Eileen Reed - Ground Zero Part 14

"h.e.l.lo?"

"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 embarra.s.sment.

"Well, er, 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.

14.

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 b.u.t.ton, 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 b.u.t.tons? 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, and 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 any way 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 ma.s.sive 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 overnight 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 her? 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, okay?"

"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 arrow 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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.

a.s.sociated 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. Travers' 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.

Lucy had her fingers at her temples and realized vaguely that the tips of her fingers were wet with sweat. George Tabor was dead. Travers was his alternate set of identification. He'd been murdered so quickly, it was chilling. Lucy knew he'd carried something out of the country and it had to be something from the Missile Defense program. How sensitive was it? Why had George been murdered? He was a valuable agent, a spy with a lot of successes under his belt. Most large organizations would be happy to welcome George into their ring. He would be an a.s.set.

Unless the organization George dealt with didn't like him. Or didn't like what George was. Lucy ma.s.saged her temples. Perhaps there was something in the CIA files on George's contacts. She had to get access through Mills to see those files, though. Lucy sighed heavily. She dug a package of crackers out of her desk and forced herself to eat five of them before she went to see Mills.

Gaming Center, Schriever Air Force Base.

The room was crowded and noisy. Eileen could not see Terry Guzman. Joe Tanner stood in his rumpled navy suit, talking to a colonel; Eaton, wasn't she? Arthur Bailey was already in the little room that he shared with Joe, the Truth Team room. Eileen noticed a poster of national flags hung on one wall, and smiled, thinking of Joe playing a War Game where England was the enemy. Art was sitting in front of his console, looking intently at the screen. Nelson Atkins stood with Colonel Olsen and Major Blaine. The premurder Blaine was relaxed and confident. He slowly ate a chocolate donut and licked his fingers clean afterward. Nelson looked nervous. He picked at the hairs on his arm and kept looking around with darting, birdlike movements. Lowell Guzman was in his tiny room. His headphones were on and he was flicking switches on his communications set, a square wooden box lined with brightly lit b.u.t.tons. He kept tapping at his mike, as though it weren't working. Eileen looked into the next room. It was empty.

Terry Guzman walked into the Center. From Sharon's story, Eileen expected her to be there already. Perhaps she'd been to the bathroom. Her lipstick was fresh and peach-colored. Her suit was pale green. She was stunning. Eileen fumbled for a moment before she managed the Pause b.u.t.ton on the tape. Terry stood, vibrantly alive, frozen on the screen. The lines of discontent were there, but the way she held herself made such tiny details irrelevant. Eileen pressed the Play b.u.t.ton. Terry walked to Major Torrence, the Ground Weapons commander, and started speaking. Her voice was lost in a dozen different conversations. Eileen would capture her conversation later, as Tanner showed her. Right now she wanted to absorb the whole scene. The murder scene. These were the last minutes of Terry Guzman's life.

Terry smiled and spoke to Major Torrence. She touched her brown hair, s.h.i.+fted from one round hip to the other, threw her head back, and laughed. She was holding a notebook in one hand. She held herself like a young girl, light on her feet, her chin proudly level on the slender neck that was only just beginning to show the signs of age. The lights dimmed, and Terry made a smiling farewell to the Major. She strode toward the room in measured, even strides, swinging her pretty f.a.n.n.y just a little. As she entered, she did not look back. She examined her console, picked up her headset, and sat down in the chair. Eileen could see every inch of the tiny cube. The door swung outward, not in. No one could be hiding behind the door. The console table was a spindly affair, a platform on a single stalk of a leg. No one could be hiding behind the console table. Besides, even if they were, how would they then get out? Terry checked her microphone." A person walked in front of the cube, blocking Eileen's view for a moment. Terry was now taking off her headset. She came to the door. Nelson Atkins walked to her and spoke to her for a moment. She nodded, and Nelson swung the door shut.

Eileen leaned back and breathed. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until now. She rubbed a cold hand on her forehead. Terry would not come out of that room alive.

She found the mouse key and pressed Rewind. The rest of the audience had been a blur. It was time to see what everyone else was doing. Eileen opened her notebook and read down the list of names. Besides the Gamers, there were twelve audience members and the Command Team, Major Torrence, Colonel Olsen, and Colonel Eaton. Major Blaine told her the audience was in full sight of the cameras for the full hour and a half of the Game. She would check on that. Right now, Eileen added a name to the list. Terry Guzman. She put a check mark next to the name. She had watched her on the tape. After a moment, she made two columns on the paper. The first column she t.i.tled "Watched on Tape." The second column she t.i.tled "Listened on Tape."

The machine made a whirring noise and stopped. Eileen pressed Play.

Paris, France.

Muallah stood on his apartment balcony, breathing the muggy air of Paris as though it were the finest morning breeze from the desert. He looked at the teeming city around him as though he already stood on the balcony of a palace, looking at his subjects. They would be his subjects.

"Prophecy is the Lamp of the world's light; But ecstasy in the same Niche has room.

The Spirit's is the breath which sighs through me; And mine the thought which blows the Trumpet of Doom."

Muallah savored the words, repeating them slowly. Al-Hallaj had said those words in Baghdad in 922, before he was executed. Some said it was a prophecy fulfilled when the Ottoman Empire collapsed. Muallah knew differently. The prophecy was yet to be fulfilled. The prophecy was speaking about him.

"Mahdi," Ali said quietly behind him.

Muallah waited a moment and then turned to see Ali waiting patiently. Ali would wait until darkness fell, until Ali shriveled and died from lack of water, until Muallah was ready for Ali to speak. All Muallah's people felt this way about him. This was one of the reasons Muallah knew he was touched by Allah. This was one of the reasons Muallah knew he was the One of the Prophecies.

"Yes, my Ali?" Muallah said gently.

"Achmed has a transport, Mahdi. A four-wheel-drive Mercedes, but old and battered as you requested. They await us in Mashhad. I have purchased our plane tickets. Will you see them?"

"I trust they are good," Muallah said with a wave. Ali's face flushed with pleasure. "Have Sufi pack our things. We shall not return here."

Muallah turned away and contemplated the city again. The Trumpet of Doom was a prophecy not for the fall of the Ottoman Empire, but for the fall of the Western Empire. It was time for the rebirth of the Arab Empire. Muallah had worked and waited many patient years, waiting for the right information to fall into his hands. At last the foolish American-Russian had given him what he had to have. The dead spy had delivered to him the location of the Trumpet.

Fouad Muallah would blow the Trumpet of Doom, as the prophecy had said. Out of the ashes of the Western Empire the Arab Empire would be reborn. Muallah would be the One of the Prophecy, the Emperor. He drew a deep, satisfied breath and recited the poem again, savoring the words as they flowed off his tongue in gorgeous Arabic.

15.

Gaming Center, Schriever Air Force Base.

The tape was in the pre-Game stage. Eileen was watching Lowell Guzman, who casually took a sprinkle donut and ate it. Weren't the sprinkle donuts reserved for the memory of Sully? Eileen knew they were. An eccentric memorial like that was unforgettable. Yet there was Lowell, eating the Holy Donuts. Odd.

The door to the Center opened. The real door, not the one on the tape. Someone was coming into the Center. Eileen fumbled for a moment before pressing Pause on the recording. She turned.

The person who stepped through the door was the tall, gray-haired Game Director. Eileen thought for a moment and then came up with the name.

"Nelson Atkins?"

"Yes, you remembered," Atkins said. He was more composed than he had been the day before, although the skin around his eyes was pouched and webbed with stress. He was wearing slacks and s.h.i.+rt and a Western-style string tie. The tie clip was silver and turquoise and looked Navajo. It was a handsome piece of jewelry.

"That's my job," Eileen said. She stood up to shake Atkins's hand.

"I don't want to bother you, I just wanted to make sure you have everything you need," Atkins said. His grasp was firm and dry.

"Art helped me set up the videotapes," Eileen said, and gestured to the control panel behind her. Atkins nodded.

"Good. I figured he would. I brought the personnel files you wanted." Atkins held out a bulky accordion folder. "These aren't cla.s.sified, but they are very personal, so if you'd be careful with them-"

"I will, thank you," Eileen said.

"Can I do anything else?" Atkins asked. "I know we're all suspects, even me. I want to help if I can." He held out his hands in an open gesture. Eileen noticed they were big hands, and they looked familiar. Eileen recognized after a moment the calluses that could only come from horseback riding. Atkins's hands looked like her father's hands.