Harry Harrison - The Turing Option

No one else wanted to ask how these fortuitous cases of food poisoning had happened, so Brian kept his mouth shut as well.

“The plan is a very simple one that has proven effective in the past. Precisely at four the fire alarm will sound and everyone will be asked to evacuate the buildings. As soon as that happens two agents will secure the office, allowing no access to any files or records, while the other two agents will occupy the research premises. The team that goes in will be wearing these helmets so we will all be able to watch every phase of the operation.” Agent Vorsky reached down and picked up a helmet that he placed on the table. It looked like a black-plastic baseball cap with a light mounted on top.

“This is made of very tough plastic and protects the wearer’s head. More important to us is this omnidirectional pickup on top. This device works completely independent of the wearer. The image is stabilized by a laser-gyroscope and is controlled by our operators here. No matter which way the wearer walks — or turns his head — we will pick up the image that we choose.”

He twisted the helmet up and down, turned it around quickly — but the lens always remained facing at the screen.

“There are six separate hit teams and these units will be worn by one man on each team. These six images will all appear on our screens. Our mixers here will enlarge the most relevant one and you will hear the sound from that one. All of the images will of course be recorded for later study. What we will be doing now is letting you follow the operation in real time.”

“Any questions?” Manias asked. “There is just enough time left for me to tell you what we will do. Firstly we secure all equipment and records so that nothing can be sabotaged. Then everyone working there — as well as the four employees off sick today — will be taken into custody and interrogated. We have a lot of questions to ask and I know that we will get answers to all of them. Countdown has now begun at minus ten minutes.”

The other conference room vanished and was replaced by six very uninteresting pictures. Two must have been located inside darkened trucks because the harsh black-and-white pictures were obviously being taken with infrared light. The picture on the upper right was of shrubbery and tree leaves; the other three were black. Brain pointed.

“Burned out?”

“Probably turned off. Agents in cars or visible to the public. Don’t want to attract attention yet by putting on those Mickey Mouse hats. Six minutes to go.”

At zero minus two things got busier. All the screens were on now, two of them showing the view through the windshields of moving cars. All of the hit teams were now converging on the plant.

When the countdown hit zero things began to happen very fast. The hooting of fire alarms sounded. The images on the screen stayed pointed straight ahead under the operators’ remote control, but some of them bobbed up and down as the agents wearing the devices ran forward. Doors were forced open, there were shouts of surprise, firm orders to remain calm.

Then one of the images enlarged suddenly to show an armed agent forcing open a door. Inside was a group of men standing against the wall, hands raised. A man with a gun faced them, obviously an agent since the others hurried past him.

“That’s an electronic lab,” Brian said.

As the lab scene shrank to its original size a scene of men hurrying through an office door expanded to take its place. A shocked woman just going out tried to stop them.

“What’s this? You can’t go in there — who are you?”

“FBI. Stand aside, please.”

A hand reached out and opened the inner door. Which must have been soundproof because the gray-haired man sitting at the large desk was punching a number into his phone and did not even look up. The scene moved into the room before he heard something and looked their way, putting the phone down.

“Where is the fire? And what are you doing in my office?”

“There is no fire, Mr. Thomsen.”

“Then get out of here — now!”

“Are you Mr. Thomsen, Managing Director of DigitTech?”

“I’m calling the police,” Thomsen said, grabbing up the telephone.

“We are the police, sir. Here is my identification.”

Thomsen looked at the badge, then slowly lowered the phone.

“All right, you’re FBI. Now tell me just what the hell you think you are doing here.”

He dropped back into his chair and had gone very pale. He did not look well.

“You are Mr. Thomsen?”

“My name is on the goddamned door. Are you going to tell me what you are doing here?”

“I am going to caution you now so that you know your rights.” Thomsen was silent as the agent read him his rights from the card. Only when he was done did he repeat the question.

“Your firm and you are under investigation…”

“That’s damn obvious! You had better tell me what you are playing at.”

“We have reason to believe that a person or persons employed with this firm was directly involved with criminal acts in California on February 8 of this year at Megalobe Industries.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

It happened with horrifying speed. There was a thunderous explosion, a sheet of flame, smoke.

Loud cries, someone screaming.

The picture on the screen swung dizzily, showed floor, wall, spun about.

Another screen expanded to prominence, the shouting continued, the displayed picture moved quickly into the room through the doorway.

The office was a gutted shambles, men coughed in the smoke that filled it. “ Medic!” someone shouted. Agents were climbing to their feet. The view swung about the room, moved back and zoomed in on the white wall.

“Blood,” Benicoff said. “What in hell happened in there?”

Other voices shouted the same thing. The camera was jostled to one side as two medics ran in, bent over the figures on the floor. A moment later an agent with smoke-blackened face, a trickle of blood on his forehead, turned to face the camera.

“Bombs. In the telephones. The one on the desk was close to us, I have two men badly injured. But the suspect — he was wearing his personal phone on his belt.” The agent hesitated, took a grim, deep breath.

“He was practically blown in half. He is really but dead.”

They watched in numb silence as the reports came in one by one. Other than this incident, this disaster, the rest of the operation had been a complete success. All of the suspects had been secured and were in custody: no records, files or machines had been touched or sabotaged. A police guard had moved into position and now surrounded the premises. The only alteration to the original plans was that a reinforced bomb squad was going over everything before the technicians entered any of the buildings. They would be alone inside the complex until the premises had been secured.

One of the agents was dead, another mangled severely.

“Suicide?” Brian finally said. “Did Thomsen kill himself, Ben?”

“I doubt that. He was all bluster at first, but beginning to ravel at the edges — you saw how worried he looked. If he was planning suicide he was a remarkable actor. My snap guess is that he was killed to shut him up. He must have had information on the people we are looking for, was probably one of them himself. This is not the first time they have killed — or tried to kill — to ensure silence. They are a brutal lot.”

“But how did they know what was happening?”

“Lots of ways, bug the office, maybe bug the whole building. But I think we will find out that it was the telephones. They are all solid-state now and never malfunction. Filled with gadgetry. They record calls, answer calls, remote page, conference, fax facility, you name it. Easy enough to fix a phone so that it is always turned on, always being monitored and listened to by another number. Put some plastic explosive inside with a coded detonator. It could sit there for years waiting for the right moment. Then when the day comes and whoever is listening doesn’t like what he hears he presses the button — and boom. End of conversation, end of party.”