The Fury and the Terror Page 11

  "The American people expect—"

  "The American people need to grow up. Let me shout that from the rooftops."

  Dunbar said gently, "You haven't been skipping your recommended dosage of Luvox, have you? It has been a trying day."

  "All of that shit gives me diarrhea, if you haven't noticed. Also I did a little research on SSRIs. Very bad for bipolars. Road rage? Those kids who shoot up their high schools? All of the Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors induce mania in bipolars. You wouldn't want me to go on another shoplifting spree, would you?" Dunbar winced at the thought. "Then allow me to pursue my more productive manias. Listen, Al Dunbar. You are the President. You need to get the goods, now, and pressure Rona and her crowd into revealing the sad truth that Clint Harvester is for real a drooling idiot, and get them both out of the White House posthaste. Did I tell you? I already have some neat decorating ideas."

  Dunbar peered at his wife with a harried smile, unable to believe she was serious.

  "Hand the ball to a flamethrower," Dorothea persisted. "Show the bitch nothing but heat until she backs out of the box." After a few moments Dorothea flopped over on her side, eyeing him suspiciously. "Or is that an option?"

  Dunbar didn't say anything.

  Dorothea sighed. "She knows, then. Figures."

  "Please, Pugsy."

  "I wish to God you had never told me."

  "I wanted ... needed your forgiveness."

  "How many times do I have to forgive you? Quit asking. It only increases the toll. We're all entitled to one big mistake, but did it have to be a fifteen-year-old crackhead whose father is the most famous film director in the world? And a big supporter of the Harvesters, one might add."

  "Oh, God, Pug. You know I worship you."

  "Good night, cocksucker. And keep your kisses to yourself. I need my shut-eye if I'm going to fly halfway around the world tomorrow."

  Robert Hyde, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, was a man of fifty-four who looked ten years older. He wore his gray hair in a no-nonsense brush cut. He had the unsmiling opaqueness of a lifelong despot drained of human nuance.

  Hyde didn't like anyone. He had no close personal friends, no wife, no mistress. There were two adult offspring from a very early marriage, before he had discovered how much he loathed human beings, and what a nuisance sexual relations were. Hyde seldom spoke to his daughter, who had dedicated her life and inheritance from her mother's estate to mounting expeditions that took her and platoons of scientists to places on the globe that almost no one else had ever heard of. His son loved him, for some reason. Always had. Hyde respected his intelligence and found him useful in their line of work.

  But he had never been close to anyone except Allen Dunbar, to whom he owed the resurrection of his career in law enforcement after being on the losing side of a vendetta with a former Attorney General of the United States. He didn't actually like the President pro tem, but it was a relationship that had to be nurtured. Hyde was in daily contention with everyone in DoJ or Congress who didn't share his vision that only a stronger FBI could safeguard America from the recent onslaught of terrorism that had been so destructive of public morale. A demoralized America was a fatally weakened America. Hyde hammered that theme home in daily calls to members of the House Appropriations Committee, but the obscene hydra known as MORG worked the same territory, with better success. All those mouths gobbling up funds Hyde needed to beef up his Bureau, which for years before he became Director had been looking frayed at the edges, slipshod, even obsolete in the eyes of influential senators and congresspersons who had no sense of history or, if they were older, had forgotten what the FBI had meant to the country during hot and cold wars, the tireless crusade to break up the Mob.

  When Hyde was twenty years younger and newly reassigned to D.C. after a successful tour as Special Agent in Charge of the Chicago office, MORG had been vulnerable. Childermass was dead; there was no clear line of succession: Multiphasic Operations and Research Group could have been smashed then and there. Unfortunately the man who was FBI Director at the time was not aggressive enough to seize the opportunity. Carsten Burrows, rid of a man he thought was a psychopath, found no further menace in MORG. Nonetheless he wasn't a fool. He put Robert Hyde in charge of a small unit of agents devoted to MORG-watching. After two decades Hyde's zeal to infiltrate and learn everything he could about MORG was still a ruling passion. He was the ranking expert in world espionage circles on MORG's structure, personnel, and modes of operation.

  The crucial blank in all of his research had been the very center of Multiphasic Operations and Research Group, the source of its renewed power.

  He had a face and a name: Victor Wilding. The most recent ten years of Wilding's life were thoroughly documented. Before that, nothing at all. The man had no history. Obviously Victor Wilding was not his birth name.

  Who Wilding really was, where he had come from—these questions had, until recently, given Hyde dyspepsia and insomnia. Now, having acquired a single fingerprint of the usually elusive Wilding and matched it with an other print in the Bureau's files, his sleeplessness was more often caused by a hot spot of fear beneath his breastbone. Where it glowed like the tip of a cigarette smoked by someone in deep shadow, observing him as avidly as he had watched the man who called himself Wilding.

  The FBI Director had cultivated sufficient interest in baseball to give him something to chat about with Allen Dunbar, until the civilities had been observed. Then they ceremoniously finished off small neat scotches in the oppressively decorated drawing room of the suite. The President pro tem leaned forward in an ugly Louis-the-something, heavily brocaded chair opposite Robert Hyde. Over both their heads a massive chandelier glittered distantly. Much of the drawing room was dark. Which made the two Secret Service men seated in one corner less conspicuous, although they never took their eyes off Dunbar.

  "What do we know?"

  Hyde never spoke to anyone in a voice much above a whisper. He liked having his listeners strain a little; expend effort to hang on to his words.

  "Mr. President, in their typical fashion MORG isn't letting the Bureau get anywhere near it. But we've learned enough to make some educated guesses about what went on in Honolulu today."

  "Good. What have we learned?"

  Hyde took his time. "Mr. President, I'm convinced that the attack on the First Lady's motorcade was part of a grand design, additional threads in the tapestry of terror that began with the nuclear incident in Portland this February."

  "Good Lord. The same warp and weft, you're saying."

  "I'm also convinced the plane that crashed in Innisfall, California, at noon Pacific time, is another part of the tapestry."

  "NTSB thinks that was just a regrettable accident, Bob."

  "Give me credit for knowing more than the Safety Board investigators."

  "Well, of course. Wasn't an accident, then, you're saying."

  "The DC-10 involved was leased to the non-sked airline TRANSPAC, an infamous MORG proprietary, going all the way back to the Vietnam War, when MORG became involved in the profitable drug trafficking they continue today. TRANSPAC 1850 departed Honolulu in the wee hours of the morning. It had been parked in a remote part of the airport. There was no passenger manifest. We've learned, however, that all aboard were MORG employees except perhaps for one person, unidentified, who was removed on a stretcher at approximately two forty-five A.M. from a MH60K helicopter, the kind frequently employed by MORG in clandestine activities. The unknown person was transferred to the DC-10. Subsequently there was one crash survivor, who is in intensive care following surgery. Her name is Portia Darkfeather. I'm sure she would have some answers for us, but MORG agents out of San Francisco have the entire hospital in a vise." He waited for Dunbar to get his point, then added forcefully, "MORG again."

  "Uh-huh. Yes. I see."

  "And the ultimate destination of TRANSPAC 1850 was to have been Plenty Coups, Montana."

  "Plenty Coups!" Dunbar said. He began runn
ing a hand across his scant hairline again, where his scalp itch was worst.

  "That's correct. Plenty Coups, the ultimate in secret MORG facilities. A sixteen-billion-dollar expenditure, to date. They keep pouring money into the complex, no questions asked by a gullible Senate and pliable House. What goes on at Plenty Coups? From the types of equipment that are being ordered and shipped, it's a scientific research facility. Of course I have someone on the inside, but not—all the way inside. The place is a clearance nightmare. We have yet to penetrate to the heart of the mystery that is Plenty Coups."

  "You're working on it."

  "Rest assured. We'll get there."

  "What's—what would you say the common thread is now, in this terrorist design, tapestry, as you put it?"

  "Psychic research and psi training, Mr. President. MORG was a pioneer among government entities looking into the military uses of clairvoyance, mental telepathy, and something called psychometrics, which is the ability to move solid objects through mental energy alone."

  "Uh-huh!" The two men stared at each other for a few moments. Dunbar said, "I'm not entirely sure I—"

  "Telepathic espionage is the new paradigm for the third millennium. The battle for the human mind is the only battlefield that will matter in this century. In short—"

  Dunbar edged a little closer to the Director, hands clutching his knees.

  "All of MORG's resources for the past few years," Hyde continued, "have been concentrated on a single goal: the development of a new super-race of psychics. Imagine the advantage, the power to be gained from knowing every waking thought of those among us who try to resist subjugation through mind control."

  "Horrifying. But—how much of this is reality, and how much is theory? Five thousand four hundred twenty-six long-distance nuclear warheads still operational in Russia and the North Koreans are pushing ahead with their TAEPO DONG 2s. Now that's a reality we can sink our teeth into."

  "Most of those Cold War hangovers can and will be cured through negotiation. I have the utmost respect for your leadership in that area."

  "Thank you. Of course, I'm still committed to the Aegis Two Option, more than ever now that I'm, umm, where I am." Dunbar smiled tensely and had another go at his now-inflamed scalp. "This psychometric stuff—that was a movie, wasn't it? Sissy Spacek's eyes got big and then kitchen drawers opened and she sent all the cutlery flying at her demented mother. What happened after that? The house burned down, I think."

  "Mr. President, quite frankly our house—as a metaphor of the government of the United States—is on fire and in danger of burning down if we do not act quickly and without compunction."

  "You have some evidence? Can solid objects be moved through the, the power of the mind?"

  "I've recently reviewed film and audio tapes from Carsten Burrows's personal archives, all of it more than twenty years old. They concern startling experiments MORG did with a young psychic named Robin Sandza. The experiments made a believer of me. No doubt that the boy had inhuman powers. Burrows later received information from a CIA Supergrade that Sandza had died in a fall while trying to escape from Psi Faculty, shortly after his fifteenth birthday. It happened the night that Childermass, whom we have to thank for Multiphasic Operations and Research Group, also died, in his bathtub."

  "Heart attack, wasn't it?"

  "No. His body was bled out. A gruesome death. But it wasn't suicide. I spent years investigating Psi Faculty, what went on there. As you know, we still maintain a MORG watch section at the Bureau, with sixty agents assigned. We have two bunker warehouses filled with intelligence. But the most significant breakthrough in our understanding of what is going on at MORG came only this week."

  "That's why you're here," Dunbar said with a tense grin as he furiously worked his fingers into his scalp.

  "That's why I'm here. Excuse me for just a moment while I prepare this."

  Hyde got up and opened a laptop computer on a round table a few feet from where he'd been sitting. He booted it up, then inserted a CD-ROM that he took from an attaché case equipped with the kind of security devices that meant instant death to any would-be intruders not in possession of the unlocking codes. He changed the angle of the laptop on the table so that Dunbar could easily see the screen. Click. A boyish image appeared, a young man in a snapshot, leaning against an iron fence atop a stone wall, looking back over one shoulder as if someone had just called to him. There was a river in the background and, distantly, tall red-banded smokestacks.

  "This is Robin Sandza. A Polaroid photograph found in the effects of Dr. Irving Roth, former director of Paragon Institute on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Paragon was an entry-level research facility for young people with psi ability. The photo was taken across the street in Carl Schurz Park. Dr. Roth apparently got on the bad side of Childermass, who was notoriously paranoid. Roth simply disappeared one day. No trace of him has ever been found."

  The image of Robin Sandza was enhanced, then replaced with an artist's likeness. Moments later another face appeared, beside the image of the red-haired boy.

  "And we know who this is," Hyde said, smiling slightly at the effect the juxtaposition had on Allen Dunbar.

  "Uncanny resemblance. But can you be sure?"

  "No doubt at all, sir." The two portraits, man and boy, were diminished in size on the active matrix screen. Below each face a fingerprint appeared.

  They were slowly enlarged until the loops and whorls were easily distinguished. An overlay of technical analysis completed the montage. "The print on the left is from the index finger of Robin Sandza. We took it from the taped handle of a baseball bat stored in the attic of the house in Lambeth, Virginia, where he spent his boyhood years. The print on the right is from the same index finger. It came from a table microphone shortly after the adjournment of a special Senate Select Committee on Intelligence hearing this past Tuesday. Victor Wilding almost never appears in public, as we know, but occasionally he has to show up where the money is. During the course of the hearing he was seen to adjust the microphone by one of our agents, who acted as soon as Wilding and his entourage left the chamber.

  "Matching fingerprints aren't all we have, however. We also have realized a significant DNA match, coming up now on screen. Hairs removed from a Daffy Duck stuffed animal that Robin Sandza slept with as a child. And, ah, residue from a urinal that Wilding used in the men's room during a recess in the recent hearing. The urinal failed to flush, and one of our men was on the spot with his handkerchief as soon as Wilding walked out."

  "FBI thoroughness," Dunbar said admiringly; then a look of concern settled on his bony face. "So 'Victor Wilding' is the adult version of the young man with ... was it 'inhuman powers,' you said?"

  "That was Carsten Burrows's evaluation, Mr. President. Having worked under Burrows, known him for the analytical and fair-minded man he was, I'm inclined to accept it. And a further judgment he made, based on a CIA eyewitness report the night of the demonstration."

  "Which was?"

  "He concluded in his journal that the powers of Robin Sandza had only negative implications for the well-being of our country. He quoted Boyd Huckle, who was present at the demonstration, as saying, 'I'm convinced that you had better kill the little shit-face before he causes some real grief.'"

  "I sure do miss Boyd. Right or wrong, you knew where he stood."

  "Huckle was entirely correct. Clairvoyants, telepaths, the psychically gifted. They represent a direct threat to us, to your presidency."

  "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. But do you—is there evidence that Rona Harvester might have—"

  "Psychic powers? No. She doesn't need them. Robin Sandza is her lover; therefore all of MORG is at her disposal. Mr. President, we can still deal with them. And all of those young psychics who are currently 'coming out;' destined to join forces with MORG. Like the college girl in California who made the call on the TRANSPAC 1850 crash minutes before it happened. MORG is looking for her as we speak, bet on that. But I've known about her existence fo
r some time. She will never be a problem for us."

  "I saw her on the tube today! She strongly reminded me of someone, but I couldn't recall—"

  Bob Hyde nodded slightly, but not as a confirmation. It wasn't news to him how strongly Eden Waring favored her mother. He smiled, which was rare. He reached into an inside pocket of his suit coat.

  "Almost forgot about this. A little gift for you, Mr. President. From myself and my son. Like you he's always been an avid collector of baseball cards."

  Dunbar took the plastic case and looked at his gift. His pensive expression was transformed by awe and then glee.

  "Omigod! Ted Williams's rookie card. Whoa! This is terrific, Bob. 'The Splendid Splinter.' I'm so grateful. Can't thank you enough. And your son, don't forget to convey my heartfelt thanks. How's the boy doing, by the way? Heard from him lately?"

  "Doing quite well in his present assignment. I am expecting a call from him. Mr. President, would it be presumptuous of me to suggest another ounce or two of that excellent whiskey?"

  "Not at all, Bob," Dunbar said. "I sure could use another blast. This little session of ours has been an eye-opener." He chuckled uneasily. "I'm tempted to say, a mindblower."

  Hyde smiled again. Twice in one night qualified as an event. But he was feeling good about the way things were going. He poured the scotch for them. Three ounces over ice for Allen Dunbar. Hyde knew his habits. He knew his man. They sipped in silence, each with his own thoughts, which might have been the same thoughts.

  CHAPTER 12

  MOBY BAY, CALIFORNIA • MAY 28 • 8:20 P.M. PDT

  Fogbound, sea-saddened, Eden walked the sand in shivering rue, silence in her mind. She wore borrowed clothes and stodgy sandals. Her bare toes were numb from inundation, the last frothy swish of each booming wave. Her hair felt stiff from salt spray. There was a nearly full moon, squash-colored, above the drifting fog, visible from time to time. And the sea had its own secret phosphorescence.