The Fourth K Read online

  While he waited for the information to come in, he put the files of all previous nuclear threats through his computer. There had never been a nuclear weapon found, and those blackmailers who had been caught while trying to collect their bribe money had confessed that there had never been one. Some of them had been men with a smattering of science. Others had picked up convincing information from a left-wing magazine that had printed an article describing how to make a nuclear weapon. The magazine had been leaned on not to publish that article, but it had gone to the Supreme Court, which had ruled that suppression would be a violation of free speech. Even thinking of that now made Peter Cloot tremble with rage. The fucking country was going to destroy itself. One thing he noted with interest: none of the over two hundred cases had involved a woman or a black or even a foreign terrorist. They were all fucking true-blue greedy American men.

  When he finished with the computer files he thought a minute about his boss, Christian Klee. He really didn’t like the way Klee was running things. Klee thought the whole job of the FBI was to guard the President of the United States. Klee used not only the Secret Service Division but had special squads in every FBI office in the country whose main job was to sniff out possible dangers to the office of the President. Klee diverted a great deal of manpower from other operations of the FBI to do this.

  Cloot was leery of Klee’s power, his special division of ex-CIA men. What the hell did they do? Peter Cloot didn’t know and he had every right to know. That division reported directly to Klee, and that was a very bad thing in a government agency so sensitive to public opinion as the FBI. So far nothing had happened. Cloot spent a great deal of time covering his ass, making sure that he could not be caught in the fireworks when that special division pulled some shit that would bring the Congress down on their heads with their special investigation committees.

  At 1:00 A.M. Cloot’s assistant deputy came in to report that two suspects were under surveillance. Proof was in hand that confirmed the psychological profile, and there was other circumstantial evidence. Only the order to make the arrest was needed.

  Cloot said to his deputy, “I have to brief Klee first. Stay here while I call him.”

  Cloot knew that Klee would be in the President’s chief of staff’s office or that the omnipotent White House telephone operators would track him down if he was not. He got Klee on his first try.

  “We have that special case all wrapped up,” Cloot told him. “But I think I should brief you before we bring them in—can you come over?”

  Klee’s voice was strained. “No, I cannot. I have to be with the President now, surely you understand that.”

  “Shall I just go ahead and fill you in later?” Cloot asked. There was a long pause at the other end. Then Klee said, “I think we have time for you to come over here. If I’m not available, just wait. But you have to rush.”

  “I’m on my way,” Cloot said.

  It had not been necessary for either of them to suggest doing the briefing over the phone. That was out of the question. Anybody could pick messages out of the infinite trail-ways of airspace.

  Cloot got to the White House and was escorted into a small briefing room. Klee was waiting for him; his prosthesis was off and he was massaging his stump through his stocking.

  “I only have a few minutes,” Klee said. “Big meeting with the President.”

  “Jesus, I’m sorry about that,” Cloot said. “How is he taking it?”

  Klee shook his head. “You can’t ever tell with Francis. He seems OK.” He shook his head in a sort of bewilderment, then said briskly, “OK, let’s have it.” He looked at Cloot with a sort of distaste. The man’s physical exterior always irritated him. Cloot never looked tired, and he was one of those men whose shirt and suit never got wrinkled. He always wore ties of knitted wool with square knots, usually of a light gray color and sometimes a sort of bloody black.

  “We spotted them,” Cloot said. “Two young kids, twenty years old, in MIT nuclear labs. Geniuses, IQ’s in the 160s, come from wealthy families, left-wing, marched with the nuclear protesters. These kids have access to classified memorandums. They fit the think-tank profile. They are sitting in their lab up in Boston, working on some government and university project. A couple of months ago they came to New York and a buddy got them laid and they loved it. He was sure it was their first time. A deadly combination, idealism and the raging hormones of youth. Right now I have them sealed off.”

  “Do you have any firm evidence?” Christian asked. “Anything concrete?”

  “We’re not trying them or even indicting them,” Cloot said. “This is preventive arrest as authorized under the atom bomb laws. Once we have them, they’ll confess and tell us where the damn thing is if there is one. I don’t think there is. I think that part is bullshit. But they certainly wrote the letter. They fit the profile. Also the date of the letter—it’s the day they registered at the Hilton in New York. That’s the clincher.”

  Christian had often marveled at the resources of all the government agencies with their computers and high-grade electronic gear. It was amazing that they could eavesdrop on anyone anywhere no matter what precautions were taken. That computers could scan hotel registers all over the city in less than an hour. And other complicated serious things. At ghastly expense, of course.

  “OK, we’ll grab them,” Christian said. “But I’m not sure you can make them confess. They’re smart kids.”

  Cloot stared into Christian’s eyes. “OK, Chris, they don’t confess, we’re a civilized country. We just let the bomb explode and kill thousands of people.” He smiled for a moment almost maliciously. “Or you go to the President and make him sign a medical interrogation order. Section IX of the Atomic Weapons Control Act.”

  Which was what Cloot had been coming to all the time.

  Christian had been avoiding the same thought all night. He had always been shocked that a country like the United States could have such a secret law. The press could easily have uncovered it, but again there was that covenant between the owners of the media and the governors of the country. So the law was not really known to the public, as was true of many laws governing nuclear science.

  Christian knew Section IX very well. As a lawyer he had marveled at it. It was that savagery in the law that had always repelled him.

  Section IX essentially gave the President the right to order a chemical brain scan that had been developed to make anyone tell the truth, a lie detector right in the brain. The law had been especially designed to extract information about the planting of a nuclear device. It fitted this case perfectly. There would be no torture, the victim would suffer no physical pain. Simply, the chemical changes in the brain would be measured to verify that he invariably told the truth when asked questions. It would be humane, the only catch being that nobody really knew what happened to the brain after the operation. Experiments indicated that in rare cases there would be some loss of memory, some slight loss of functioning. He would not be retarded—that would be unconscionable—but as the old joke had it, there go the music lessons. The only catch was that there was a 10 percent chance that there would be complete memory loss. Complete long-term amnesia. The subject’s entire past could be erased.

  Christian said, “Just a long shot, but could this be linking up with the hijacking and the Pope? Even that guy being captured on Long Island looks like a trick. Could this all be a part of it, a smoke screen, a booby trap?”

  Cloot studied him for a long time as if debating his answer. “Could be,” Cloot said. “But I suspect this is one of those famous coincidences of history.”

  “That always lead to tragedy,” Christian said wryly.

  Cloot went on. “These two kids are just crazy in their own genius style. They are political. They are obsessed by the nuclear danger to the whole world. They are not interested in current political quarrels. They don’t give a shit about the Arabs and Israel or the poor and rich in America. Or the Democrats and Republicans. They just w
ant the globe to rotate faster on its axis. You know.” He smiled contemptuously. “They all think they’re God. Nothing can touch them.”

  But Christian’s mind was at rest on one thing. There was political shrapnel flying all around with these two problems. Don’t move too fast, he thought. Francis was in terrible danger now. Kennedy would have to be protected. Maybe they could play one off against the other.

  He said to Cloot, “Listen, Peter, I want this to be the most secret of operations. Seal it off from everybody else. I want those two kids grabbed and put into the hospital detention facility we have here in Washington. Just you and me and the agents we use from the special division. Shove the agents’ noses into the Atomic Weapons Control Act, absolute secrecy. Nobody sees them, nobody talks to them except me. I’ll do the interrogation personally.”

  Cloot gave him a funny look. He didn’t like the operation being turned over to Klee’s special division. “The medical team will want to see a presidential order before they shoot chemicals into those kids’ brains.”

  Christian said, “I’ll ask the President.”

  Peter Cloot said casually, “Time is crucial on this thing, and you said nobody interrogates except you. Does that include me? What if you’re tied up with the President?”

  Christian Klee smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be there. Nobody but me, Peter. Now give me the details.” He had other things on his mind. Shortly he would meet with the chiefs of his FBI special division and order them to mount an electronic and computer surveillance on the most important members of the Congress and the Socrates Club.

  Adam Gresse and Henry Tibbot had planted their tiny atom bomb, a bomb they had constructed with much labor and ingenuity. They were perhaps so proud of their labors that they could not resist using it for such a high cause.

  They kept watching the newspapers, but their letter did not appear on the front page of The New York Times. There were no news items on the subject. They had not been given the opportunity to lead the authorities to the bomb after their demand was met. They were being ignored. This frightened them and yet angered them too. Now the bomb would explode and cause thousands of deaths. But possibly that would be for the best. How else could the world be alerted to the dangers of the use of atomic power? How else could the necessary actions be taken for the men in authority to install the proper safeguards? They had calculated that the bomb would destroy at least four to six square blocks of New York City. Their consciences were clear; they had ensured in the construction of the bomb that there would be a minimum of radioactive fallout. They regretted that, it would cost a certain number of human lives. But it would be a small price for mankind to pay to see the error of its ways. Impregnable safeguards must be established; the making of nuclear bombs must be banned by all the nations of the world.

  On Wednesday Gresse and Tibbot worked in the laboratory until everyone in the institute had gone home, and then they argued whether they should make a phone call to alert the authorities. At the beginning it had never been their intention to actually let the bomb go off. They had wanted to see their letter of warning published in The New York Times and then they had planned to go back to New York to disarm the bomb. But now it seemed a war of wills. Were they to be treated as children, sneered at, when they could accomplish so much for humanity? Or would they be listened to? In all conscience they could not go on with their scientific work if it was to be misused by the political establishment.

  They had chosen New York City to be punished because on their visits there they had been so horrified by the feeling of evil that seemed to them to pervade the streets. The threatening beggars, the insolent drivers of wheeled vehicles, the rudeness of clerks in stores, the countless burglaries, street muggings and murders. They had been particularly revolted by Times Square, that area so crowded with people that it seemed to them like a huge sink of cockroaches. In Times Square the pimps, the dope pushers and the whores seemed so menacing that Gresse and Tibbot had retreated with fright to their hotel room uptown. And so with fully justifiable anger they had decided to plant the bomb in Times Square itself.

  Adam and Henry were as shocked as the rest of the nation when the television screen showed the murder of Theresa Kennedy. But they were also a little annoyed that this diverted attention from their own operation, which, ultimately, was more important to the fate of humanity.

  But they had become nervous. Adam had heard peculiar clickings on his telephone and had noticed that his car seemed to be followed; he had felt an electric disturbance when certain men passed him in the street. He told Tibbot about these things.

  Henry Tibbot was very tall and very lean, and seemed to be made of wires joined together with scraps of flesh and transparent skin. He had a better scientific mind than Adam and stronger nerves. “You’re reacting the way all criminals act,” he told Adam. “It’s normal. Every time there’s a knock on the door I think it’s the Feds.”

  “And if it is one time?” Adam Gresse asked.

  “Keep your mouth shut until the lawyer comes,” Henry Tibbot said. “That is the most important thing. We would get twenty-five years just for writing the letter. So if the bomb explodes, it will just be a few more years.”

  “Do you think they can trace us?” Adam asked.

  “Not a chance,” Henry said. “We’ve gotten rid of anything that could be evidence. Christ, are we smarter than them or not?”

  This reassured Adam, but he wavered a bit. “Maybe we should make a call and tell them where it is,” he said.

  “No,” Henry said. “They are on the alert now. They will be ready to zero in on our call. That will be the only way to catch us. Just remember, if things go wrong, just keep your mouth shut. Now, let’s go to work.”

  Adam and Henry were working late in the lab this night really because they wanted to be together. They wanted to talk about what they had done, what recourse they had. They were young men of intense will, they had been brought up to have the courage of their convictions, to detest an authority that refused to be swayed with a reasonable argument. Though they conjured up mathematical formulas that might change the destiny of mankind, they had no idea of the complicated relationships of civilization. Glorious achievers, they had not yet grown into humanity.

  As they were preparing to leave, the phone rang. It was Henry’s father. He said to Henry, “Son, listen carefully. You are about to be arrested by the FBI. Say nothing to them until they let you see your lawyer. Say nothing. I know —”

  At that moment the door of the room opened and men with guns swarmed in.

  CHAPTER

  10

  The rich in America, without a doubt, are more socially conscious than the rich in any other country of the world. This is true, of course, especially of the extremely rich, those who own and run huge corporations, exercise their economic strength in politics and propagandize in all areas of culture. And this applied especially to members of the Socratic Country Golf and Tennis Club of Southern California, which had been founded nearly seventy years before by real estate, media, cinematic and agricultural tycoons as a politically liberal organization devoted to recreation. It was an exclusive organization; you had to be very rich to join. Technically, you could be black or white, Jewish or Catholic, man or woman, artist or magnate. In reality there were very few blacks and no women.

  The Socrates Club, as it was commonly known, finally evolved into a club for the very enlightened, very responsible rich. Prudently, it had an ex-deputy director of CIA operations as head of security systems, and its electronic fences were the highest in America.

  Four times a year, the club was used as a retreat for fifty to a hundred men who in effect owned nearly everything in America. They came for a week, and in that week, service was reduced to a minimum. They made their own beds, served their own drinks and sometimes even cooked their own food in the evening on outside barbecues. There were, of course, some waiters, cooks and maids, and there were the inevitable aides to those important men;
after all, the world of American business and politics could not come to a stop while they recharged their spiritual batteries.

  During this weeklong stay these men would gather into small groups and spend their time in private discussions. They would participate in seminars conducted by distinguished professors from the most famous universities, on questions of ethics, philosophy, the responsibility of the fortunate elite to the less fortunate in society. They would be given lectures by famous scientists on the benefits and dangers of nuclear weapons, brain research, the exploration of space, economics.

  They also played tennis, swam in the pool, had backgammon and bridge tournaments and held discussions far into the night on virtue and villainy, on women and love, on marriage and adventure. And these were responsible men, the most responsible men in American society. But they were trying to do two things: they were trying to become better human beings while recovering their adolescence, and they were trying to unite in bringing about a better society as they perceived a better society to be.

  After a week together they returned to their normal lives, refreshed with new hope, a desire to help mankind, and a sharper perception of how all their activities could be meshed to preserve the structure of their society, and perhaps with closer personal relationships that could help them do business.

  This present week had started on the Monday after Easter Sunday. Because of the crisis in national affairs with the killing of the Pope and the hijacking of the plane carrying the President’s daughter and her murderer, the attendance had dropped to less than twenty.

  George Greenwell was the oldest of these men. At eighty, he could still play tennis doubles, but out of a carefully bred courtesy did not inflict himself on the younger men who would be forced to play in a forgiving style. Yet, he was still a tiger in long sessions of backgammon.

  Greenwell considered the national crisis none of his business unless it involved grain in some way, for his company was privately owned and controlled most of the wheat in America. His shining hour had been thirty years ago when the United States had embargoed grain to Russia as a political ploy to muscle Russia in the cold war.