Ground Zero Page 13

  “The hour is late,” George admitted.

  “You have something for me, my friend? Some last delight that you managed to spirit away from under the noses of the infidels?”

  “Yes, I have,” George said, smiling foolishly. What was wrong with him? “This one is very good. Something you’ve wanted for a long time.”

  “You have the locations,” Muallah said, leaning forward intently.

  “I have the locations,” George said. His warmth started to seep away, leaving him feeling chilled and confused. “The locations of every missile silo in the Republics of the former Soviet Union. But why would you want them?”

  “Does it really matter?” Muallah asked charmingly. “I will pay you handsomely as always, Mr. Tabor. I always keep my promises. Fifty thousand American dollars, in cash. Tonight, if you can deliver the documents.”

  “I can deliver them,” George said slowly. He was so tired. There was something tugging at his mind, but he couldn’t seem to clear his head enough to figure out what the tugging meant. He felt the way he did the one time he tried marijuana. For a moment he studied the remains of the seed cakes with a frown, then the thought seemed to float away like a balloon. “I -- I’m not used to doing this face to face.”

  “Ah, but I am,” Muallah said. “Do not be uneasy, my friend. It is just the same as your drops and safety deposit boxes. Except here we do our deals in warmth and friendship, with food and drink.”

  “Of course,” George said, feeling ashamed. “I don’t mean to be paranoid.” Muallah raised an eyebrow at him. “Er, mistrustful. Do you have the money for me?”

  Muallah snapped his fingers without looking around. The veiled girl rose to her feet and padded quickly to the door. Ali came in and at Muallah’s nod, went into another room and returned with a cheap plastic briefcase. He set the case by George’s feet.

  George flicked open the case and glanced at the contents. He’d seen so many piles of money delivered like this he could make a quick estimate of amounts in a flashing glance. The money was all there, or close enough not to matter.

  “Excellent,” George smiled. He felt better, looking at the cash. “We can take care of our transaction right now.” He unbuckled his belt and pulled it free. The concealed zipper in the back held the developed film; locations, maps, satellite photos, the whole package. Terry Guzman had really delivered. She had no way of knowing it would be her last delivery, but she’d still made it a good one.

  “Very nice,” Muallah murmured, looking at the film through the light. George replaced his belt and smoothed his shirt. He smiled at George. “Thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me.”

  “My pleasure,” George said. “If it would not be rude? I am so tired from my flight --”

  “Of course, of course,” Muallah said, carefully placing the film on the mosaic table. He rose to his feet and clasped George’s arm in his own as he escorted him to the door. “You must be very tired, Mr. Tabor. Again, I must thank you. Sleep well.”

  Muallah took one step back as something impossibly tight snapped around George’s throat. It had to be Ali, a garrote, George thought numbly. I should have known, I should have known... the tightness increased around his throat and George saw a small porcelain lamp go flying into the air as he tried desperately to ease the constriction. Black blossoms started to flower in the air, exploding silently. A spindly little table skidded in front of him and toppled over, one tiny leg broken in two. The flowers grew bigger.

  Then George could breathe again, and the relief was incredible. He shook his head and looked around. He was having that old nightmare again, he realized. His restaurant hummed around him. Waiters in spotless white and black hurried by with full platters. The candles shone on the beautiful tables. Georgian ladies, released from their long Soviet peasantry, showed their creamy white shoulders and delicious bosoms in modern gowns. Sturdy Russian men smiled and tilted their wineglasses, good color blooming in their clear cheeks. There was vodka, and the smell of good Russian beef, but suddenly overwhelming was the smell of strong coffee. Arab coffee.

  George looked down in horror, and saw a slender side table with a shattered leg. He tried to draw a breath and could not. Then he relaxed. He was back in the restaurant with the waiters and the beautiful ladies. He was home, at last.

  “He fought like a warrior, Mahdi,” Ali said thoughtfully.

  “He was rubbish,” Muallah said with a shrug. “He served his purpose. Dispose of the body.”

  Muallah turned without looking back and walked to the mosaic table. The films were there, the lovely priceless films. He picked them up and held them to the light, ignoring the sounds behind him.

  Schriever Air Force Base, Colorado

  The Gaming Center was locked and taped. Blaine had taken care of that chore the night before. The tapes of the Game were left in the video machines. If anyone tried to tamper with the door, the seal would have broken. A tired looking Air Force soldier stood at the door.

  The door to the Center had a spin lock exactly like a safe. Blaine knew the number but fumbled with the lock before the tumblers finally fell and the door opened and broke the seal. Blaine wrote his initials and the date on a piece of paper that was stuck in a pocket next to the door. On the paper was a long list of initials and dates.

  “Every time the Center is opened or closed, it goes on this record.” Blaine showed the record to Eileen. Eileen took it and glanced down the list. Most of the initials were AB. Arthur Bailey. She put the sheet with her notes.

  “I'll keep this for a while,” she said to Blaine. “There might be something here.”

  “You're dismissed, Airman,” Blaine said to the young guard. The guard saluted and sighed and headed down the hallway.

  They opened the door and walked up the sloping hallway to the Gaming Center. Only a few lights were on. The screen saver pattern whispered on all the computer screens. Blaine left Eileen at the door and went to turn on the lights.

  Eileen looked at the room, feeling like she was being watched. Probably those damn screen saver patterns again, with their spider web images. Or maybe she just knew the Center had a secret.

  After five minutes in the television studio, Eileen stopped Blaine.

  “Look,” she said. “You don't even know how to turn on the power to these boards, much less how to play the tapes back. Just stop messing with it and call one of those Gamers over here.”

  Blaine looked up from his seat in front of the console. He looked stubborn for a moment, and then relented.

  “Okay, I guess I don't know how. I swear I've watched it a hundred times, when they have demonstrations in here.”

  Eileen watched as Blaine picked up the phone, feeling satisfied. Now why was she wondering if Blaine would call over Joe Tanner? She smiled and dug in her pocket for one of the spare toothpicks she'd swiped from the Omelet Parlor.

  “Art? This is Major Blaine.” Eileen grinned to herself and peeled the wrapping from the toothpick. Now this was interesting. What was it about Joe Tanner? Not just that he got her a cup of coffee. Perhaps because the gift was so thoughtful. And his innocence seemed so strong. It couldn’t be his looks. If it were just looks, Eileen would be thinking about the gorgeous ‘Berto. Joe Tanner intrigued her somehow. He had to be the murderer. He had the best motive; Terry had basically killed his girlfriend.

  “What are you smiling at?” Blaine asked. “You look like you're holding a conversation with somebody.”

  “With myself,” Eileen said. “Being a civilian, I can do that. I even talk to myself occasionally.” She showed her teeth at the Major and inserted the toothpick in the corner of her mouth.

  “Art Bailey is coming over,” Blaine said after a moment of frowning at her, which she steadfastly ignored.

  “Okay.”

  There was silence as Eileen looked over the darkened room. She stared at Terry's door. She looked at the cameras. She studied the way the lights were set into the ceilings, the way the doors were hinge
d. She ignored Major Blaine. She thought, and tried to ignore the little voice that kept asking her how she was going to solve the murder when she didn’t even know how it had been done.

  Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia

  Lucy Giometti was unloading a grocery bag full of food into her desk drawer when Mills walked into her office.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “What's the latest?”

  Lucy sighed. He couldn't even say good morning. She kept on unpacking food. She'd thrown up twice that morning already and she didn't feel very well. The double beef burrito on the way home last night was pure ambrosia, though. She'd slept soundly all night.

  “Well, I don't think the Guzman murder was planned by Tabor or his buddies, and that's my opinion only,” she added. She sat down at her desk and started keying into her computer systems. “I'll get you a whole report as soon as I'm finished.”

  “I appreciate it,” Mills said, and without another word he turned and left her office. Lucy sighed and watched her computer software assemble itself on her screen. She pulled open the desk drawer and contemplated the bright packages within. She'd make it through this day, too, she thought. When would that baby stop making her sick?

  When her computer systems were ready Lucy pulled up the file she'd started on George Tabor. She picked up the phone and dialed the Animal Shelter in Denver.

  “Humane Society, this is Debbie,” said a cheerful woman's voice.

  “Hi, I'm wondering if you could do me a favor,” Lucy said. “I'm looking for a dog, a springer spaniel?”

  “We have one here,” Debbie said. “But she wasn't lost, she was left for adoption.”

  “Did the person who left her tell you her name?”

  “Well, I think so.” She sounded eager. “We write them up by the kennel doors. Hang on just a second.”

  Lucy held the phone to her ear and typed busily, opening connections to the different computer databases that might give her the information she needed. Faintly, she could hear the sound of dogs wailing. She wondered if one of the howls could be Fancy's.

  “Hello?”

  “I'm here,” Lucy said promptly.

  “Her name is Fancy,” Debbie said, and Lucy felt the rush in her blood. She was right!

  “Thanks so much,” Lucy said warmly.

  “Would you like to adopt her?” Debbie said eagerly. “She's so beautiful, and adult dogs just aren't adopted very much. She's only got three days.”

  Lucy felt the flush of victory turn to embarrassment.

  “Well, err, no, I mean -- No.”

  “Oh,” Debbie said. “Then why did you call?”

  “I was looking for the person who left her,” Lucy said, and winced at the lameness of her explanation. She waited for the questions, but there were none.

  “Okay,” Debbie said, disappointed.

  Lucy hung up the phone after saying her good-bye. She sat for a moment, then turned to her computer screen.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gaming Center, Schriever Air Force Base

  The Center door opened, and Art Bailey stepped through. He looked better today. His skin was more ruddy and his shoulders were squared.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Jeff wanted me to come over and set up the films for you. And I've forgotten your name.”

  “Eileen Reed. Do you call everybody by their first names?”

  “The SecDef was here once. The Secretary of Defense. I didn't call him by his first name.”

  Eileen looked closely at Art, but the bland face was unreadable.

  “I think I'll be okay here, er -- Jeff,” Eileen said, smiling. “I have your number, so I can call if I have questions?”

  “That'll be fine,” Blaine said. Eileen expected him to be a little upset, but he looked relieved. “I have a lot of phone calls to make. Feathers are flying from here to D.C. over this.”

  Art sat down at the studio console and gestured for Eileen to take a seat next to him.

  “Joe said he showed you the pick-and-draw capabilities yesterday,” Art said. He showed Eileen the tape machines. “Here's the eject button, just like your VCR. Play, rewind, fast forward; you can do it all from the machines. But you can do it better on the computer console, here.” Art flicked a switch. “Joe showed you these buttons? Yes? Here's the key to display time and seconds. We hardly ever use that but I imagine you might need it. There are four tapes usually made, we didn't make it to number four yesterday.” Art grimaced and stopped for a moment. He looked around him as though lost. Eileen knew the feeling. The fact of a death keeps sneaking up on you at the oddest times, and all you can do is try to turn your head with the blow and keep on going. Eileen watched Art shake his head a little, and keep on going.

  “Uh, okay, so you have three tapes.”

  “When did the tapes start?”

  “Exactly twenty minutes before Game start. That way we record people as they enter the Gaming Center, as they take their places, and that way we also record the Gamers, that's us, take our places in the rooms. We started taping before Game start when an Air Force Colonel accused us of cheating. He thought we 'canned' the simulation. As though we always had to launch weapons at a particular time to make everything work out right? Like a video game instead of a real simulation. We had him play the game anyway he wanted to. You launch at six p.m., your Bombers take longer to scramble because more people are eating supper. We really simulate all of that. It was fun to make him accept that this wasn't some big canned demonstration. He thought he was being smart when he played Colonel Olsen's position. He launched a preemptive strike at the Soviet Union, and they responded with subs --”

  “The Soviet Union?”

  “Oh, this was a while ago. Before we got the Brilliant Pebbles up in orbit and really started wringing this Star Wars stuff out. Anyway, the Soviets, that was me at the time, launched back with subs and a massive follow on, and we toasted the Earth. Complete lava.” Art laughed cheerfully. “He knew he was beat. We couldn't have read his mind and known what he would do. It had to be a real simulation. Now he's in D.C. and he's our biggest salesman out there.”

  Art sobered abruptly. “Well. Anyway. You'll see everyone enter their rooms. Terry, too.”

  “You've had over night to think it over,” Eileen said. “How do you think it happened?”

  “Aren't I a potential suspect?” Art asked, with a sidelong glance at Eileen. “Should I conjecture? I was worried last night because if I figured it out, you might think I did it.”

  “If you figure it out, I might think you did it,” Eileen said levelly. “I think everyone did it until proven otherwise. I'm not the judge or the jury. All I do is collect evidence and try to make a good arrest. I'll make a good arrest.”

  Art nodded. “That's good enough for me,” he said. “I just don't want to be arrested. I don't want to lose my clearance. I know I'd be proven innocent, because I didn't do it, but I don't want to lose this job. I really love it.”

  “I'll arrest the murderer, Art, if I can. Not anyone else. Now, how did she die?”

  “I don't know,” Art said heavily. “I can't figure it out either.”

  Eileen sighed. Was Art trying to annoy him? Probably not. Art might figure out the way it happened, so he was clearing the avenues of communication to her. He didn't know that Eileen had been holding her breath, willing to promise anything as long as somebody could tell her how the murder had been done.

  “Well if you do, let me know, OK?”

  “Sure, Eileen. I'll be thinking about it all day. That's all I've been thinking about all night,” Art continued grimly. “I'll be at my desk. Oh, hey, you want music? I can show you how to work the CD player.”

  “No, thanks, I can't concentrate with music on. But thanks.”

  When the door closed behind Art, Eileen breathed a big sigh of relief. She turned to the console. After a moment or two of study, she thought she might be able to make it work. She picked up the mouse, swirled the little a
rrow on the screen around a couple of times, and picked '1' under TAPE. Then she picked 'Play', and sat back in the big chair to watch.

  Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia

  Lucy saw the tiny flashing lights when she returned from a trip to the bathroom. She’d brushed her teeth and bathed her face, but she still felt horribly weak. Tiny beads of perspiration stood in her hairline. The lights caught her eye and in an instant her wretched stomach was forgotten. The flashing lights were atop a tiny cartoon police car, parked at the bottom of her screen.

  She knew what that meant. She’d set a search program, called a search engine, to scan all news reports from Paris for any reference to George Tabor, or any dead bodies found, or any muggings. It was a very wide scan. Lucy had even included a search for any missing dogs or dog-related stories. The cartoon police car had driven across her screen and skidded to a stop, leaving cartoon skid marks on her screen, to alert her that a story containing one of her search elements had been found. She felt a moment of regret she’d missed the little car; she thought it was really pretty hilarious when it skidded across the screen.

  Lucy dropped into her chair and clicked on her Paris icon.

  Associated Press

  Police Confirm Death Of American Businessman

  Paris (AP) - Police confirmed the death of an American businessman, George Travers, found at the bottom of a rubbish dumpster in a Paris alley. A transient searching for aluminum cans found the body at approximately 10:30 local time. Traver’s body had been robbed and he was apparently the victim of strangulation. He was identified through the hotel staff where he was staying. His room was undisturbed.