The Distance Beacons (4 page)

Cowens looked at me, and once again I was a private instead of a private eye, and I was quaking before an officer's cold-eyed stare. He sat down without shaking hands or speaking to me. I sat down too. "I don't see why we need an outsider," Cowens said. His voice was soft—far softer than Bolton's—but you paid attention to it, precisely because of its softness. "We can protect the president, if we're allowed to do our job."

"We've been through this, Bob," Bolton replied.

"Surely there can't be anything wrong with using every resource available to us?"

The general flicked his gaze toward me.
Some resource,
his blue eyes seemed to say. "Outsiders are disruptive," he said. "They don't follow the lines of authority."

"But Sands can find things out precisely
because
he won't follow the lines of authority."

Cowens gave a hint of a shrug. "If you insist," he said.

Bolton nodded. He insisted. "But as I mentioned, he needs to be convinced."

Cowens turned slowly in his seat to face me. His hands were folded in his lap, I noticed. I found it difficult to meet his gaze. "Mr. Sands," he murmured, "you were recently in the armed forces of the United States of America?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"Do you recall signing anything upon your discharge?"

Oh, shit. "Uh-huh."

Cowens glared at me. He hadn't liked that
uh-huh
. "The paper you signed provided for your re-induction into the armed forces in the event of certain contingencies," he explained unnecessarily. "One of those contingencies was an emergency declared by the president or by the military commander of the region in which you reside. I am the military commander of this region. You have two choices, Mr. Sands. You can take on this assignment as a civilian, or you can take it on as a private in the United States Army, pursuant to a military emergency that I will be happy to declare right now. Which do you choose, Mr. Sands?"

My momentary admiration for the Feds had disappeared. This was what people didn't like about them, after all: the arbitrary imposition of their will on the hapless guy just trying to make it through life. What was I supposed to do? Take them to court? That might have worked in the old days, but not anymore. You don't win cases against the Feds anymore. No, you basically have to do what they tell you to do, and hope that their incompetence will keep them from bothering you too much. Right now, unfortunately, they were being pretty competent.

"I get two new dollars a day, plus expenses," I said. "Ten dollars in advance."

General Cowens turned away. Bolton smiled and picked up the phone. "Lisa, would you bring me ten dollars from petty cash?"

Ten dollars was not petty cash to me. Lisa hurried in with the money. I didn't feel like smiling at her. She wouldn't have noticed anyway; she was too busy being efficient in front of her boss and the general. I signed a receipt and put the money in my pocket. Back in business again.

"Well, I'm glad that was settled so amicably," Bolton said when Lisa had left. "Now, how can we assist your investigation?"

I tried to think like a private eye. "When is the president arriving?" I asked.

"Soon," Bolton replied.

"I don't recall seeing anything about this in the paper. Has it been made public yet?"

"Government employees were told this morning. The public announcement will be made later this afternoon."

I thought. Bolton waited. Cowens looked bored. "Have you considered the possibility that this is an inside job?" I asked.

"What do you mean, 'an inside job'?" Bolton replied.

"Someone from the government trying to stop the president's visit." I summarized the theory I had just come up with. "None of us have heard of this Second American Revolution, right? Doesn't prove anything, but it's suggestive. And the president's visit isn't common knowledge, but obviously people within the government had to know. Also, there's the message itself. On white bond paper, and typed—looks like with an electric typewriter. How many radical groups have access to that kind of paper and that kind of typewriter? And there's the way the message was delivered. I don't imagine it's that easy to get into this building and up to your office—your guard looked pretty alert out there."

Bolton shook his head. "I don't think so, Sands. First of all, you might not have known about the president's visit, but I'm well aware that there have been rumors about it for some time now. As for the paper and the typing—well, there's nothing particularly conclusive about that. Not all the typewriters in existence are owned by the government. And the outer door to my office is guarded only when I'm here. I don't see much of a problem for someone to come up in the early morning or after work without being noticed. And anyway, why would someone from the government want to stop President Kramer's visit?"

"All you need is one secret radical sympathizer," I suggested.

Bolton didn't look convinced. I wasn't especially convinced myself.

General Cowens broke the awkward silence. "All of this," he murmured, "ignores the fact that TSAR does in fact exist."

Swell, I thought. Five minutes on the case and already I'm making a fool of myself.

"Have you learned something, Bob?" Bolton asked. "When we talked earlier you said you hadn't heard of them."

"I can't personally keep track of every anti-government group that comes and goes around here," Cowens replied. "That's why we maintain files. I went and checked the files we keep in the basement on these sorts of organizations, and there they were."

"But wait a minute, I checked those files too—right after I received the message. I didn't see anything for The Second American Revolution."

"Where did you look?" Cowens asked.

Bolton considered. "Well, I looked under 'Second.' And also under 'TS,' for 'TSAR.'"

Cowens nodded. "It was filed under 'The.'" He didn't look especially impressed by Bolton's investigative prowess. Bolton's scar throbbed again.

"What was in the file?" I asked.

Cowens stared at me as if I were being impertinent. Finally he deigned to answer. "It was empty," he said.

"Empty? Did someone remove whatever was in there? Who has access to these files?"

The general's stare turned colder, if that was possible. "You insist on assuming that someone in the government is involved in threatening the president," he said. "This seems to me to be utterly absurd. In fact, there is no reason to assume that anything was ever in there in the first place."

"Then why was a file started?"

"Someone hears a name or a rumor and decides to start a file. If no more information is forthcoming, nothing gets placed in the file."

"Do you have a record of who started the file, or when, or why?" I asked.

Cowens shook his head.

"This doesn't seem like a particularly efficient system, Bob," Bolton said. He seemed glad to have the attention shifted from his own mistake.

The general's stare was approaching absolute zero. For all his deference to Bolton, it didn't look as if he was particularly fond of the governor. "There are limitations on manpower and other resources," he said in his softest, frostiest voice. "We do the best we can with what is available to us."

"I'd like to take a look at your files," I said.

Cowens glanced at me. Another impertinence from the local. "Out of the question," he replied.

"Show him the files, Bob," Bolton said. "Show him whatever he wants to see."

"Those files are highly confidential," Cowens pointed out. "This man is—"

"This man has been hired to help us. And it looks to me like we need help. Understood?"

Cowens assumed the blank expression of a military man following orders. "Yes, sir."

Suddenly I was impressed with Bolton. He certainly didn't seem to have any problem handling the legend sitting across from him. Bolton stood up. "Good. Thank you both for coming, then. Sands, I expect a report before the president arrives—or as soon as you find out anything. If you have any problems getting people to cooperate, just let me know."

I stood up too. "Yes, sir."

General Cowens got slowly to his feet. He headed out of Bolton's office without glancing at either of us. I followed him, assuming he was going to carry out Bolton's order. I smiled at Lisa as we walked through the reception area; she ignored me. The guard at the door saluted as Cowens passed by.

We waited silently for the elevator to come. Cowens wasn't the sort of guy I felt like starting a casual conversation with. When the elevator arrived, he pressed B, and we headed down to the basement. Cowens then led the way down a long, gray-tiled corridor. At the end of the corridor was a barred door; beyond the door a uniformed man sat at a desk reading a newspaper. Above the door was a hand-lettered sign that said "Records."

The soldier jumped to his feet when he saw Cowens approaching. He unlocked the door and let us in.

We stood in a large open area half-filled with battered green file cabinets. There were no windows, and the electric lighting was poor; the place felt damp and musty, like some abandoned cellars where I have spent the night in my time.

"Sergeant Hennessey," Cowens said. "Governor Bolton has given this man permission to study the files related to dissident organizations and individuals. He is not, however, to remove anything. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Sergeant Hennessey said. He was a tall, hairless man with a cleft palate.

Cowens turned to me. "And you are not to divulge the contents of these files to anyone else. If I find that you have, I'll throw you back into the army so fast you'll think you never took the uniform off. Understood?"

"Uh-huh."

Cowens stared at me. "You weren't a very good soldier, were you, Sands?" he said after a moment.

I considered. "I was a terrible soldier," I replied. He nodded, his insight confirmed, and then he walked stiffly out the door. Sergeant Hennessey locked it behind him, then turned to me. "It's all yours," he said, and he went back to reading his newspaper.

I wandered through the rows of file cabinets, looking for the 'T's. Finally I found a cabinet labeled "Tabard to Timothy" in pencil. I slid open the bottom drawer. It was crammed full of manila folders. I thumbed through them until I found the T's, and the folder for The Second American Revolution. As Cowens had said, it was empty. So now what?

Just for fun, I looked through the S's. Did the government snoops have a file on one Walter Sands? Why, yes they did. I took it out and opened it up, eager to see what they had on me.

There was nothing in it but the article my friend Gwen had written for the
Globe
about my adventure in England. I didn't know whether to feel annoyed or relieved. On the one hand, my pride was hurt. Hadn't I done lots of other things worth their attention? Did it take Gwen's article to make them notice me? On the other hand, surely it was a good thing not to be noticed. There was no telling when they'd decide to stick you back in the army.

As I looked at my folder, something struck me. My name had been written in pencil, and the black letters were already smudged and faded with handling, even though Gwen's article was only a few weeks old. The tab on which my name appeared was soft and wrinkled. I got out TSAR's folder again. No smudges; no fading; no wrinkles. A nice, fresh, new folder.

I closed the drawers and returned to Sergeant Hennessey, who looked up from his paper. "Through?" he asked.

"Well, no, I've got a couple of questions I'd like to ask you, actually."

"General Cowens didn't say anything about answering questions," the soldier pointed out.

I raised an eyebrow. "All right, let's get him back down here and straighten this out," I said in my too-busy-to-put-up-with-this-nonsense voice.

Hennessey shrugged. "Ask your questions. If I don't like them, you can go get him."

Your typical helpful Fed. "Do many people come down here to look at these files?"

Hennessey considered. "Enough," he replied helpfully.

"Do you keep a log of the people who look at the files?"

He shook his head.

"Is there a list of people who are allowed in here?" Another helpful shake of the head.

"Then how do you know who's authorized to look at the files?"

"I know," he said.

"Is anyone allowed to add a new folder to the files?"

"If you're allowed in here, you can add folders."

I pondered. "Well, thanks a lot," I said finally. Sergeant Hennessey went back to reading his paper. I thought about going upstairs to Bolton and getting him to make this guy cooperate, but I decided I didn't have things clear enough in my mind just yet. Instead I returned to the files.

I couldn't think of any other angles to check here on the case, so I looked up what the Feds had on my friends. Nothing much. Gwen had some of her articles clipped out; the
Globe
was more or less anti-government, so I wasn't surprised that the Feds would keep track of its reporters. And there were a couple of items about a guy I knew named Linc, who had hated the government and had been more than willing to say so.