Jack Be Nimble: Gargoyle (15 page)

Though most in the crowd were seasoned reporters of one magnitude or another, a hearty cheer went up at the sight of the bloody cloth. Ambrose shook it once for effect, then slipped into his gravest expression as the first question was asked.

“Can you describe the raid, Mr. Delgado?”

Ambrose took on a more serious mien even though inside he was nearly giddy with pleasure. They knew his name! “Certainly, gentlemen. I found several forty-five caliber handguns and more than two hundred rounds of ammunition on the coffee table in Caulfied’s room. Since Caulfield is a proven sharpshooter, it was touch and go from the moment we entered the building. He’d also booby-trapped the entrance to his apartment.”

“If you call tin cans and baling wire a booby trap.” The newcomer, a stout, hard man in jeans and a plaid chambray shirt, had just exited the building. His eyes were bright behind gold-rimmed glasses, and in his boots he looked as though he’d recently hiked down out of the woods somewhere. In sharp contrast to Delgado’s dapper appearance, the new man seemed steadier, made smooth by much use like a rock in a riverbed. He was also obviously near exhaustion despite his glaring eyes; several days’ worth of beard overlaid his moustache.

Instantly, the spotlight shifted. “Can you explain that further, sir? Would you describe Hubert James Caulfield as a loner? Mr. . . .”

“I’d have to say Caulfield is more of a loser, actually. Please, no pictures,” he said to a photographer.

Edelblute from the Tribune shouted from the front. “What about the weapons? Did he put up a struggle?”

“No, we found him hiding under his bed, wrapped in a Star Wars bedsheet.” A murmur of laughter ran through the assembled reporters. One near the rear raised his hand.

“So you don’t see him capable of succeeding in the assassinations he threatened?”

He plucked at his new beard. “I doubt it, honestly. He’s never succeeded at anything else.” More laughter.

“Sir!” It was Edelblute, again. “How is the suspect being held at this time? What sort of security precautions are--”

The bearded man laughed right back at them. “Right now, Caulfield is handcuffed to a rusty pipe in the alley out back. He’s being watched by a single guard, Officer Nebecker.” His eyes were gleaming with suppressed mirth as he looked across at Delgado. “
Maureen
Nebecker.”

Ambrose flushed. It wouldn’t take the newsboys long to find out Nebecker was the smallest, frailest-looking officer in the city.

“Now, if you gentlemen and ladies will permit me,” the newcomer continued., “I’d like to speak off the record for just a moment.” He waited until cameras were lowered and pencils slowed. When he had their attention, the bearded man took a deep breath and spoke.

“Hubert Caulfield, as you all know, stalked half-a-dozen media figures in California and here in Illinois before he shot out the windows of the mayor’s car two days ago. No doubt each of you are going to go back to your desks tonight and write about the ‘meticulous plans’ he made and carried out, or maybe take shots of him being escorted away tonight by federal officers, or,” here he gestured to the cameramen, “get footage of the helicopter coming to pick him up. It’ll make for some great reporting, that’s for sure; but would-be assassins provide great material, isn’t that right? And you can say whatever you want. Hell, it’s not like Caulfield’s going to sue you, is it?”

He waited while the scattered laughter trailed off. “What’s your point, sir?” asked a junior newspaperman from the Tribune.

“Point is, that’s what Caulfield’s been after all along, just like ninety-six percent of the losers who try what he did,” the bearded man shot back. “His fifteen seconds or whatever in the spotlight. Just like anybody, he wants recognition, acknowledgment–even if he can’t get acceptance.

“He wouldn’t articulate it in those words, but that’s been his core motivation all along, ever since he saw Hinckley take his shots at Reagan back in the 80's. You make that video showing Caulfield, the criminal mastermind, you’re making a commercial for assassination and half-a-dozen other major crimes.” He poked a thumb back towards the building. “The ‘meticulous plans’ you’ll write about included Caulfield amassing a library of media stories about murderers. He’s got notes galore on all the hoopla that television and newspapers kick up whenever some nutcase does what he tried to do. He’s got your name, Bob,” here he pointed at a local television reporter, “on his telephone’s auto-dial.

“Think, for a minute, about what you folks do that encourages behavior like Caulfield’s. A friend of mine once told me the media actually encourages domestic terrorism, the sort of thing Caulfield and people like him try to do.” He paused, as if gauging his audience. They were actually listening.

Ambrose Delgado never would have said anything like this.

“Terrorism is a crime, consisting of an intentional act of political violence specifically designed to create an atmosphere of fear. Acts of terrorism are premeditated by their perpetrators and are conspiratorial in nature. Terrorists conspire their acts of terror to generate fear. Even if fear isn’t the main purpose of the terrorist, our society is often completely consumed by it.

“It is our responsibility to secure society from this threat, from attacks against our faith in society. From attacks against our morality. Too much fear and doubt can cripple us.”

One of the reporters started to object, but he continued. “All I’m saying is, think twice about how you’re going to present this man. Don’t glorify him, if you can help it.”

Bob Browning nodded curtly, then scowled. “But the first amendment--”

“The first amendment doesn’t provide for putting the Unabomber’s face on the front of Time, Newsweek–twice--and U.S. News and World Report, then describing him in each of the cover texts as a ‘genius’.” The man on the steps was near exhaustion but spoke evenly and with an air of good-natured reason. “Why is it, Bob, that regular guys get to be known by their full name only when they’ve somehow qualified themselves as someone to be feared? That’s an invention of the media. Assassins never use their triple names in their pre-attack lives. Mark Chapman, Lee Oswald, John Booth? Doesn’t sound so intimidating, does it? Doesn’t sound nearly as powerful.” He sighed, and seemed to collapse in upon himself somewhat. “Just a suggestion, folks. You never know when lightning will strike. Don’t feed the latent ambitions of those out there who might, one day, point a gun at your head. Or your husband’s or wife’s.” The crowd before him was silent. He turned to go.

“Sir, what do you suggest we call him, then?”

The man in the rumpled chambray shirt made as if to shrug, then smirked. “Hubert Caulfield was called ‘Screwie Huey’ in high school. Good luck with that one.”

*

Ian Whitaker reentered into the brownstone, gently pressing his temples. Let that nozzle Delgado have his moment now that he’d at least made an attempt to deflect the press. It was one of two things he disliked about his profile work for the Bureau: the fact that many of the criminals he met were sustained, even nourished by the media as much as they fed off their victim’s fear.

And Ian got the opportunity to ride along with them, a passenger on their often twisted, much-tangled trains of thought. Getting into their minds was what he’d been trained to do, what he was good at. As a watcher, however, as someone who predicted what would happen next, Ian was often just hours too late to prevent the crimes he envisioned through the mind’s eye of the killers.

That fact was the second thing he hated about his job. You couldn’t save everybody; hell, you’d be lucky to save yourself. Ian knew his own psyche well enough to say he didn’t have a hero complex, but even still. He should have been able to do more.

Everybody wants to make a difference.

He met briefly with the head of the SWAT team that had taken point earlier in the evening, then placed a call to his superior in Washington. “Agent Whitaker!” Martin Schlass’ voice was a cheery rasp over the connection. “Good work on the Caulfield wrap up. Just about to call you; listen, boy. After all this mess you deserve some time off, and you’ll get it, with pay, but--”

“But?” Ian couldn’t believe his ears.

“I just got a notice from the Director himself. Remember the unique instructions you used to get from time to time?”

“Yes sir, of course.” What was this? He hadn’t operated under the special directive for nearly a year yet, not since Victoria—

By the sound of his voice, Martin Schlass was intensely curious. “You timed the ending of the Caulfield case just right, Whitaker. All I’m supposed to tell you is, get on the internet as soon as you can. You’re authorized, of course, to take as much time away from your regular duties as you’ll need. Looks like I’ll have to wait for your report on Caulfield. Just like before, this comes all the way from the top, far as I can tell.”

Ian knew what thoughts chased themselves ‘round in Schlass’ head. Hah. The curiosity is killing him. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ll tell me all about this someday, won’t you, boy?”

“As much as I can, sir.”

“Right, then. I’m going to dinner. Whatever it is, take care of yourself, Ian.”

The line went dead.

Ian rested his head against the dingy red wall. He had the option of refusing the assignment, of course. He’d never done so before, but then again, he hadn’t been married then, either. After a whole year? Hmm. He’d warned Rachel this day might come. Schlass had already approved vacation with pay afterward, and–but what was this? Was he actually talking himself into it?

Whitaker punched a new combination of numbers into the phone he held.

“Hello?” The voice of an angel on the other end of the line.

He explained the situation, and felt a thin pang of regret. She was disappointed. “Well, Ian. We planned for this, just in case, didn’t we? I’ll have your bag packed—a week?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t even know yet where I’ll be going, and Jack always gives us a couple hours to get ready.” There would already be tickets for him at the airport. “I’m at the corner of Bryn Mawr and Wayne Avenue right now; there’s an I-net café down on North Clark. I’ll know more then, after I get online. I’ll be home in an hour.”

Rachel exhaled. “My husband the spy.” Even over the phone he could tell she was smiling. “I-net, huh? Bring me back some of their garlic chicken pizza.”

They lingered over the phone a few minutes more, and by the time he’d hung up, Ian felt rejuvenated. It amazed him how rested he felt, after just a few moments of verbal contact with his wife. They complimented each other so well. That instant’s recuperation was one of the many fringe benefits of marriage he’d never suspected as a bachelor.

Her face still filled his imagination as he drove to the internet café. WXLC blared on the radio, drowning out the gush of air from the heating vents with a diatribe against the Cubs. Chicago was experiencing an unseasonably cold spring. Maybe he’d be sent someplace warm this time, someplace tropical. Maybe for a change he wouldn’t have to blow anything up, and he and Rachel–

Quit dreaming, he told himself, pulling the wheel around onto North Clark. Jack needed him.

Ian paid the $5.00 fee for an hour on the ‘Net, though he wouldn’t be on for more than half that. He took a console with his back to the candy-apple red wall and logged in. The screen filled with the deep, patterned blue that had always preceded a coded transmission, and it finally seemed real. Ian took another deep breath. Jack needed him again. He grinned in anticipation.

A chance to make a difference. Something he was really good at.

The Apprentice Magician

Vienna, Austria

11PM

Steve rubbed his eyes and reached across the table, brushing aside a tangle of cables for his bag of Snickers. Better make these last. Expensive in this part of Europe.

He peeled the brown wrapper back as he returned to his monitor, part of three full-sized systems arranged around him. The hotel had prepared the room exactly to his specifications, setting two executive-sized desks together in an L-shape and providing multiple ‘Net connections. A bag of Snickers had even greeted Steve upon his arrival, no doubt according to long-standing instructions from Jack Flynn or Alonzo Noel.

Which both amused and intrigued the engineer. Jack’s team hadn’t used the Ana Grand Hotel Wien as a base of operations for—oh, it must be sixteen months, yet when Steve phoned in reservations using the credit card and corresponding alias set up for him a year and a half ago, the staff had responded with breathless efficiency. What a facility. Oriental carpets, a grand staircase, and brass enclosed elevators. Steve liked the 24hour restaurant the best, though the chef’s bratwurst and angel-flake streusel always made him feel a little guilty he never used the free health club.

Everything he needed had been laid out upon his arrival–twenty minutes after opening the first sealed case, Steve’s entire system was humming away, not only plugged into the ‘Net and local police and news networks, but the building’s internal security system as well. His eyes and ears.

Steve had long ago admitted to himself that he was a bit of an introvert. Seven years at MIT hadn’t erased the closet hacker or the recent escapee from a solitary adolescence. Even at his job with the NSA Steve generally found it difficult to make friends, until Jack Flynn and Alonzo Noel.

*

Southwestern Yemen

Steve stood in the open doorway, nearly dropping his computer in fright as the two light-haired men, guns drawn, wheeled on him. The smaller one, jagged with fatigue, snarled something in Russian and shoved the barrel of his pistol neatly around Steve’s Adam’s apple.

The other man intervened, whispering back in the same language, then, “Hold off, Al; he’s not with security.” The speaker’s face also showed the marks of exhaustion, but his actions were quick, his eyes curious.

Steve found his tongue. “I’ve been watching you. Mr. Noel and Mr. Flynn. Ah, I’m with the Agency–NSA. I can’t believe I actually found you.”

The shorter man jerked his pistol away, then looked both directions down the passageway. “How the hell--”

“
You guys leave an electronic trail a mile wide!” Steve smacked his lips, then jumped on with the rest of the speech he’d memorized on the plane from Maryland. “You’re like ghosts when you’re in the middle of an operation, but the minute you use an ATM–bam!

“
We caught part of the message you encrypted and sent from Beijing about five months ago, right before somebody snatched the Prime Minister.” Their eyes widening, he continued. “Nobody believed you guys were doing all that stuff and you weren’t with any agency. Just out there on your own!” He knew his enthusiasm was evident, but he didn’t care. “The top brass told us to keep you secret, but, I mean, how the hell do you classify something when it isn’t even a part of the U.S. government, any government?

“
So I was assigned to watch you, keep the file. The last couple months, I think I know about it all. The French Air Force guy you got out of Tehran, the hostages in Belfast, even the drug lords you scared out of Cuba. Yesterday I read a scanned copy of the thank-you note sent to the U.S. president by Castro’s successor, Espinosa himself.”

Now came the hard part. “You guys are good, probably the best freelancers in the business, but you need somebody on the electronic end.” Time to drop the other shoe.

“
Somebody like me.”

The explosive Mr. Noel raised his pistol, but was again waved down by his larger companion. “Wait a sec. You’ve been watching us. How’d you get this far inside the installation?”

Steve patted his computer. “I’ve got the blueprints for the whole place right here. Hooked into the security cameras by remote. And,” he hesitated. “I’ve always been pretty good at staying away from people.”

The smaller man grudgingly nodded. “And you can show us where the mullah keeps his bio-weapons vault, can’t you?” he completed.

His companion spoke. “Get us there and we’ll talk about what comes next.” His gun switched hands. “I’m Jack, this is Alonzo.”

*

This is Alonzo.
It had been Alonzo eighteen months ago who set up Steve’s credit cards and alias in Vienna, and no doubt left standing instructions to keep a bag of candy bars on hand. Much like Flynn himself, Alonzo had proved to be a resourceful ally and a good friend. They’d had some interesting times.

Too bad neither was around to help with the present puzzle.

Two of his monitors were filled by the schematics from the extra files Brad had discovered. The programmer had been very clever, Steve noted, masking such a vast amount of information behind and within layers of extraneous material–other projects, personal emails within the company, somebody’s score on an old Duke Nukem game. Piecing everything together out of it all had turned into the computerized equivalent of rummaging through a bin of red herring. Looking for a pink herring.

Steve rubbed his eyes. Again with the fish metaphors. He really needed some sleep.

But the schematics before him all added up to something, didn’t they? These new, high-density fiber optic lines, well, no telling how much information they could transmit in the form of light energy. But why hard-wire so many of them into the structure of a building, big as it was?

Ah, well, he’d figure out what the castle-thing was supposed to be later, after a good night’s rest. Those high-density lines, though . . . Steve pounded the heel of his hand heavily against the edge of the desk. He was so close.

10:48 p.m. in Vienna–almost quitting time on the east coast of the U.S. Steve instructed his computer to dial a phone number and adjusted the microphone on his headset. The line rang twice.

“Hello, this is Doug Gale.” The voice was clipped, efficient. Bureaucratic to the hilt.

Steve cleared his throat. “Hello Dr. Gale, this is Steve Fisbeck.”

Pause. “Steve! How are you? Anything you need?” Of all his instructors at MIT, Doug Gale had been the one who’d imparted the most to Steve. A practical man as well as a tireless promoter of his students, Gale had been the first to recommend the young, bashful programmer to the National Security Agency recruiters.

“Actually, I’m working through something right now I thought you’d be interested in.”

Silence, followed by a short laugh. “You’re stuck, aren’t you?” Gale chuckled. “My security clearance expired with the last President, Steve; I’m afraid I can’t help you hack anything more complex than the ingredients in a candy bar. Or have you conquered that particular addition?” For several years Gale had worked at Lincoln Laboratory, the off-campus facility where MIT sent all its classified work.

“Oh, no sir, this doesn’t have anything to do with work. I’ve sort of stumbled onto a design for a high-density kind of cable . . .”

Steve went on for several minutes, picturing his teacher nodding and bobbing back and forth over his desk in that cubbyhole of an office back in the States. Thanks to Steve’s status at the NSA, Gale wouldn’t think twice about divulging information to his former student.

“I see,” said Gale presently. “Could you describe the chips set along the cable at intervals, again? Small, you said.”

Steve did so. “I could email the file, if you’d like.”

That caught the old man by surprise. “That would be best, my boy. Give me a chance to look at it here, perhaps pass a few of the ideas on to a few of the other members of the faculty. We’re publishing a few papers on nanotechnology, but nothing like what you just described to me. Good heavens.

“Come to think of it, old Charlie Townes might get a kick out of this.”

Charles Townes had been appointed provost and professor of physics at MIT back during Gale’s graduate studies. The man could walk on water, at least that was the conclusion Steve had drawn after several hours’ worth of Dr. Gale’s anecdotes and tangents during class. Townes’ pinnacle contribution to the world had been the invention of the maser, a device that amplified electromagnetic waves and created a means for the sensitive reception of communications and for precise navigation. Gale clicked his tongue and continued.

“I could be wrong, but it sounds like you’ve unearthed a device for transmitting, if not outright controlling, energy on a molecular level. NMR technology.”

“How’s that again?”

“Solid state nuclear magnetic resonance. Electromagnetic radiation. Tell you what,” Papers shuffled on a desk thousands of miles away. “I’ve got a friend, a colleague actually, in California. Working on much the same thing. Mitchell Fenn, a good man. Examines synthetic fuels, that sort.” More paper shuffling. “He’s attached to the Intercampus Institute for the Research of Particle Acceleration. This is right up his alley. Let me give you his number.”

Steve copied it down. “Thanks, Dr. Gale. I’ll email you what I’ve got here.”

“Splendid. Now I really must be off, Steve. Damn faculty meeting in a few minutes. Wouldn’t think of starting without me. You’ll be stopping in the next time your in Boston?”

Steve smiled. A few more pleasantries, and both men hung up. He pushed himself back from the desk and knotted his fingers against the base of his neck, almost surprised to find himself back in his Austrian hotel room. He rubbed his eyes, and yawned, then stopped short. Magnetic resonance. Controlling electrons–electricity,
lightning
–on a molecular level.

What had he found? What was the application of this technology?

One thing was for sure: this was light years beyond anything
anybody
at DynaSynth could have in their pocket. This was way beyond them.

--or above? What was the parent company, the conglomerate that had bought out DynaSynth stock a year previous? Raines Dynamic.

Raines Dynamic. Not so much a consortium as a benevolent dictatorship, a development firm with heavy--though vague--interests in research and application of new technology. Steve looked once again at the dizzying field of blueprints.

Could they be—

Steve laughed out loud and rubbed his eyes again. “Watching too many X-files reruns, Stevie,” he said, imitating the Australian accent that Jack had done so well. He spun in his chair toward the bedroom and stood.

Abruptly his three computer screens blazed a too-bright blue, then filled with a pattern of algorithms that were alarmingly familiar. Steve jumped and started away from the desk, his first reaction sheer disbelief, then trepidation.

Jack?

Steve reached for a chocolate bar, fumbled with the wrapper. Had his vanished friend discovered their illicit use of CastleBreaker?

Steve dropped the candy bar and grabbed his notepad as a coded transmission swam up out of the morass of letters and digits on the screen. A minute later, he was grinning and punching up numbers on his phone.

At last.

“Brad? This is Steve. No, shut up, I don’t care. Sell it when we get back. Paris. Jack wants us to set up shop tonight, now, as soon as possible. Paris, yeah!” Steve paused, tapping his knuckles against the hardwood desk. “No.” Pause. “I don’t know, some kind of kidnapping thing. Meet you at the airport. No,
you
get the tickets this time.”

Steve pressed a button to terminate the call and looked around quickly at his system. It had taken him twenty minutes to set it all up. He’d have it cased in ten.