The Minotaur (9 page)

Jake nodded and sank onto an old sofa with the stuffing coming
through the cracks in the vinyl.

“You in the navy too?” the trooper asked.

Jake took out his wallet and extracted his green ID card. He
passed it across. The trooper looked it over, both sides, then
handed it back. “Why’d you come up here. Captain Grafton?”

“Were you ever in the service?”

“Marines, four years. Why?”

“Just curious.”

The door opened and Susie came in with coffee in Styrofoam
cups. Both men thanked her and she pulled the door shut on her
way out.

“Let’s try it again. Why’d you come up here, Captain Grafton?”

“To get a copy of this report.”

Keadle thought about that for a bit, then said, “Well, you got
one. What do you think of it?”

“It was a strange accident.”

“How so?”

“Car going up a steep, curvy road on a rainy evening goes skid-
ding off the pavement and across a fifty-foot-wide gravel turnout.
Right over the edge. Then there’s a furious fire in the passenger
compartment.”

“What’s strange about that?”

“He must have been flying low that night. Or else somebody
pushed him over the edge. And an interior fire—I thought that
stuff only happened in movies. Wrecked cars rarely explode or
catch fire.”

“You don’t say. If it wasn’t an accident, who wanted Captain
Strong dead?”

“I don’t know. I dropped in to see if you did.”

“I’m just a rural peace officer, not some big-city detective. This
county don’t have much real crime. Seems that most of the scum-
bags just do their thing over in Washington. I’m not—“

“Let’s cut the bullshit. Why aren’t you investigating an apparent
homicide?”

“Who says I’m not? I’m sitting here chinning with you, ain’t I?”

Jake sipped on his coffee. Finally he said, “Well, you got any
more questions?”

“Gimme your address and phone number.” Keadle picked up a
pad of paper and a pen from the desk. “If I think of any I’ll give
you a call.”

Jake told him the number. “Susie already gave you my address
from my driver’s license.” He stood and drained his coffee.
‘Thanks for the coffee. I hope you catch him.”

Keadle looked at him with pursed lips.

Jake opened the door and walked out. He nodded at Susie as he
went by.

The red flag was up on the Main Street parking meter but no
ticket yet. It was almost noon. Perhaps be should stop and see if
the prosecutor was in his office. But what good would that do?

There was no way he could make it back to the office before
everyone left for the day. Perhaps a hamburger. He fed the meter
another quarter and walked down Main Street toward a cafe that
he had noticed near the courthouse. Before he got there Trooper
Keadle went by in a state police cruiser.

When he finished his lunch Jake drove east on the road back to
Washington. Somewhere off one of these side roads, between here
and the accident site, Harold Strong had had a cabin. He wished he
had thought of finding the cabin and stopping by before he went to
town.

Who are you kidding, Jake? What would you look for? A long
golden hair on the bedspread? Perhaps a sterling silver cigarette
case bearing Mata Hart’s initials? You’re no murder investigator.
Keadle has undoubtedly been through that cabin with a fine-tooth
comb. If there were clues he has them.

Thoroughly disgruntled, Jake drove at forty miles an hour along
the two-lane highway toward Virginia. He didn’t want to see
Trooper Keadle in the rearview mirror with his red light flashing.
Not too likely, of course. The odds were that Keadle was sitting in
his cruiser right now in sight of Strong’s cabin, hoping against
hope that Jake would drop by and enter without using a key.

Keadle was no hick cop, even if he liked to play the role- He
undoubtedly knew a murder when he tripped over one, and then
the very next morning a man appeared—by the Lord Harry a vice
admiral in the U.S. Navy—who wanted the investigation of the
very recent death of a captain in that very same navy put on the
back burner. And Keadle and the prosecutor went along. Or did
they? And how did the FBI get involved?

But if it didn’t happen like that, why did Henry tell that fairy
story?

He glanced at the map he had jammed over the passenger’s sun
visor. The report said the accident happened four miles west of
Capon Bridge, that little village Jake had stopped in this morning
to get gas. The Shell station.

When he topped the mountain west of Capon Bridge he slowed
and looked for the scenic overlook. There. On a whim he parked
his car beside the trees so he could examine whatever marks re-
mained after two months. As he got out of his car and surveyed the
muddy gravel he knew it was hopeless. Two months of rain and
snow and traffic pulling off to look at the valley had totally obliter-
ated the marks that Keadle’s report said were here after Strong’s
wreck.

He walked over to the edge. Some of the guardrails were obvi-
ously newer than the others. He looked down the embankment.
Beer cans, trash, bare dirt, washed-out furrows. Well, it sure
looked like a car might have been dragged up that slope some time
back. The ground was soft and no plants had yet had a chance to
hide the scars. No sense going down there and getting muddy.

Harold Strong died here. Jake had lied to the office girl—he had
never met Strong. He stood now feeling foolishly morbid and half
listening to a car laboring up the grade from Capon Bridge. The
engine noise carried through the trees budding with spring green
and echoed off the mountainside.

Henry had been telling the truth about one thing anyway: Har-
old Strong had been murdered. Not even a race car could come up
that grade and around that curve fast enough to skid completely
across this pullout and go over the edge. Not without help.

Jake glanced up as the car climbing the mountain went by. It
was going about thirty miles per hour. The driver was watching the
road. And the driver was Smoke Judy.

The commanding officer of Attack Squadron 128 (VA-128) nodded
at Rita Moravia and Toad Tarkington, then picked up his phone-.
A yeoman appeared almost immediately to collect their orders for
processing and a lieutenant commander was right behind. He led
them into another office and gave each of them a manual on the
A-6E and introduced them to their personal mentors, two lieuten-
ants. “These two gentlemen are going to teach you to be credible
A-6 crewmen in one week, starting right now. We’ll get your lug-
gage over to the BOQ and these guys will drop you there when
they get finished tonight.”

Toad’s teacher was a prematurely bald extrovert from New En-
gland named Jenks, who began talking about the A-6E’s electronic
weapons system—radar, computers, inertial nav, forward-looking
infrared and laser ranger-designator—in the car on the three-block
trip to the building that housed the simulators. Toad listened si-
lently with growing dread.

Jenks continued his monologue as he led Toad across the park-
ing lot, lectured on at the security desk while Toad filled out a form
to obtain a temporary visitor’s pass, and didn’t pause for breath as
they climbed the stairs and went through a control room and
across a catwalk inside a huge room to the simulator, a cockpit
mounted on hydraulic rams. “So just make yourself comfortable
here in the hot seat,” Jenks said in summary, “and well move right
on into the hardware.”

Toad looked slowly around the cavernous room at the three
other simulators. Then he looked into the cockpit. Like every mili-
tary cockpit in the electronic age, it was filled with display screens,
computer controls and information readouts in addition to all the
usual gauges, dials, knobs, switches and warning tights. “I have a
question,”

“Shoot”

“How long is the normal syllabus to train a bombardier-naviga-
tor?”

“Eight months.”

“And you’re going to cram all that info into me in one weekT’

“You look like a bright guy. That captain in Washington said
you were motivated as hell.”

“Grafton?”

“I didn’t talk to him. The skipper did. Sit down and let’s get at
it” Jenks turned and shouted to the technician in the control
room; “Okay, Art, fire it up.”

People were streaming out of Jefferson Plaza at 4:30 when Jake
passed through the main entrance on the way in. He was still in
civilian clothes. He waited impatiently for the tardy elevator.

The secretary was still in the office along with several officers.
What was her name? “Hi. What’s happening?”

“Hello, Captain. Didn’t expect to see you today.”

“Yeah. Didnt think I’d make it back. Seen Commander Judy?”

“Oh, he was in for a little while this morning, then he said he
had a meeting. Said he’d probably be gone the rest of the day.”

Jake paused near the woman’s desk. “Did he say where the
meeting was?”

“No, sir.”

“Was he here when you arrived this morning?”

She tried to remember. “Yessir, I think so. Oh, by the way, the
computer wizard stopped by this afternoon to give you your brief
on the office system. He said he was going to be working late, so if
you’re going to be around a while. I’ll call him now and see if he
can come over and do the brief.”

“Sure. Call him.”

Jake greeted the other officers and walked across the room to his
office door. Two of his new subordinates stuck their heads in for a
few pleasantries, then shoved off.

A pile of documents lay flat in the in basket. Jake flipped through
the stuff listlessly. There was enough work here to keep him
chained to this desk for a week, or maybe a month since he didn’t
know anything about most of the matters the letters and memos
referred to. He would have to use the staff heavily.

The secretary appeared in his door. “The computer man will be
here in a little while. His name is Kiemberg- Good night. Captain.”

“Did you lock up everything?”

“No, sir. I thought you might want to took through some files.”

“Sure. Good night”

Jake waited for the door to click shut, then went out into the
room. He found Judy’s desk and sat down. He stirred through a
small pile of phone messages. Just names and numbers. A thin
appointment book with a black cover. He flipped through it slowly.

The days up until now were heavily annotated. Today’s page was
blank. He held the book at arm’s length over the desk and dropped
it. It fell with a splat.

Damn! He felt so frustrated-

Well, at least he knew most of Henry’s once-upon-a-time story
was true, though where that got him he had no idea. And he knew
that Judy made a trip to West Virginia today. Why? To see Trooper
Keadle or the prosecutor? To search Strong’s cabin? Well, Judy
was certainly going to be surprised to hear that Jake knew he was
there. Or was he? Maybe he would tell Jake himself in the morning.

Jake turned on the office copy machine and while it was warm-
ing up stood and read the entries in Judy’s calendar again care-
fully. Smoke seemed to have made a lot of notes about Karen.
Karen who? Karen 472-3656, that’s who. Why did he write her
phone number down so often? Aha, because she had different
phone numbers—at least four of them. And this guy Bob—lunch,
tennis on Saturday, reminders that he called, to call Bob. Call DE.
Call from RM. Drop car at garage. Commode broke. Smoke Judy
seemed to jot down everything out of the ordinary. He was a detail
man in a detail business.

When he had his copies. Jake put the appointment book back on
Judy’s desk and went back to his little office. In a few moments he
heard a knock on the door, so he heaved himself up and walked
across the room to admit the visitor-

The man in civilian clothes who came in was slighty below me-
dium height, built like a fireplug and just as bald. “Hi. Name’s
Kleinberg. From NSA. Computers.” His voice boomed. Here was
a man who could never whisper. In his left hand he carried a
leather valise.

“I’m Grafton.”

“Beg pardon,” the man said as he reached out and tilted the
bottom of Jake’s security tag. He stared at it a few seconds, then
glanced again at Jake’s face. “Yep, you’re Grafton, all right. Can’t
be too careful, y’know.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Let’s look at the patient.”

Jake led the way to his desk. “I don’t know much about com-
puters.”

“No sweat. I know enough for both of us. When we’re through,
you’re going to be able to make this thing sing and dance.” Klein-
berg turned on the computer. “See this prompt here? That’s the
sign-on prompt and you have to type in your secret password. This
is a code that identifies you to the machine, which allows you
access to certain files and only certain files- Security, y’know.
Here’s your password.” He used a pencil on a sheet of paper and
wrote, “Reverberation.”

“How come I can’t pick my own word?”

“We tried that on the second go-around. Everyone wanted to
come up with something cute, except for the aviators, who all
wanted to use their nicknames. You’d have thought they were or-
dering vanity license plates. So … Now type in your password.”

Jake did so. The computer prompt moved from left to right, but
the letters failed to appear.

“Now hit ‘enter.’ Uh-oh, the computer won’t take it- So type it
again and spell it right.” This time the computer blinked to the
next screen. “You only get two tries,” Kleinberg advised. “If you
are wrong both times, the computer will lock you out and you’ll
have to see me about getting back in.”

“How can it lock me out if I haven’t told it exactly who I am?”

“It locks out everyone who has access from the bank of monitors
in this office.” Kleinberg wrote another password on the paper:

“Fallacy.”

‘This is the password that allows you access to files relating to
the ATA, which is what I understand you are working on here in
this shop. Type it in and hit ‘enter.’ ” Jake obeyed. “Now, to call
up the directory of the files you have access to due to your security
clearance and job title, you have to type one more password.” He
wrote it down. “Matriarch.”