desk for a peek at Ware’s screen. “Any hint at where he
might—?”

 
          
The
picture of Landon startled him.
Something familiar about the
man in the grainy, black-and-white personnel-file photo.

 
          
“What’s
up?” Romy said.

 
          
“Nothing.
I just—” And then he knew. Add a few decades,
enough to whiten the hair and deeply line the face, and Patrick recognized him.
“Nothing.”
Repressing a shout of triumph, he rose and
extended his hand across the desk. Had to get out of here, had to talk to Romy
alone before he exploded. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Ware. I’ve got to run. Romy,
could you show me out?”

 
          
He
fairly pulled her out of her seat and propelled her ahead of him down the hall.

 
          
“What
is it?” she said.

 
          
“Where
can we talk?”

 
          
“My
office is—”

 
          
“Might be bugged.”
He saw the elevators ahead.
“Back to our mobile conversation pit.”

 
          
He
pressed both the UP and DOWN buttons. The upward bound car arrived first,
carrying four people. He let it go. The downward was empty. Perfect. He dragged
Romy inside, jabbed the button for the lobby.
As soon as the
doors closed…

 
          
“Remember
when we had our little face-to-face in my office with the Manassas Ventures
lawyers?” he said, his tongue all but tripping over the words in his rush to
get them out before someone else entered the car. “And remember how I followed
them downstairs to their limo, hoping to find someone like Mercer Sinclair
sitting in the back?”

 
          
She
frowned.
“Vaguely.”

 
          
“But
it turned out to be someone I’d never seen before. Well, I’ve just seen him
again. The man in the back seat was Conrad Landon, former Army colonel, and
former director of SIRG.
Maybe not so former.
I’ll bet
SIRG never went away and he’s still calling the shots. Find this Conrad Landon
and we’ll find SIRG.”