Michael Crichton - Binary

`Right, 701. Are you with us?'

`No,' Graves said. `We're staying here.' He clicked off the microphone and said to Lewis, `I want to look inside that hangar.'

It took them three minutes to get to the hangar, and by that time it was deserted except for an elderly man who was cleaning up with a long broom. There were one or two workmen out by the jet, but they paid no attention as Graves and Lewis went into the hangar.

The old man waved and leaned on his broom. `You looking for Mr Johnson?'

`Yes,' Graves said.

`Just missed him,' the old man said. `Left a couple minutes ago.'

`Damn,' Graves said. `You know where he went?'

`No idea,' the old man said. `He's a strange one. I guess rich people get that way.' He pointed to a corner of the room. `I mean, look at that,' he said. There were several boxes stacked in the corner. `Now what am I supposed to do with that? Oh, bring in plenty of it, says Mr Johnson. And then he doesn't touch it.'

Graves looked at the boxes. `What's in them?'

`Detergent,' the old man said. `Gallon jugs of detergent. He wanted ten of them. Don't ask me why - he didn't touch them.'

`When did he ask for them?' Graves said. He walked ever and opened one of the cardboard boxes. Inside was a jug marked KEN-ALL 7588 INDUSTRIAL DETERGENT.

`Last week. Wanted to be sure he had them.'

`What's this stuff normally used for?'

The old man shrugged and continued sweeping. `This is an airfield,' he said. `We use a lot of it to get grease off parts. That stuff will cut anything. Axle grease, anything, cuts it right off.'

Graves nodded.

Across the hangar Lewis was bent over. `Have a look at this,' he said. He pointed to a small plastic bag on the concrete floor.

`Dozens of those around,' the old man said. `All over the floor when I came in.'

Graves picked up the bag, sniffed it, touched the inside surface. There was some kind of milky, oily stuff inside.

`He's been getting this place ready for a week,' the old man said. `Bring in equipment, take out equipment, new stuff, old stuff. Damnedest thing you ever saw. For instance, he has this washing machine -'

`Washing machine?'

`Sure. It's still here.' He pointed to the corner. `You're probably too young to remember those things.'

Graves walked over to it. It was an old-fashioned hand-operated tub washing machine with two rollers mounted above for a wringer. The rollers were operated with a crank. Beyond the rollers was a long, flat tray of highly polished metal.

Graves looked at the manufacturer's label: WESTINGHOUSE. The year was 1931.

`Now what,' asked the old man, `does Mr Johnson want with an old washing machine? Huh?'

Graves began to feel nervous. For the first time all day, he felt that Wright was too far ahead of him, that the clues were too subtle, that the game was beyond him. A washing machine?

Lewis touched the roller assembly. `I guess you could squeeze out a thin strip of anything on that machine,' he said, `assuming it had the right consistency. A putty kind of consistency.'

Plastic bags on the floor, boxes of industrial detergent in the corner - ordered but unused - and a washing machine. Then he remembered.

`Where's the pump?'

`I don't know,' Lewis said. `But it doesn't matter. Look over here.' He pointed to some equipment near the washing machine. A canvas tarp was draped over it; he pulled it away.

`Spray gun and four cans of paint.' He bent over. `Black, yellow, white, red.'

`He was using the pump to spray paint?'

`That'd be my guess,' Lewis said.

Graves looked around the room. `What'd he spray it onto?'

`Whatever it was, he took it with him. Wait a minute.' Lewis was again bent over. `Have a look at this.'

He moved another tarp to reveal a full rubber diving wet suit, a full face mask that covered eyes, nose, and mouth, and a small air tank - one of the three that Graves had seen Wright purchase earlier in the day.

There were also several black rubber loops of different sizes.

`Just one suit?'

`Looks like it,' Lewis said. He moved the suit with his foot, spreading it flat on the floor. 'Wright's size?'

`Roughly. But these black loops…'

`I counted six,' Lewis said. `Four little ones, one big one, and one medium.'

`What the hell did he use them for?'

The old man came over and stood by them, staring down at the rubber suit. `You ask me,' he said, `he's just a crazy man. Rich people get that way.' He sighed. `Ten gallons of detergent. Now what am I going to do with that?'

Graves was tense in the car going back to San Diego. Lewis asked him what he was thinking about and he said, `My psychological tests.'

`Did they surprise you?'

`In a way.' He didn't bother to explain.

Graves felt the same way about his tests that he did whenever somebody sent him a photograph of himself. The question in his mind was, Is that the way you see me? Really? It was surprising. There was nothing new, no great discovery - but the quality, the em?hasis, could be unsettling.

It was no news to, him that he was competitive. He'd spent enough late nights playing poker with killers -and Washington had plenty of lethal poker players, Mood players who got into nothing but twenty-dollartnte games - to know that he was fiercely competitive. He liked to win and he hated to lose. That was nothing new.

The idea of his impulsiveness was not new, either. He had recognized it in himself. But the notion that this impulsiveness could be destructive - could get in his way - that was new. He had never considered it before.

There was a second problem relating to the psychological tests: How had he managed to get them in the first place? Burnett had been reluctant until Graves mentioned something about Wright. Then Burnett couldn't move fast enough.

Why?

The car radio buzzed. Lewis answered it. `701 here.'

`701, this is Central. Do you have Mr Graves there?F

'He's with me,' Lewis said, and handed the mike to Graves.

`Graves speaking.'

`We have a Washington call for you. Hold on please.'

There was a clicking, an electronic tone, and more clicking.

`Listen, you son of a bitch, I want your information.' Graves recognized the voice as Morrison at Defence.

`What information?' He glanced at Lewis and lit a cigarette.

`Look, god damn it, we had a shipment stolen last night.'

`Did you.' Graves kept his voice calm, but his heart was thumping wildly.

`Yes we did, and now somebody's got themselves a half-ton of ZV gas in binary aerosol cylinders, and we want to know who.'

`You certainly ought to be concerned,' Graves said, `but this is an open line.'

`Screw the open '

`You say it was ZV gas?' Graves said.

`You're fucking right.'

`Isn't that nerve gas?'

`You get your -'

`I'll tell you what,' Graves said. `You fill out requisition form KL-915 and send it over to us, and maybe we can get you the information by the end of the week.'

When he hung up, he began to feel better. The pieces were beginning to fall together. Wright was no longer so far ahead.

`Was he serious?' Lewis asked.

`Completely,' Graves said.

`Half a ton of nerve gas was stolen?'

`Right,' Graves said.

The radio buzzed again. Graves answered it.

`Where are you? This is Phelps.'

`I know who it is. I'm going west on Route Five from El Cajon.'

`Do you have Wright with you?'

`No.'

`You've made a terrible mistake,' Phelps said. `Binary 75 slash 76 is -'

`I know what it is,' Graves said.

`I doubt that,' Phelps said. `I'm at the Westgate Plaza Hotel, Room 1012. How fast can you get here?'

`Fifteen minutes.'