Alan Foster - Exceptions to Reality

“He’s going topost what ?”

Hayes looked up from his handheld. He had known from the beginning that this was going to be tough to explain. Now that he actually found himself in the conference room with the others, the true difficulty of it was more apparent than ever. Nonetheless he not only had to try, he had to convince them of the seriousness of the situation.

Outside, the sun was shining through a dusky scrim of clouds: a perfect Virginia autumn day. The trees were as saturated with color as high-priced film, the creeks were meandering rather than running, and he would have preferred to be anywhere other than in the room. Unfortunately there was the minor matter of a job. It was a good job, his was, and he wanted to keep it. Even if it meant commuting to Quantico from the woodsy homestead he shared with his wife and two kids.

The men and women seated at the table were sensible folk. Practical, rational, intelligent. How was he going to explain the situation to them? Aware that the silence that had followed Morrison’s query was gathering size and strength like a quiet thunderhead, he decided he might as well plunge onward.

“The Necronomicon,” he explained. “Online. All of it. Unless the government of the United States agrees to pay ten million dollars into a specified Swiss bank account by midnight tomorrow.”

“That’s not much time.” Marion Tiffin fiddled with her glasses, which irrespective of the style of the day always seemed to be sliding off her nose.

Voice low and threatening, Morrison leaned forward over the table. “What, pray tell, is this ‘Necronomicon,’ and why should we give one of the hundreds of nutso hackers this Section deals with every month ten dollars not to post it online, much less ten million?”

Hayes fought to hold his ground, intellectual as well as physical. He might as well, he knew. There was no place else to go. “It’s a legendary volume of esoteric lore, thought for many years to be the fictional invention of a writer from Providence.”

“Providence as in Heaven or Providence as in Rhode Island?” Spitzer wanted to know. Spitzer was the biggest man in the room. By the physical conditioning standards of the Bureau, he ought to have been let go twenty years ago. That had not happened because he was recognizably smarter than almost everyone else. It was Spitzer who had solved the White River murders six years ago, and Spitzer who had deduced the psychological pattern that had allowed the Bureau to claim credit for catching the Cleveland serial child killer Frank Coleman. So his girth was conveniently ignored when the time came, as it inevitably did, to update personnel files.

“The state,” Hayes replied flatly. It was no good getting into a battle of wits with Spitzer. You’d lose.

Chief Agent Morrison leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. His bristly blond hair looked stiff enough to remove paint. “I’m surprised at you, Hayes. Unless you’re doing this to try to lighten the mood. Otherwise I think your story makes a good item for the tabloid files.”

“No.” This was even harder than Hayes had imagined it was going to be. “It’s a genuine threat, not a crank call. Don’t you think I’d check it out before bringing it up here for discussion? Give me five minutes.”

Morrison glanced absently at his watch. “Okay—but only if you make it fun.”

Hayes wanted to say that it was anything but fun, but suspected that if he did so, he would lose his precious five minutes. And he could not afford to. “The hacker calls himself Wilbur. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s even his real name. He says he gained access to the restricted section of the Special Collections Department at the Widener Library at Harvard, snuck in a portable wide-angle scanner, and spent the better part of a day copying out as much of this venerable if not venerated book as he could manage.”

Morrison frowned. “I thought you said it was fictional.”

“No. I said it was thought to be fictional. Just for the hell of it, I checked with Harvard. Routine follow-up to this sort of thing. I had to go through four different people until I could find someone who’d admit to the library even possessing the volume in question. As soon as I did so, they went off to recheck my identification and credentials.

“I finally got to speak to a Professor Fitchburn. When I told him the reason for my call, he got downright frantic. First he sent someone to check the records of recent visitors to the restricted shelves of the Widener. They were able to identify only three people in the past year who had been granted access to see the book. All three were well known to the staff, either academically, personally, or both. Then someone—apparently people were gathering in this Fitchburn’s office all the time we were talking—remembered that a renovation crew had been in the Special Collections area for less than a week back in April, updating the fire suppression system. That must have been how this Wilbur guy gained access.”

“He would have to have known the book is there, what to look for,” Tiffin pointed out.

“Even if all of this is true, so what?” Morrison reached for the glass of ice water that always stood ready exactly six inches to the northeast of his notepad. “What does Harvard want us to do about it? Perform an exorcism? Tell this Fitchburn to contact the local Catholic parish.” Under his breath he growled, “Damn academics.”

“It’s not that kind of esoterica.” Hayes’s fingers kept twisting together, like small snakes seeking holes in which to hide. “The information in it has nothing to do with any of the major religions. It’s—Professor Fitchburn was reluctant to go into details. I got the feeling he didn’t want to tell me any more about it than he felt I needed to know.”

“This discussion is also woefully short on details.” Morrison checked his watch again. “Your five minutes are about up, Hayes, and we have real work to do this morning. Sorry that all these kidnappings and murders and terrorist threats have to take up our valuable time.”

“You remember the sinking of the Paradise Four ?” Hayes asked him.

It was Van Wert who responded. “The cruise ship that sank off Pohnpei in that typhoon six months ago?”

Hayes nodded. “This Wilbur claims he’s responsible for that. Claims he was trying out a couple of pages from the scanned book.”

Morrison guffawed. “Typical nutcase. Next he’ll be claiming credit for last week’s earthquake in Denver.”

“As a matter of fact…,” Hayes began.

“Five minutes are up.” The Chief Agent shuffled the neat pile of papers in front of him, preparatory to changing the subject.

At that point it was doubtful he would have listened to anyone—except Spitzer. “A seven point one. Lots of property damage, forty-six killed, hundreds injured.”

“I know the stats,” Morrison growled, but let the big man continue.

Spitzer scratched at his impregnable five o’clock shadow. “Denver doesn’t have earthquakes. It’s situated in a tectonically stable region. The geologists said it was a freak occurrence. They still can’t find the fault responsible for the geological shift.”

“So?” Morrison groused. Time was fleeting.

“What,” Spitzer continued softly, “if there is no fault?”

“Are you actually suggesting that it was somehow this Wilbur person’s fault?” Tiffin was gaping at the big man. “Sorry.”

Spitzer was looking at Hayes. “All I’m saying is that while gaining admittance to the restricted section of the Special Collections Department of the Harvard Library may not be a federal crime, and therefore not fall under our purview, making threats against and attempting to extort money from the government is another matter entirely. Bob, I presume you’ve tried to trace this Wilbur person and without success, or you wouldn’t be here discussing the matter with us.”