Code to Zero (12 page)

The igniters were not originally designed to be fired in a vacuum. For the
Jupiter
rocket, they have been redesigned so that: (i) The entire motor is sealed in an airtight container; (ii) in case that container should be breached, the igniter itself is also in a sealed container; and (iii) the igniter should fire in a vacuum anyway. This multiple fail-safe is a design principle known as redundancy.

The Cuba meeting took a coffee break, and Anthony ran back to Q Building for an update, praying his team would have come up with something, any clue to Luke’s whereabouts.

Pete met him on the stairs. “Here’s something weird,” he said.

Anthony’s heart jumped with hope. “Give!”

“A report from the police in Georgetown. A housewife comes back from the store to find that her home has been broken into and her shower has been used. The intruder has disappeared, leaving behind a bag and a pile of filthy old clothes.”

Anthony was electrified. “At last—a break!” he said. “Give me the address.”

“You think this is our guy?”

“I’m sure of it! He’s fed up with looking like a bum, so he’s broken into an empty house, showered, shaved, and put on some decent clothes. That’s characteristic, he would hate to be badly dressed.”

Pete looked thoughtful. “You know him pretty well, I guess.”

Anthony realized he had slipped again. “No, I don’t,” he snapped. “I read his file.”

“Sorry,” Pete said. After a moment he went on: “I wonder why he left stuff behind?”

“My guess is, she came home before he was quite finished.”

“What about the Cuba meeting?”

Anthony stopped a passing secretary. “Please call the conference room in P Building and tell Mr. Hobart that I was taken ill with stomach pains and Mr. Maxell had to drive me home.”

“Stomach pains,” she said, deadpan.

“Right,” he said, walking away. Over his shoulder he called, “Unless you can think of something better.”

He left the building with Pete following, and they jumped into his old yellow Cadillac. “This may need delicate handling,” he said to Pete as he headed for Georgetown. “The good news is that Luke has left us some clues. Our problem is that we don’t have a hundred men to chase up leads. So, my plan is to get the Washington Police Department working for us.”

“Good luck,” Pete said skeptically. “What should I do?”

“Be nice to the cops, and leave the talking to me.”

“I believe I can handle that.”

Anthony drove fast and quickly found the address in the police report. It was a small one-family home on a quiet street. A police cruiser was parked outside.

Before going into the house, Anthony studied the opposite side of the street, scrutinizing the houses. After a moment he spotted what he was looking for: a face in an upstairs window, watching him. It was an elderly woman, with white hair. She did not step back from the window when she caught his eye but returned his stare with unabashed curiosity. She was just what he needed, a neighborhood busybody. He smiled and gave her a salute, and she inclined her head in acknowledgment.

He turned away and approached the house that had been broken into. He could see scratches and a little splintering on the doorjamb where the
lock had been forced; a neat, professional job with no unnecessary damage, he thought. That fitted Luke.

The door was opened by an attractive young woman who was expecting a baby—pretty soon, he guessed. She took Anthony and Pete into her living room, where two men were sitting on the couch, drinking coffee and smoking. One was a uniformed patrolman. The other, a young man in a cheap sharkskin suit, was probably a detective. In front of them was a splayed-leg coffee table with a red Formica top. An open bag was on the table.

Anthony introduced himself. He showed his identification to the cops. He did not want Mrs. Bonetti—and all her friends and neighbors—to know that the CIA was interested in the case, so he said, “We’re colleagues of these police officers.”

The detective was Lewis Hite. “You know something about this?” he said guardedly.

“I think we may have some information that will help you. But first, I need to know what you’ve got.”

Hite spread his hands in a gesture of bafflement. “We got a bag belongs to a guy named Rowley Anstruther, Jr., from New York. He breaks into Mrs. Bonetti’s house, takes a shower, and goes away, leaving his bag behind. Go figure!”

Anthony studied the case. It was a good-quality tan leather bag, less than half full. He looked through the contents. There were clean shirts and underwear, but no shoes, pants, or jackets.

“Looks like Mr. Anstruther arrived in Washington from New York today,” he said.

Hite nodded, but Mrs. Bonetti said admiringly, “How do you know that?”

Anthony smiled. “Detective Hite will tell you.” He did not want to offend Hite by stealing his limelight.

“The bag contains clean underwear but no laundry,” Hite explained. “The guy hasn’t changed his clothes, so he probably hasn’t yet spent a night away. That means he left home this morning.”

Anthony said, “I believe some old clothes were also left behind.”

The patrolman, whose name was Lonnie, said, “I got ’em.” He lifted a cardboard box from beside the couch. “Raincoat,” he said, sorting through the contents. “Shirt, pants, shoes.”

Anthony recognized them. They were the rags Luke had been wearing. “I don’t believe Mr. Anstruther came to this house,” Anthony said. “I think the bag was stolen from him this morning, probably at Union Station.” He looked at the patrolman. “Lonnie, would you call the precinct nearest the railroad station and ask if such a theft has been reported? That’s if Mrs. Bonetti will permit us to use the phone.”

“Of course,” she said. “It’s in the hall.”

Anthony added, “The theft report should list the contents of the bag. I believe you’ll find they include a suit and a pair of shoes that are not here now.” They were all staring at him in astonishment. “Please make a careful note of the description of the suit.”

“Okay.” The patrolman went into the hallway.

Anthony felt good. He had managed to take command of the investigation without offending the police. Detective Hite now looked at him as if waiting for instructions. “Mr. Anstruther must be a man of six foot one or two, about one hundred eighty pounds, athletic build,” he said. “Lewis, if you check the size of those shirts, you’ll probably find they’re sixteen neck, thirty-five sleeve.”

“They are—I already checked,” Hite said.

“I should have known you’d be ahead of me.” Anthony flattered him with a wry smile. “We have a picture of the man we believe stole the bag and broke into this house.” Anthony nodded to Pete, who handed Hite a sheaf of photographs. “We don’t have a name for him,” Anthony lied. “He’s six foot one, one hundred eighty pounds, athletic build, and he may pretend to have lost his memory.”

“So what’s the story?” Hite was intrigued. “This guy wanted Anstruther’s clothes, and he came here to change?”

“Something like that.”

“But why?”

Anthony looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.”

Hite was pleased. “Classified, huh? No problem.”

Lonnie came back. “Dead right about the theft. Union Station, eleven-thirty this morning.”

Anthony nodded. He had impressed the hell out of the two cops. “And the suit?”

“Navy blue, with a chalk stripe.”

He turned to the detective. “So, you can put out a photo and description including the clothes he’s wearing.”

“You think he’s still in town.”

“Yes.” Anthony was not as sure as he pretended, but he could not think of any reason for Luke to leave Washington.

“I presume he’s in a car.”

“Let’s find out.” Anthony turned to Mrs. Bonetti. “What’s the name of the white-haired lady who lives across the street, a couple of doors down?”

“Rosemary Sims.”

“She spends a lot of time looking out her window?”

“We call her Nosy Rosie.”

“Excellent.” He turned to the detective. “Shall we have a word with her?”

“Yep.”

They crossed the street and knocked on Mrs. Sims’s door. She opened it instantly—she had been waiting in the hall. “I saw him!” she said immediately. “He went in there looking like a bum, and came out dressed to the nines!”

Anthony made a gesture indicating that Hite should ask the questions. Hite said, “Did he have a car, Mrs. Sims?”

“Yes, a nice little blue-and-white model. I thought it didn’t belong to anyone in this street.” She looked at them slyly. “I know what you’re going to ask me next.”

“Did you happen to notice the license plate?” Hite asked.

“Yes,” she said triumphantly. “I wrote it down.”

Anthony smiled.

The upper stages of the missile are contained in an aluminum tub with a cast magnesium base. The upper-stage tub rests on bearings, allowing it to spin during flight. It will rotate at about 550 revolutions per minute to improve accuracy.

On Thirty-seventh Street at the end of O Street, the iron gates of Georgetown University stood open. Around three sides of a muddy lawn were Gothic buildings of rusticated gray stone, and students and faculty hurried from one building to another in their cold-weather coats. As Luke drove slowly in, he imagined that someone might catch his eye, recognize him, and say, “Hey, Luke! Over here!” And the nightmare would be over.

Many of the professors wore clerical collars, and Luke realized this must be a Catholic university. It also appeared to be all-male.

He wondered whether he was Catholic.

He parked in front of the main entrance, a triple-arched portico marked Healy Hall. Inside he found a reception desk and the first woman he had seen here. She said that the physics department was directly below where he stood, and told him to go outside and turn down a flight of steps that led beneath the portico. He felt he was coming nearer to the heart of the mystery, like a treasure hunter penetrating the chambers in an Egyptian pyramid.

Following her directions, he found a large laboratory with benches down the center and doors on either side that led to smaller offices. At
one of the benches, a group of men was working with the components of a microwave spectrograph. They all wore eyeglasses. Judging by their ages, Luke thought they were professors and graduate students. Some of them might easily be people he knew. He approached them with an expectant look.

One of the older men caught his eye, but there was no flash of recognition. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” Luke said. “Is there a department of geophysics here?”

“Goodness, no,” he said. “At this university, even physics is considered a minor subject.” The others laughed.

Luke gave them all a chance to look at him, but none seemed to know him. He had chosen badly, he thought despondently; he probably should have gone to George Washington University. “What about astronomy?”

“Why, yes, of course. The heavens, we study. Our observatory is famous.”

His spirits lifted. “Where is it?”

The man pointed to a door at the back of the lab. “Go to the other end of this building and you’ll see it on the far side of the baseball diamond.” He returned his attention to the bench.

Luke followed a long, dark, dirty corridor that ran the length of the building. Seeing a stooped man in professorial tweeds coming the other way, Luke looked him in the eye, a smile ready to break out if the professor recognized him. But a nervous expression came over the man’s face, and he hurried by.

Undaunted, Luke walked on, giving the same look to everyone he passed who might possibly be a scientist, but no one showed any sign of recognition. Leaving the building, he saw tennis courts and a view of the Potomac River, and to the west, across the sports field, a white dome.

He approached it with mounting anticipation. On the flat roof of a small two-storey house was a large revolving observatory, its dome having a sliding roof section. It was an expensive facility that indicated a serious astronomy department. Luke stepped inside the building.

The rooms were arranged around a massive central pillar that supported the enormous weight of the dome. Luke opened a door and
saw an empty library. He tried another and found an attractive woman about his own age sitting behind a typewriter. “Good morning,” he said. “Is the professor in?”

“You mean Father Heyden?”

“Uh, yes.”

“And you are?”

“Um . . .” Luke had stupidly not foreseen that he would have to give a name. Now his hesitation caused the secretary to raise her eyebrows mistrustfully. “He won’t know me,” Luke said. “That is . . . he will know me, I hope, but not by name.”

Her suspicion grew. “Still, you do have a name.”

“Luke. Professor Luke.”

“To which university are you attached, Professor Luke?”

“Um . . . New York.”

“Any particular one of New York’s many institutions of higher learning?”

Luke’s heart sank. In his enthusiasm he had failed to plan for this encounter, and now he saw that he was making a mess of it. When you’re in a hole, it’s best to stop digging, he thought. He turned off his friendly smile and spoke coldly. “I didn’t come here to be cross-examined,” he said. “Just tell Father Heyden that Professor Luke, the rocketry physicist, has dropped by and would like a word with him, would you?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” she said firmly.

Luke left the room, slamming the door. He was angry with himself more than with the secretary, who was only protecting her boss from being pestered by an apparent nutcase. He decided to look around, opening doors until either someone recognized him or he was thrown out. He went up the stairs to the second floor. The building seemed to be deserted. He climbed a wooden stair with no handrail and entered the observatory. It, too, was empty. He stood admiring the large revolving telescope with its complex system of cogs and gears, a real masterpiece of engineering, and wondered what the hell he was going to do next.

The secretary came up the stairs. He prepared himself for a row, but
instead she spoke sympathetically. “You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you,” she said.

Her kindness brought a lump to his throat. “It’s very embarrassing,” he said. “I’ve lost my memory. I know I’m in the rocketry field, and I was hoping to run into someone who might recognize me.”

“There’s nobody here right now,” she said. “Professor Larkley is giving a lecture on rocket fuels at the Smithsonian Institute, as part of International Geophysical Year, and all the faculty is there.”

Luke felt a surge of hope. Instead of one geophysicist he could meet a whole roomful. “Where’s the Smithsonian Institute?”

“It’s downtown, right in the Mall, around Tenth Street.”

He had driven around Washington enough today to know that that was not far away. “What time is the lecture?”

“It started at three.”

Luke checked his watch. It was three-thirty. If he hurried, he could get there by four. “The Smithsonian,” he repeated.

“Actually, it’s in the Aircraft Building, around the back.”

“How many people will be at the lecture, do you know?”

“About a hundred and twenty.”

Surely one of them would know him!

“Thank you!” he said, and he ran down the stairs and out of the building.