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Page 42.

Chapter 24

That afternoon, while he worked in the I.G. office, David’s collar com sounded, and he pressed it. “Yes?”

“Captain Gordon.” He didn’t recognize the woman’s voice. “You know me.” He shook his head, exchanging puzzled looks with Jankowsky. “You were just at my house in the country.”

Tabitha Summers! “Yes, I remember,” David said sharply, giving Jankowsky a thumbs up, and switching to the privacy of an earphone. “Speak to me, Miss Summers.”

“I heard about Ib.”

“Yes, Lieutenant Breen and I went to visit his wife earlier. Hala is—”

“I’m there now.”

“I see.”

“Hala and I spoke. She’s getting out of town with the kids. But I want to see you. I have something.”

“Stay put. Don’t say any more.”

“Yes. Line’s probably tapped. I ought to know, with my years in the business.”

David rose. “Sir, it’s Summers. I think she has the list, or something.”

Jankowsky whistled. “Good work.”

“Where do I take her? She needs to get safe quick, seeing what happened to Ib.”

“Bring her around back. It’s the only thing I can think of just now.”

David drove as fast as he legally could, arriving at the Shoob house in less than 30 minutes. Tabitha Summers stepped off the curb to meet him. He saw her—grim, wearing an off-mauve raincoat, tattered white sneakers, a scarf, and God knew how many sweaters to cover her thin frame. “Get us out of here,” she said slamming the door. She buckled up. David saw no obvious sign of surveillance, but what did that mean? Nothing. “What have you got?”

“The list you’re after. Ib snatched it from the carousel. He was afraid the wrong people would get it. Like a fool, I let him talk me into keeping a copy. I kept it stored off-line.”

“Did you bring a hard copy with you?”

“Are you serious? I e-mailed the file to your boss inside an Easter egg.” She meant a hidden computer file that, if its secret key was triggered, opened to play out some visual surprise, usually something goofy and fun; in this case, not.

“Are you going back home or do you feel you need protection?”

“I’d rather go home than anything, but I’m afraid to. Besides, I have work to do.”

“You’re retired.”

“No more.”

David ushered her into the I.G.’s office. After a five minute conversation, Jankowsky forwarded her Easter egg program to Tony Tomasik and led them around the back to the Task Force. After they stepped through the security measures, Tomasik welcomed her. “Miss Summers, thanks for coming.”

“I can’t shake this nagging feeling that Uncle Sam needs me. Again.”

“What do you propose to do for us?” Tomasik asked.

At that moment, Jankowsky showed the printout to David. On it were several prominent names, including General Robert Montclair at the Atlantic and the motor mouth of off-the-chart right-wing causes, retired General Felix Mason. Tomasik exclaimed as he read the list. “Two dozen names,” he counted. “Prominent generals, admirals, senators, businessmen, wow.” David noticed tears in Tomasik’s eyes.

“The President needs to get this,” Jankowsky said. He waved it angrily at Tabitha. “Why have you held on to this?”

“Nobody would have believed me if I’d said anything,” she said calmly. “Look what happened to Ib.”

Jankowsky nodded grimly. “I’ll walk this up through channels right to Norcross.”

Tabitha rubbed her hands. “You need more than just the list. Ib had some really hot documents stashed somewhere. You guys got a computer here?”

“Do we ever!” Tomasik said.

“Let’s find those documents!” Tabitha enthused.

After dinner, they shared a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, and fell asleep on the living room floor. Toward midnight, they woke up and made love. They went to the bedroom around 2 a.m. and lay quietly together, listening to each other’s breathing.

David pondered that it was scary to fall in love with a woman who’d had such a tragedy. But did it really have to be a tragedy? He could understand how some guys would not know how to relate to her, maybe seeing her as an empty vessel or something, some stupid carnivore mating standard. Her tragedy made her all the more unique to David. Yes, he must wait and be sure he would not regret having children. Then again, might they not fall out of love in two or three months? Might she move on or he move on? He stroked her cheek lovingly, grateful that she was not Kristy. Maybe the fact that she was so different, and yet so wonderful, would make her extra special for him. He’d wait and see. He could feel her puzzlement in her sleep as he touched her. She responded surprisingly by planting a tiny, loving kiss on the palm of the hand that was stroking her cheek. How funny this was, to be able to communicate in a language of kisses! He really did not want to lose her.

“Morning, David. You look rested.” Jankowsky had shadows around his eyes and a light beard stubble on his cheeks.

“I am, Sir. Have you been here long?”

“I stayed all night.”

“Oh, no, I should have—”

“No, no, it’s fine. You should get your sleep if you can. I don’t sleep so well lately. Miss Summers has been on the machine all night. I’m giving moral support.”

Jankowsky put a finger to his lips, reminding David that the task force’s existence was unknown to most of the staff; and those who knew didn’t realize its true nature; most thought it was just a library unit. “C’mon, let’s walk over.”

A light rain dripped in the alley as David and Jankowsky hurried to the task force office. Through the usual security checks, up the stairs they went, emerging in the odd atmosphere of chapel, library, and high-tech. The atmosphere was sepulchral. It looked like a place in which daylight had not shone for 100 years. Cipher clerks and other mystery persons walked about silently. Near a computer terminal in one of the larger rooms, which echoed when people spoke, were Summers and Tomasik. The blinds were drawn, and one of the fluorescent lights flickered steadily and jarringly. Tomasik was in fatigues, wearing an O.G. T-shirt. He sat on the edge of a desk, wagging his short legs back and forth, black jump boots looking shiny and massive. Nearby sat Tabitha Summers, swathed in sweaters and gaunt with concentration. At the sound of voices, she removed her headset and rubbed bleary eyes. “Hello, Colonel. Did you bring me some coffee and donuts?”

Jankowsky looked perturbed. “I’m sorry, Miss Summers. I was on the other side, waiting for the receptionist to arrive. I would have gone, but I had to watch the store.”

“Oh, never mind,” Tabitha said, “I need sleep more than I need donuts.”

“We have cots up here. We can put you in an empty room,” Tony said.

“We can send out for clothing, toiletries. Anything you need,” Jankowsky added.

“Thanks,” Tabitha said. She yawned. “A cot sounds good right about now, but I don’t have time.”

“You heard about Consiglio?” Tony asked David.

David nodded. “I guess that eliminates one mystery candidate from the blank spot on top of the list.”

“That leaves plenty of candidates,” Jankowsky said. “What do you think?” He turned to Tomasik with an unspoken part of his question.

Tomasik shook his head. “That was no weekend patriot action, any more than Cardoza getting it. Our cabal in action. Ax dollars at work.”

The list, David thought. A cabal. In the good old U.S.A.?

Tabitha laid her goggles aside and tousled her hair with her fingers. “I’m going to stretch my legs a bit. That diner you mentioned sounds good. I’ll just go get a cup of coffee.”

“Did you learn anything?” David asked Summers as she rose, reaching for her raincoat.

Jankowsky spoke for her. “Did she! Huh! She broke through CloudMaster’s defenses. Made the machines at NSSO and the Atlantic think she was the third machine that sits at the White House. Brilliant, huh? She’s had full access to their net for hours.”

David said: “What do you think, Miss Summers? Who’s using CloudMaster? Can they get on to you?”

Tabitha regarded him with a smile that wasn’t a smile. “I’ve just had a few hours—twelve hours—to play with it. I’m not sure. I do know that they’re running some kind of enormous econometric program on two or three CloudMaster machines at once. Who is they? I’m not sure. They have their own top secret network, and it’s not tied to the Pentagon. The acronym is OIB, and I was able to figure out from context in the message traffic that it stands for Operation Ivory Baton.”

“See here,” Tomasik said, stretching a digital display pad before David’s face. Tony read in a frustrated voice: “It’s just gobbledygook. OIB/H, OIB/A, OIB/17.”