“I’m meeting with you before the others because your cell is the key to the whole job. Winslow will execute the command to fire the missiles. Conrad has to see to it that our own code envelopes are substituted for the NORAD ones at the proper time. Douglass will draw up the details of target reprogramming. Douglass and Conrad together will have to blueprint the severing of the fail-safe communications links within the missile groups themselves so that when the group commanders double-check for confirmation they’ll receive the replies we’ll be substituting for NORAD signals.”
Ramsey Douglass showed a double row of white teeth. He spoke in a drawl. “You’d have to interdict the security system and the communications hookup at every level from Colorado Springs and Washington on down. How am I supposed to handle that?”
“You’re not. Everybody has his own job to do—just worry about yours. When the time comes we’ll have control of every communications relay and all signals to and from the silo complexes will go through us. No messages will be allowed in or out except those we initiate. The group commanders won’t know they’re receiving fake messages and the higher commands outside the base won’t know anything unusual is going on here until it’s too late for them to do anything about it. Of course they’ll see the missiles on radar after they’ve been launched but they’ll have no way to stop them.”
A throbbing vein stood out in Nick Conrad’s forehead. Fred Winslow was twisting his knuckles. Adele Conrad’s eyes were moist and blinking fast like semaphores; Celia Winslow’s stare was fixed against the knot of Belsky’s necktie and she kept rubbing her thumb across the pads of her fingers. Nicole Lawrence stared astringently at Ramsey Douglass as if it were up to Douglass to remedy the situation. The five of them made a studied mute tableau; only Douglass seemed capable of rational speech.
Douglass of course was the cell leader and he had had more advance warning of the meeting than the others, but he hadn’t been told the purpose of it. Either he was a man who adapted quickly or he was bright enough to have guessed it had to be something like this. In either case it made him valuable. But Belsky didn’t like this screened porch as a meeting place and it was Douglass who had suggested it. The man was erratic; there were signs he was too easily prepared to choose the paths of least resistance without asking enough preliminary questions.
Still, it was Douglass who asked the obvious question: “Just who are we supposed to shoot at? I assume that information’s on a need-to-know basis but you’ve got to realize we have to know the general nature of the targets if not the specific locations. Before you tell me it’s none of our business you’d better know this. These missiles have been fueled and installed with the expectation that if they’re ever used, the targets will be Russian or Chinese. Now if Moscow wants us to shoot them at Washington or Western Europe or Tel Aviv, you’re going to have to tell us pretty far in advance. It’s not just a question of reprogramming the target coordinates—it’s a question of adding or draining fuel and programming new data cards for the computers and all sorts of preparations that you simply can’t do at the last minute. These birds weren’t installed with the idea in mind that they’d ever have to be used against targets in Colorado Springs or the District of Columbia. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Perfectly. Take my word for it that we’ve taken that problem into account in our planning. You’ll be given the target information in time to make all necessary adjustments and preparations. For the moment we’re withholding it because we’re entering a critical stage of activation and that means the risk of some of you being blown is greater than it’s been at any time since you were seeded in. If you’re blown and cornered you’ll be questioned, and you can’t reveal what you don’t know.”
Douglass said, “That’s okay, as long as you know the full extent of the technical side of it. If that’s going to be my responsibility I’ve got to be given time enough to do the job. On a thing like this you can’t just get nine women pregnant and expect a baby in one month.”
The kitchen door squeaked open and Belsky’s head whipped around. Hathaway stopped in the doorway and said, “I’m sorry to bust in. It’s important.” He lifted his chin in beckoning signal and stepped back into the house.
Belsky strode inside and pulled the door shut. “What is it?”
Without speaking Hathaway turned on his heel and led him past the closed bedroom door to the room beyond the kitchen, Nicole’s office.
Hathaway pushed the door open and stood to one side and when Belsky stepped into the doorway he saw Torrio in the room holding a stranger at gunpoint. The stranger’s face was rigid with alarm.
Hathaway said, “Torrio found this guy out back of the house with a shotgun mike and a tape recorder. Bugging your meeting.”
The stranger winced when the door slammed. He had his hands behind his head and his shoulderblades against the wall. Torrio was sitting on a corner of the desk, on one hip, training a .25 Browning automatic pistol on him from eight feet away. The surveillance equipment lay on the desk blotter—a small battery tape recorder and a high-resolution microphone with a nine-inch cone and disk sound reflector, one of those ultrasensitive long-range microphones adapted from missile-tracking antennae. It had a shoulder stock like a light carbine and there were stethoscopic earphones. The device was familiar enough to Belsky. With it you could hear ordinary conversation four blocks away.
Belsky said, “Do you know him?”
“I’ve seen him around,” Hathaway said.
Torrio reached under his elbow with his left hand. Belsky saw a wallet in it. He took three steps forward and emptied the wallet on the desk.
Driver’s license, Social Security card, private-investigator’s license, Police Auxiliary membership card, miscellany. August R. Craig (the Police Auxiliary card listed him as “Gus Craig”), 357 South Kavanagh Ave., Tucson, Arizona 85716. Driver’s license: ht 5′ 10″, wt 150 lbs, date of birth Aug 1 1933, place of birth Peoria, eyes brown, hair brown, identifying marks left earlobe missing, ½-in. scar on lower lip.
Belsky could hear the man’s breath rasp in and out. Hathaway swung toward him. “Who’re you working for, Craig?”
Craig’s only reply was a nervous hostile grin.
Hathaway made a fist and moved forward on the balls of his feet. Belsky said, “No. Come out here with me.” He went into the hall and nodded through the doorway to Torrio, who stayed put and kept his gun leveled. Hathaway emerged from the room and pulled the door to. Belsky said, “I have to finish with these people. I’ll attend to him later.”
“You want me to soften him?”
“No. Let him sweat a while—leave him alone until I’m ready for him. It’ll shake him up.”
“He ain’t the only one that’s shaken up.”
“I want you to comb the place to make sure he hasn’t got a partner,” Belsky said, and returned to the patio.
He pulled the chair forward and sat down. The interruption had given them time to absorb the impact of what he had told them. They were in the first stages of digestion now. Winslow and his wife had slid their rattan chairs close together and, remarkably, they were holding hands. Adele Conrad watched Belsky with a curiously impassive face and he couldn’t tell if she had really accepted it all and made peace with herself or was simply in a mild stage of shock. Major Conrad was nodding his head rhythmically as if he had said something to himself and was agreeing with it. Ramsey Douglass was staring down the plunge of Nicole’s neckline where her unsupported breasts quivered when she turned to face Belsky.