Beta Scenario treated the possibility that a relatively small number of men, either criminal figures or political extremists, might steal these materials for blackmail, sabotage, or terrorist purposes. The consequences of theft were considered uniformly disastrous. Therefore the scenario outlined ways to prevent this occurrence.
The chief preventive mechanism was deemed secrecy in transport schedules and methods. That is, the thieves would not know where, or when, the material was being shipped. As a result of the Beta Scenario conclusions, timetables for shipment were established by a closed-code computer mechanism operating from a table of random numbers. That mechanism was regarded as foolproof and unbreakable.
However, it is obvious that these seven men received instructions derived from breaking the timetable. It is not known how the timetable was broken, enabling the men to easily, almost effortlessly, steal one half-ton of the most potent nerve gas in the world.
HOUR 12
The grey government sedan was waiting in a deserted corner of Los Angeles International Airport. Seen from the air, it cast a long shadow across the concrete runway in the pale morning light. He watched the sedan as his helicopter descended and landed a short distance from the car.
The driver came running up, bent over beneath the spinning blades, and opened the door. A gust of warm, dry August air swirled into the interior of the helicopter.
`Mr Graves?'
`That's right.'
`Come with me please.'
Graves got out, carrying his briefcase, and walked to the car. He climbed into the back seat and they drove off away from the runway towards the freeway.
`Do you know where we're going?' Graves asked.
The driver consulted a clipboard. `One-oh-onethree-one Washington, Culver City, I have.'
`I think that's right.' Graves settled back in the seat. California numbering: he'd never get used to it. It was as bad as a zip code. He opened his early edition of The New York Times and tried to read it. He had tried on the helicopter but had found it impossible to concentrate. He assumed that was because of the noise. And the distractions: when they passed over San Clemente, halfway between Los Angeles and San Diego, he had been craning his neck, peering out the window like an ordinary tourist. The President was there now, had been for the last week.
He looked at the headlines: trouble in the UN, arguments in the German parliament about the mark, Britain and France squabbling… He put the paper aside and stared out the window at Los Angeles, flat and bleak in the early morning light.
`Good trip, sir?' the driver asked. It was perfectly said - no inflection, no prying, just detached polite interest. The driver didn't know who Graves was. He didn't know where he had come from. He didn't know what his business was. All the driver knew was that Graves was important enough to have a government helicopter fly him in and a government sedan pick him up.
`Fine, thanks.' Graves smiled, staring out the window. In fact the trip had been horrible. Phelps had called him just an hour before and asked him to come up and give a briefing on Wright. That was the way Phelps worked - everything was a crisis, there were no routine activities. It was typical that Phelps hadn't bothered to let Graves know beforehand that he was even in Los Angeles.
Although on reflection, Graves knew he should have expected that. With the Republican Convention in San Diego, all the activity of the country had shifted from Washington to the West Coast. The President was in the Western White House in San Clemente; the Convention was eighty miles to the south; and Phelps -what would Phelps do? Obviously, relocate discreetly in the nearest large city, which was Los Angeles. As Graves considered it, Los Angeles became the inevitable choice.
Phelps needed the telephone lines for data transmission. It was as simple as that. LA was the third largest city in America, and it would have plenty of telephone lines that the Department of State (Intelligence Division) could take over on short notice. It was inevitable.
`Here we are, sir,' the driver said, pulling over to the kerb. He got out and opened the door for Graves. `Am I to wait for you, sir?'
`Yes, I think so.'
`Very good, sir.'
Graves paused and looked up at the building. It was a rather ordinary four-storey office building in an area of Los Angeles that seemed almost a slum. The building, not particularly new, was outstandingly ugly. And the paint was flaking away from the facade.
Graves walked up the steps and entered the lobby. As he went through the doors he looked at his watch. It was exactly 5.ins. Phelps was waiting for him in the deserted lobby. Phelps wore a lightweight glen-plaid suit and a worried expression. He shook hands with Graves and said, `How was your flight?' His voice echoed slightly in the lobby.
`Fine,' Graves said.
They walked to the elevators, passing the groundfloor offices, which seemed mostly devoted to a bank.
`Like this place?' Phelps said.
`Not much.'
`It was the best we could find on short notice,' he said.
A guard with a sign-in book stood in front of the elevators. Graves let Phelps sign first; then he took the pen and wrote his name, his authorization, and the time. He saw that Decker and Venn were already there:
They got into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. `Decker and Venn are already here,' Phelps said.
`I saw.'
Phelps nodded and smiled, as much as he ever smiled. `I keep forgetting about you and your powers of observation.'
`I keep forgetting about you, too,' Graves said.
Phelps ignored the remark. `I've. planned two meetings for today,' he said. `You've got the briefing in an hour - Wilson, Peckham, and a couple of others. But I think you should hear about Sigma Station first.'
`All right,' Graves said. He didn't know what the hell Phelps was talking about, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of asking.
They got off at the third floor and walked past some peeling posters of Milan and Tahiti and through a small typing pool, the desks now deserted, the typewriters neatly covered.
`What is this place?' Graves said.
`Travel agency,' Phelps said. `They went out of business but they had a lot of -'
`Telephone lines.'
`Yes. We took over the floor.'
`How long you planning to stay?' Graves asked. There was an edge to his voice that he didn't bother to conceal. Phelps knew how he felt about the Department.
`Just, through the Convention,' Phelps said, with elaborate innocence. `What did you think?'
`I thought it might be permanent.'
`Good Lord, no. Why would we do a thing like that?'
`I can't imagine,' Graves said.
Past the typing pool they came to a section of private offices. The walls were painted an institutional beige. It reminded Graves of a prison, or a hospital. No wonder the travel agency went out of business, he thought.
`I know how you feel,' Phelps said.
`Do you?' Graves asked.
`Yes. You're… ambivalent about the section.'
`I'm ambivalent about the domestic activities.'
`We all are,' Phelps said. He said it easily, in the smooth, oil-on-the-waters manner that he had perfected. And his father before him. Phelps' father had been an under-secretary of state during the Roosevelt administration. Phelps himself was a product of the Dalton School, Andover, Yale, and Harvard Law School. If he sat still, ivy would sprout from his ears. But he never sat still.
`How do you find San Diego?' he asked, walking along with his maddeningly springy step.