Jim DeFelice - Cyclops One

Fisher spotted a pot of coffee on a credenza nearby. “Can I have a cup?”

“I’m sorry — the coffee is cold,” said the woman.

“I drink it cold.”

She smiled indulgently.

“Actually, I’m looking for Justin Pierce,” said Fisher. “I understand he’s the titular head of the agency.”

The word came out smoothly, despite the innuendo.

“Mr. Pierce is never in,” said the woman.

Fisher scratched the side of his head, emphasizing his confusion.

“Lice?” asked the woman.

“I think they’re gone, actually,” said Fisher. “Shampoo worked wonders. I want to talk to Megan York’s boss. I believe that would be the head of the technical support team. His name was Lee, I think.”

“Her name is Sylvia Lee, and she is in Hawaii for a conference.”

“ABM tests?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Personnel records?”

The woman curled her lips. Now he remembered who she was supposed to be: Cruella, the dog-hater in 101 Dalmations .

“Our personnel records are confidential. Unless you have a court order, of course. That’s the law.”

“Yeah, the law’s a funny thing,” said Fisher. “Who deals with the contractors, Miss—”

“That would be Ms.”

“You deal with them?”

“Only the general.”

“Your accounting office is which way?” said Fisher.

“Accounting is handled by an independent firm,” said the woman.

“Organizational chart?”

“It’s being redone. Anything else?”

“If you let me take a shot at that coffee,” said Fisher,

“I’ll bark for you.”

The halls of the Rayburn Building were proportioned in such a way as to impress mere mortals as they walked down them, and not even Fisher was immune to their spell. He felt imbibed in the spirit of democracy as he found Congressman Matt Taft’s office; though a poor government worker himself, Fisher understood the inherent importance of his role as public servant.

That and the fact that he had a slight caffeine buzz on, due to the consumption of not one but two Dunkin’ Donuts Big Gulps on the way over from NADT. Cruella had denied him her own blend, even after he’d demonstrated a howl pro bono.

Besides drinking the coffee, Fisher had used the trip to bone up on who exactly Congressman Taft was, besides being Megan York’s cousin. His briefing came courtesy of a newspaper reporter at The Washington Times who owed him a few favors and thirty bucks from a Super Bowl bet gone bad. Fisher had frankly expressed his ignorance, which for some reason never failed to impress newspaper reporters, and had received a detailed description of the congressman’s career, only partially condensed from the newspaper’s computer morgue.

This had taken all of two minutes. Several janitors at the Capitol Building had higher profiles than Megan York’s cousin. The twenty-ninth ranking minority member on the House Armed Services Committee, his name had appeared in exactly two stories over the past twelve months, and one was about rolling eggs on the White House lawn.

The congressman was not in his office, which wasn’t particularly surprising. His legislative assistant, a short, gnomelike man with a beard that reached to his chest, agreed to see him after growling at the receptionist, who reacted by cracking her gum somewhat louder than before. Fisher took one look at the gnome’s brown-stained hands and reached into his pocket.

“Why don’t we go outside?” he said, holding up his cigarettes.

The legislative assistant nearly bolted through the door. They were barely on the steps before he reached back and took a cigarette from the agent’s pack, jabbing it into his lighter.

“Been trying to quit,” said the gnome.

“Gee, and you struck me as a reasonable guy,” said Fisher. He followed the gnome down the steps, watching as the man’s entire body underwent a transformation. Five minutes ago he had been an exploited career bureaucrat; now he was a maker of men.

“No way I’m quitting,” said the assistant.

Whatever else happened that day, Andy Fisher had saved another soul.

“This about Megan?”

“In a way,” said Fisher.

“They found her body?”

“Nah,” said Fisher. “You think she’s dead, huh?”

“After all this time? You don’t really think she’s still alive, do you?”

Fisher shrugged.

“Look, Matt’s in an awkward position,” said the gnome. “Obviously he wants her, uh, recovered. But he can’t put pressure on a top-secret project. Technically he probably isn’t supposed to know about it, since he’s not part of the intelligence committee.”

“Do they know about it?” asked Fisher.

“I don’t know.”

“What about his calls to NADT?” said Fisher.

“Which calls to NADT?”

“He didn’t try to get General Bonham?”

“He knows Bonham, of course; maybe he called and I didn’t know.”

“How does he know Bonham?” asked Fisher.

The gnome’s eyes opened a bit wider, then slunk back in their sockets as if retreating into a cave. “They’ve known each other for a while. But from where, I don’t know.”

“Does the congressman vote on appropriations for NADT?”

The gnome did a very interesting eye-rolling thing where his eyes seemed to disappear in the back of his head, then reappear at the bottom of his feet. The effect made it seem as if his eyeballs had traveled all around his body, a not unimpressive skill and certainly one that would be appreciated in Washington, where eyes had to be rolled several times a day, at least.

“His business interests are in blind trusts, if that’s what you’re getting at,” said the gnome. “The Tafts and Yorks and Rythes — the family owns a lot of high-tech stuff. Yeah, they’re connected. But they’re big in consumer goods and oil, energy: You’d expect it.”

“That’s what I figured,” said Fisher. “What board was he on, Ferris or something?”

“Ferrone? Nah, he resigned that.”

“You have a list of his family holdings?”

“Have to talk to the trustee.”

Fisher nodded. “He doesn’t like Megan, does he?”

The gnome shrugged, then drew his cigarette down to the nub. “Sure he does. She was close to his father, General Taft.”

Fisher shoveled out another cigarette. “Who was Taft? Like, the same guy who was president?”

The eye roll again. Fisher thought it was a real winner. “Fill me in,” he prompted, giving the aide another cigarette.

General Taft — part of the same family as William Howard Taft, president and jurist, but well removed — had been a bomber pilot in World War II and had actually written a book about his experiences — self-published, of course. He and his brother-in-law, Megan’s father, made a fortune adapting early computers so they could be used in targeting devices. That alone would have made them rich, if they hadn’t been rich already.

“So they struggled through the Depression all right?” said Fisher.

“Struggled? Ever hear of the Rubber Trust?”

“Prophylactics?”

The eyes again. “ Rubber rubber. Before synthetics, it was as big as oil. Bigger. The family was hooked in. Great-great-grandfather of the congressman made a killing supplying Germany and France in World War I. When Wilson declared war, they stopped selling to everybody except the U.S.”

“How can Megan York be the daughter of somebody who fought in World War II?”

The gnome’s smile wasn’t nearly as interesting as his eye roll, and it had the unfortunate effect of ejecting an even greater than normal whiff of his bad breath.

“She’s a third-tier baby — you know, third wife. And it was the brother who fought in World War II. Megan’s father was younger, and that was a different marriage, which is why the names are different.”