Code to Zero (14 page)

“I was worried. You called me on Monday. You said you were on your way here, you wanted to see me, and you would call me from the Carlton. But you never did.”

“Something happened to me on Monday night.”

“Yeah. Listen, there’s someone you have to call. Dr. Billie Josephson is a world expert on memory.”

The name rang a bell. “I think I came across her book in the library.”

“She’s also my ex-wife, and an old friend of yours.” Bern gave Luke the number.

“I’m going to call her right away. Bern. . . .”

“Yeah.”

“I lose my memory, and it turns out that an old friend of mine is a world expert on memory. Isn’t that a hell of a coincidence?”

“Ain’t it just,” said Bern.

The final stage, containing the satellite, is 80 inches long and only 6 inches across, and weighs just over 30 pounds. It is shaped like a stovepipe.

Billie had scheduled an hour-long interview with a patient, a football player who had been “dinged”—concussed in a collision with an opponent. He was an interesting subject, because he could remember everything up to one hour before the game, and nothing after that until the moment when he found himself standing on the sideline with his back to the play, wondering how he got there.

She was distracted during the interview, thinking about the Sowerby Foundation and Anthony Carroll. By the time she got through with the football player and called Anthony, she was feeling frustrated and impatient. She was lucky and reached him at his office on the first try. “Anthony,” she said abruptly, “what the hell is going on?”

“A lot,” he replied. “Egypt and Syria have agreed to merge, skirts are getting shorter, and Roy Campanella broke his neck in a car wreck and may never catch for the Dodgers again.”

She controlled the impulse to yell at him. “I was passed over for the post of Director of Research here at the hospital,” she said with forced calm. “Len Ross got the job. Did you know that?”

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

“I don’t understand it. I thought I might lose to a highly qualified
outsider—Sol Weinberg, from Princeton, or someone of that order. But everyone knows I’m better than Len.”

“Do they?”

“Anthony, come on! You know it yourself. Hell, you encouraged me in this line of research, years ago, at the end of the war, when we—”

“Okay, okay, I remember,” he interrupted. “That stuff is still classified, you know.”

She did not believe that things they did in the war could still be important secrets. But it did not matter. “So why didn’t I get the job?”

“I’m supposed to know?”

This was humiliating, she felt, but her need to understand overrode her embarrassment. “The Foundation is insisting on Len.”

“I guess they have the right.”

“Anthony, talk to me!”

“I’m talking.”

“You’re part of the Foundation. It’s very unusual for a trust to interfere in this kind of decision. They normally leave it to the experts. You must know why they took this exceptional step.”

“Well, I don’t. And my guess is the step has not yet been taken. There certainly hasn’t been a meeting about it—I’d know about that.”

“Charles was very definite.”

“I don’t doubt it’s true, unfortunately for you. But it’s not the kind of thing that would be decided openly. More likely, the Director and one or two board members had a chat over a drink at the Cosmos Club. One of them has called Charles and given him the word. He can’t afford to upset them, so he’s gone along. That’s how these things work. I’m just surprised Charles was so candid with you.”

“He was shocked, I think. He can’t understand why they would do such a thing. I thought you might know.”

“It’s probably something dumb. Is Ross a family man?”

“Married with four children.”

“The Director doesn’t really approve of women earning high salaries when there are men trying to support a family.”

“For Christ’s sake! I have a child and an elderly mother to take care of!”

“I didn’t say it was logical. Listen, Billie, I have to go. I’m sorry. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay,” she said.

When she had hung up, she stared at the phone, trying to sort out her feelings. The conversation rang false to her, and she asked herself why. It was perfectly plausible that Anthony might not know about machinations among the other board members of the Foundation. So why did she disbelieve him? Thinking back, she realized he had been evasive—which was not like him. In the end, he had told her what little he knew, but reluctantly. It all added up to a very clear impression.

Anthony was lying.

The fourth-stage rocket is made of lightweight titanium instead of stainless steel. The weight saving permits the missile to carry a crucial extra 2 pounds of scientific equipment.

When Anthony hung up the phone, it rang again immediately. He picked it up and heard Elspeth, sounding spooked. “For God’s sake, I’ve been on hold for a quarter of an hour!”

“I was talking to Billie, she—”

“Never mind. I just spoke with Luke.”

“Jesus, how come?”

“Shut up and listen! He was at the Smithsonian, in the Aircraft Building, with a bunch of physicists.”

“I’m on my way.” Anthony dropped the phone and ran out the door. Pete saw him and ran after him. They went down to the parking lot and jumped into Anthony’s car.

The fact that Luke had spoken with Elspeth dismayed Anthony. It suggested that everything was coming unglued. But maybe if he got to Luke before anyone else, he could hold things together. It took them four minutes to drive to Independence Avenue and Tenth Street. They left the car outside the back entrance to the museum and ran into the old hangar that was the Aircraft Building.

There was a payphone near the entrance, but no sign of Luke.

“Split up,” Anthony said. “I’ll go right, you go left.” He walked
through the exhibits, scrutinizing the faces of the men as they gazed into the glass cases and stared up at the aircraft suspended from the ceiling. At the far end of the building he met up with Pete, who made an empty-hands gesture.

There were some restrooms and offices to one side. Pete checked the men’s room and Anthony looked in the offices. Luke must have called from one of these phones, but he was not here now.

Pete came out of the men’s room and said, “Nothing.”

Anthony said, “This is a catastrophe.”

Pete frowned. “Is it?” he said. “A catastrophe? Is this guy more important than you’ve told me?”

“Yes,” Anthony said. “He could be the most dangerous man in America.”

“Christ.”

Against the end wall, Anthony saw stacked chairs and a movable lectern. A young man in a tweed suit was talking to two men in overalls. Anthony recalled that Elspeth had said Luke was with a bunch of physicists. Maybe he could still pick up the trail.

He approached the man in the tweed suit and said, “Excuse me, was there a meeting of some kind here?”

“Sure, Professor Larkley gave a lecture on rocket fuels,” the young man said. “I’m Will McDermot, I organized it as part of International Geophysical Year.”

“Was Dr. Claude Lucas here?”

“Yes. Are you a friend of his?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know he’s lost his memory?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t even know his own name, until I told him.”

Anthony suppressed a curse. He had been afraid of this from the moment Elspeth said she had spoken to Luke. He knew who he was.

“I need to locate Dr. Lucas urgently,” Anthony said.

“What a shame, you just missed him.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No. I tried to encourage him to see a doctor, get himself checked out, but he said he was fine. I thought he seemed very shocked—”

“Yes, thank you, I appreciate your help.” Anthony turned and walked quickly away. He was furious.

Outside on Independence Avenue he saw a police cruiser. Two cops were checking out a car parked on the other side of the road. Anthony went closer and saw that the car was a blue-and-white Ford Fiesta. “Look at that,” he said to Pete. He checked the license plate. It was the car Nosy Rosie had seen from her Georgetown window.

He showed the patrolmen his CIA identification. “Did you just spot this car illegally parked?” he said.

The older of the two men replied. “No, we saw a man driving it on Ninth Street,” he said. “But he got away from us.”

“You let him escape?” Anthony said incredulously.

“He turned around and headed right into the traffic!” the younger cop said. “Hell of a driver, whoever he is.”

“Few minutes later, we see the car parked here, but he’s gone.”

Anthony wanted to knock their wooden heads together. Instead, he said, “This fugitive may have stolen another car in this neighborhood and made his getaway.” He took a business card out of his billfold. “If you get a report of a car stolen nearby, would you please call me at this number?”

The old cop read the card and said, “I’ll make sure to do that, Mr. Carroll.”

Anthony and Pete returned to the yellow Cadillac and drove away.

Pete said, “What do you think he’ll do now?”

“I don’t know. He might go right to the airport and get a plane to Florida; he could go to the Pentagon; he may go to his hotel. Hell, he could take it into his head to go visit his mother in New York. We may have to spread ourselves kind of thin.” He was silent, thinking, while he parked and they entered Q Building. Reaching his office, he said, “I want two men at the airport, two at Union Station, two at the bus station. I want two men in the office calling all known members of Luke’s family,
friends, and acquaintances, to ask if they’re expecting to see him or if they’ve heard from him. I want you to go with two men to the Carlton Hotel. Take a room, then stake out the lobby. I’ll join you there later.”

Pete went out and Anthony shut the door.

For the first time today, Anthony was scared. Now that Luke knew his identity, there was no telling what else he might find out. This project should have been Anthony’s greatest triumph, but it was turning into a foul-up that might end his career.

It might end his life.

If he could find Luke, he could still patch things up. But he would have to take drastic measures. It would no longer be enough simply to put Luke under surveillance. He had to solve the problem once and for all.

With a heavy heart, he went to the photograph of President Eisenhower that hung on the wall. He pulled on one side of the frame, and the picture swung out on hinges to reveal a safe. He dialed the combination, opened the door, and took out his gun.

It was a Walther P38 automatic. This was the handgun used by the German Army in the Second World War. Anthony had been issued with it before he went to North Africa. He also had a silencer that had been specially designed by OSS to fit the gun.

The first time he had killed a man, it had been with this gun.

Albin Moulier was a traitor who had betrayed members of the French Resistance to the police. He deserved to die—the five men in the cell were agreed on that. They drew lots, standing in a derelict stable miles from anywhere, late at night, a single lamp throwing dancing shadows on the rough stone walls. Anthony might have been excused, as the only foreigner, but that way he would have lost respect, so he insisted on taking his chances with the rest. And he drew the short straw.

Albin was tied to the rusty wheel of a broken plow, not even blindfolded, listening to the discussion and watching the drawing of lots. He soiled himself when they pronounced the death sentence, and screamed when he saw Anthony take out the Walther. The screaming helped: it made Anthony want to kill him quickly, just to stop the noise.
He shot Albin at close range, between the eyes, one bullet. Afterwards, the others told him he did it well, without hesitation or regrets, like a man.

He still saw Albin in his dreams.

He took the silencer from the safe, fitted it over the barrel of the pistol, and screwed it tight. He put on his topcoat. It was a long camel-hair winter coat, single-breasted, with deep inside pockets. He placed the gun, handle down, in the right-hand pocket, with the silencer sticking up. Leaving the coat unbuttoned, he reached in with his left hand, pulled the gun out by the silencer, and transferred it to his right hand. Then he moved the thumb safety lever on the left of the slide up to the fire position. The whole process took about a second. The silencer made the weapon cumbersome. It would be easier to carry the two parts separately. However, he might not have time to fit the silencer before shooting. This way was better.

He buttoned his coat and went out.

The satellite is bullet-shaped, rather than spherical. In theory, a sphere should be more stable, but in practice, the satellite must have protruding antennae for radio communication, and the antennae spoil the round shape.

Luke took a taxicab to the Georgetown Mind Hospital and gave his name at the reception desk, saying he had an appointment with Dr. Josephson.

She had been charming on the phone: concerned about him, pleased to hear his voice, intrigued to know that he had lost his memory, eager to see him as soon as she could. She spoke with a southern accent and sounded as if laughter was forever bubbling up at the back of her throat.

Now she came running down the stairs, a short woman in a white lab coat, with big brown eyes and a flushed expression of excitement. Luke could not help smiling at the sight of her.

“It’s so great to see you!” she said, and she threw her arms around him in a hug.

He felt an impulse to respond to her exuberance and squeeze her tightly. Afraid that he might do something to cause offense, he froze, his hands in the air like the victim of a holdup.

She laughed at him. “You don’t remember what I’m like,” she said. “Relax, I’m almost harmless.”

He let his arms fall around her shoulders. Her small body was soft and round under the lab coat.

“Come on, I’ll show you my office.” She led him up the stairs.

As they crossed a broad corridor, a white-haired woman in a bathrobe said: “Doctor! I like your boyfriend!”

Billie grinned and said, “You can have him next, Marlene.”

Billie had a small room with a plain desk and a steel file cabinet, but she had made it pretty with flowers and a splashy abstract painting in bright colors. She gave Luke coffee and opened a package of cookies, then asked him about his amnesia.

She made notes as he answered her questions. Luke had had no food for twelve hours, and he ate all the cookies. She smiled and said, “Want some more? There’s another pack.” He shook his head.

“Well, I have a pretty clear picture,” she said eventually. “You have global amnesia, but otherwise you seem mentally healthy. I can’t assess your physical state, because I’m not that kind of doctor, and it’s my duty to advise you to have a physical as soon as you can.” She smiled. “But you look all right, just shook.”

“Is there a cure for this type of amnesia?”

“No, there’s not. The process is generally irreversible.”

That was a blow. Luke had hoped everything might come back to him in a flash. “Christ,” he muttered.

“Don’t be downhearted,” Billie said kindly. “Sufferers have all their faculties and are able to relearn what has been forgotten, so they can usually pick up the threads of their lives and live normally. You’re going to be fine.”

Even while he was hearing horrible news, he found himself watching her with fascination, concentrating his attention first on her eyes, which seemed to glow with sympathy, then her expressive mouth, then the way the light from the desk lamp fell on her dark curls. He wanted her to carry on talking forever. He said, “What might have caused the amnesia?”

“Brain damage is the first possibility to consider. However, there’s no sign of injury, and you told me you don’t have a headache.”

“That’s right. So what else?”

“There are several alternatives,” she explained patiently. “It can be brought on by prolonged stress, a sudden shock, or drugs. It’s also a side
effect of some treatments for schizophrenia involving a combination of electric shock and drugs.”

“Any way to tell which affected me?”

“Not conclusively. You had a hangover this morning, you said. If that wasn’t booze, it might be the aftereffects of a drug. But you’re not going to get a final answer by talking to doctors. You need to find out what happened to you between Monday night and this morning.”

“Well, at least I know what I’m looking for,” he said. “Shock, drugs, or schizophrenia treatment.”

“You’re not schizophrenic,” she said. “You have a real good hold on reality. What’s your next step?”

Luke stood up. He was reluctant to leave the company of this bewitching woman, but she had told him all she could. “I’m going to see Bern Rothsten. I think he may have some ideas.”

“Got a car?”

“I asked the taxi to wait.”

“I’ll see you out.”

As they walked down the stairs, Billie took his arm affectionately.

Luke said, “How long have you been divorced from Bern?”

“Five years. Long enough to become friends again.”

“This is a strange question, but I have to ask it. Did you and I ever date?”

“Oh, boy,” said Billie. “Did we ever.”