“So that’s why you are sharing these letters with us?”
“If you stop them, you stop our bleeding. Besides, there is a rumor this machine has attacked one of your Naval vessels.”
Rather than confirming or denying the attack, Bill grabbed the stack of letters, “I can use these in a court of law?”
“In a U.S. court, yes.”
“What about the International Court of Justice in The Hague?” Joey asked.
“The UN may not be totally objective in this case,” Percival said as he sat back, his little show over.
Joey gave Bill a look that said, “See? I told you.”
“In any event, your agent was definitely attacked at least once by the machine, then.”
Joey stiffened, “What are you talking about?”
“Bad form? So sorry. We understand your agent was aboard the Vera Cruz.”
It was all Joey could do to control the shade of red he knew his ears were turning. He also deliberately didn’t look at Bill, so as not to give the statement any weight.
Bill deftly moved off topic back to an earlier point. “Why do you think the world court wouldn’t…?”
“Maguambi is running the table, and there is no state interested in bringing up proceedings against him. Therefore he has carte blanche, I am afraid.”
“So to be clear here, Mr. Cutney, neither I nor the United States government is offering you or your company any quid pro quo for the information you offered to us today. Are you satisfied with that?”
“If you stop this menace on the high seas, as I know you will, that will be recompense enough.”
Joey added, “You’d be willing to sign a release to that effect, Mr. Cutney?”
“Have your counsel draw it up and I will sign for Lloyds. I am at the St. Regis till the day past tomorrow. Well, that being my only business here today, I’ll bid you gentlemen farewell and good hunting.” Percival was up and leaving so quickly that Bill had just enough time to buzz Cheryl, who was surprised to meet him at the door to escort him out of the White House.
“He’s a little thin for Santa Claus, ya think?” Bill said as he probed the solid water not soaking into the blotter in front of him.
“And five hands shy of a gift horse, but I’ll take it.” Joey turned deadly serious. “How did old Saint Nick know about Brooke?”
Bill threw it back to his head of security and operations. “I thought we were supposed to be Ultra on this.”
“We are!”
“No, I’d say having a complete stranger come in here and let on that he knows our biggest secret ever, kind of indicates we are not,” Bill said in a manner more suited to a kindergarten teacher.
“I’ll do some digging into Percy’s lineage.”
“That’s Percival to you, Joey!”
“Sorry old chap, right you are.”
Joey left Bill staring at the battery and thinking about the ramifications of the other liquid, if it existed, which not only became solid in the presence of so low a voltage, but also actually expanded. It would truly be ‘electric ice.’ The liquid would act just like water being frozen, becoming a solid and expanding at the same time but only at the flick of a switch. His mind immediately raced through all the possibilities, a new source of hydraulics for everything from earth movers to reclining chairs — hydrodynamics, new piston engines, miniature air conditioners, manufacturing and shaping machines, black box recorders, black box shipping containers that would solidify against any shocks, vacuum pumps, and nano-technology. In spite of the endless possibilities, someone had developed the technology as a weapon, a weird weapon; one that was right out of a classic novel.
It had happened; Bill and Janice had become one of “those couples” — the ones who bring their eighteen-month-old out to dinner, to be subjected to the wary scrutiny of suspicious couples to determine if the tyke could be the type to explode in a spine shrinking, shrill scream at a moment’s notice. Or worse, fling spaghetti and meatballs or strained peas all over their Saturday night date clothes. It wasn’t too long ago that Bill and Janice had been the “on guard singles,” scrupulously avoiding a close encounter of the third grade or below. But parenthood had defeated or deafened those senses, giving them immunity to certain wailing frequencies emanating at full force from developing lungs.
Happily for all concerned, Richard Ross Hiccock was an inquisitive little boy who, for the most part, amused himself. He would from time to time burble out a giggly laugh if something moved or dripped or slid or just sat there long enough for him to try to get it to do something by letting out this laugh. So tonight it was a good night at Mimmo’s Villa Napoli.
“Tiramisu or cheesecake?” Bill offered to Janice as the waiter hovered with the dessert tray.
“How about cheesecake with chocolate ice cream?” Janice said with eyes lighting up. This combination, discovered during her cravings with little Richie, had stayed with her.
“Fine,” Bill said with the smallest of smiles because he knew it came from that time as well. “With two forks please.” He picked up his napkin and wiped his lips. “Excuse me honey, gotta hit the room of men.”
As Bill walked through the restaurant, he was unaware of the man who watched his every step.
In the men’s room, the daily Naples’ newspaper was thumbtacked to the wall above the urinals so a man had something to look at other than looking down. Bill was stumbling over Noticas de Oggi and the Campangola Region Soccer results, so he didn’t pay attention to the man entering the restroom. When the man didn’t appear at the urinal next to him he casually turned to see where he was. The man was leaning against the sink, his hands behind him, propped on the corner edge of the vanity’s Corinthian top.
Bill finished up and turned to him, “What? Was I in your favorite spot?”
“Dr. Hiccock?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Russ Klaven, USN, retired.”
“Retired as what?”
“Commander, Office of Naval Intelligence.”
“Okay, so why did you follow me into the head, Russ?”
“Sorry, but I wanted to speak to you alone.”
“I got an office, pal. Call and make an appointment, I am with my family right now…” Bill crumpled the paper towel and made a three-pointer right into the wicker waste basket in the corner.
“You can either hear me out right now, or forget we ever met, in which case you are going to spend a lot of time, money and resources finding out what I can tell you tonight for free.”
“Can we not do this in a bathroom?” Bill suggested.
After excusing himself from the cheesecake and suffering the mild scorn of a wife upstaged, Bill walked with Russ to an empty corner of the parking lot. Russ took out a pack of Lucky Strikes and lit one, exhaling a long drag into the crisp mid-Atlantic night’s air. “How much did Merkel get from you?”
“I’m sorry, didn’t you say you were retired?”
“I also said Naval Intelligence. You never rotate out of that.”
“Then look, you must have been around the block enough to know that I can’t talk to you, or the vice president, for that matter, about anything real or imagined, so why are you trying to get me to talk?”
“Okay, don’t talk. Listen.” He took another drag from the cigarette, then continued, “I was the guy who designed, built, and ran the DSRV during the Cold War. When we started, we couldn’t catch a fish in a butterfly net. But soon we were retrieving missile parts and, hell, whole submarines, from ten, fifteen, twenty thousand feet. We were snagging Soviet nose cones from spent rockets and ICBMs, whole codebooks and decoder machines from sunken Akula- and Victor-class, red missile boats. Christ, we even tapped the Russian undersea telephone lines and listened in to everything from data bursts to lovesick sailors trying to sweet talk their girlfriends to wait till they got home from the sea and not to fuck the guy from the vodka factory. We got a shitload of stuff.”