Howe felt so unsure of so many things now that he didn’t know what to feel, much less to say. Bonham and Megan traitors?
“You go by your gut, bad chili dog can throw you off,” said Fisher.
“Bonham wouldn’t have fooled with that plane,” said Howe.
“Not himself, no. May not have been meant to kill anybody; your wingman went a little lower than he was supposed to, and maybe that got him nailed.” Fisher shrugged. “I may never know for sure, though. The people who did the controls won’t talk to me, which is a hopeful sign.”
The entrance ramp to the Beltway was just ahead. Howe put on his blinker, figuring he’d dump Fisher off and go back to the hotel and sleep, maybe for a month.
“I do have another idea,” said Fisher, rolling down the window and throwing the cigarette away. “If you’re interested.”
Chapter 7
This time the kid was sitting on a park bench, waiting for him. McIntyre tried to stop himself from moving forward, but it was hopeless: He had as little power to change the dream as he had to change what had happened in Kashmir.
The sky began to change color, subtly shading from deep blue to a greenish gray. Tinges of red appeared near the horizon. McIntyre tried to concentrate on them but his eyes were inevitably drawn to the boy sitting on the bench.
A bell began to ring. At first he didn’t know where it was coming from; he thought it was part of the dream. Then he realized it was the doorbell. He threw off the covers, grabbing anxiously for the light at the side of the bed. He wasn’t fully awake, but he was thankful for the interruption, glad to be spared the nightmare.
By the time McIntyre pulled on his bathrobe and slippers, he was almost completely awake. The bell continued to sound at regular intervals. His relief faded as he glanced at the clock on the night table. It was just past two o’clock in the morning.
“Yes?” he said when he reached the door to the condo. “Who is it?”
“Colonel Howe,” said the voice.
“Howe?” He hesitated for a second, not sure whether it might be some sort of gag or a trick or something. He unlocked the dead bolt but left the chain, pulling the door open a crack before reaching to turn on the light.
“McIntyre, we have to talk to you.”
It was Howe. There was someone else with him, though McIntyre couldn’t see who it was.
“Colonel…it’s a little late.”
“I know.”
Had he heard about the kid and his mother? Maybe he was here to warn him.
McIntyre pushed the door closed, then undid the chain.
The FBI agent, Fisher, was with Howe.
They must know.
He nodded to them both without saying anything, then led them inside. They trailed him to the kitchen. The overhead fluorescents stung his eyes when he snapped them on.
“I’m going to make some coffee,” said McIntyre. “Sit down.”
“I know we’re disturbing you,” said Howe.
“That’s all right.” McIntyre measured out three scoops of Maxwell House into the filter.
“Hit it again,” said Fisher.
McIntyre froze. It took a second to figure out that the FBI agent wanted him to make the coffee stronger.
“Mr. Fisher has a theory,” said Howe.
McIntyre’s fingers trembled and he dropped the scoop.
“Let me do that,” said Fisher, getting up. “Have a seat.”
McIntyre’s robe fell open as he pulled out the chair. He fussed at it in slow motion, pulling it together, feeling suddenly cold in the room. Howe began to talk as he tightened it.
He was talking about the laser, about Cyclops One — not what had happened on the ground.
Fisher thought the laser had been put into another aircraft to be used during the augmented-ABM trials.
McIntyre couldn’t believe that was why they were here. He hoped it was, though — he wanted it to be, wanted the boy back alive, back before him, breathing or even crying, but alive.
“It would take a lot of people to pull it off,” said Howe.
“Just the right people,” said Fisher.
He put the coffee down in front of McIntyre. It was stronger than he was used to; the aroma alone was enough to jar McIntyre’s senses. It helped drive the dream away.
“There were traces of the chemicals used in the laser system at the site,” McIntyre told them. “I was briefed on the preliminary findings by Gorman.”
“Yeah.” Fisher took a gulp of the coffee. “There’s traces but no real volume. Lab people pointed that out. Unfortunately, we don’t have anything to compare it to. I suggested we blow up the other plane but nobody went for that.”
He didn’t seem to be joking.
“I have another idea,” said Fisher. “We watch the ABM test and see what happens.”
“They’ll know we’re watching,” said McIntyre. The coffee was good for his head, but what was it doing to his stomach?
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Fisher. “Probably it’s just a wild goose chase.”
“I think we ought to do it,” said Howe.
McIntyre didn’t know if the theory made any sense or not; he just knew he didn’t want to be alone, fearing the nightmare might return.
“Tell me more about your theory,” he said.
“There’s not much more to it,” said Fisher.
Howe glanced at him, frowning as if he knew he were lying, but the Air Force officer said nothing himself.
“Another time,” said Fisher, getting up.
“Wait.” McIntyre looked toward the doorway, as if he expected the child to appear. “It wouldn’t be too hard to set up, but I’d have to talk to Dr. Blitz about it.”
“Good,” said Fisher. “Where’s your phone?”
An hour and ten minutes after being woken by McIntyre’s phone call, Dr. Blitz sat behind his desk in the West Wing of the White House, trying to run the fatigue from his eyes. McIntyre still looked shell-shocked from his experience in India, and Colonel Howe just looked exhausted. But the FBI agent, Andy Fisher, smirked in a way that suggested he didn’t need the coffee he was chugging. His offhand manner was difficult to decipher; Blitz couldn’t tell if he was trying to provoke a response or was just naturally a jerk.
“I don’t believe any of this,” Blitz told Fisher after he outlined his theory.
“Yeah, it is pretty far-fetched,” said the FBI agent. “It’s out there.”
“So why are you here?”
Fisher leaned his face forward as if he were going to say something utterly profound. Instead he scratched his ear. “You came to D.C. from teaching, right?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Blitz had the distinct impression that Fisher was examining him as he spoke, watching his reactions the way a miner panned through sediment, looking for gold.
“Nothing.” Fisher leaned back against the chair, resuming his slump. Blitz knew the agent had been involved in high-level espionage and technology cases before, and assumed he wasn’t the dummy he pretended to be.
And then suddenly he realized the import of the question he had just been asked.
“You think I’m involved, don’t you?”
“Are you?” answered Fisher.
“I ought to throw you out of here.”
“It’s happened before.”
Blitz locked his eyes with the FBI agent.
“Don’t be a wiseass, Mr. Fisher.” Blitz turned to McIntyre. “The launch-surveillance satellites can’t pick up the laser discharge except under very specific circumstances.”
“I’m aware of that,” said McIntyre. “But we could use the test monitoring plane, the RC-135.”
“It’ll tip them off.” He looked over toward Fisher.