“Yeah,” Ginter added disgustedly. “With imbedded programming that forwarded any radical thinking straight to Vodkaville.”
The pair had reached the bottom of the incline and Lewis studied the street sign. “Belmont Street,” he said aloud. “I guess this is where we turn left.”
They turned and walked along the right side of the street. Ginter shook his head. “Look at these cars. If we could take them all back it would be amazing. There’s a ’57 Chevy that has to be all original.”
The pair walked on in silence. Ginter turned to the younger woman. “So what was Arthur going to do with the container ship?”
“Blow it up and sink it in the harbor.”
“Why not just dress up as Indians and throw the computers overboard?”
“Huh?” Pamela asked.
“Nothing. Just a joke. How was he going to blow it? Use a mine?”
“He’s got a friend who’s a fire-eater in the Harbor Guard. His job is to board all in-bound ships and scan for weapons, contraband, booby traps, that sort of stuff. He had this device to scan for explosives except Arthur was going to load the scanner itself with C-4 and a detonator and this guy was going to get Arthur on board as his assistant. They’d be down in the hold and set a timer and then just say that there had been an explosion. The wreck would block the harbor for six months. Arthur figures that they wouldn’t get it up till next spring. Meanwhile the whole harbor is shut down and there is more resentment against the provisional authority.”
“Just C-4?” Ginter asked. “I’ve seen those scanners, they’re about the size of a briefcase. They hold maybe four pounds.”
Pamela shrugged. “I guess so.”
“I know a bit about explosives,” Ginter continued. “There’s no way that would be enough to blow a hole in a Russian container ship. Those babies are double hulled. The force would dissipate. Even if you punched through the hull the ship would never sink in time. The pumps could easily keep up till it made dock.”
Lewis Ginter walked on, head down. He turned again to Pamela. “How well do you know Arthur? Is he likely to have miscalculated the amount of C-4 needed to sink a container ship?”
Pamela shrugged. “He’s done other bombings. Blew up the car owned by the civil administrator in Portland. Except the freakin’ guy wasn’t in it at the time. Did the CA recruiting offices in Bangor. Supposedly he’s done others but I really don’t know the guy.”
Lewis came to a full stop in the street and turned and looked at Pamela. He started to say something, but then changed his mind and resumed walking.
“Don’t know the guy?” Ginter asked. “I thought you and he were—you know—a couple?”
Pamela laughed. “Me and Arthur Pomeroy? We’re not a couple. We never have been. I know Arthur from Portland. Seen him in some meetings and stuff but we’re not together.”
“Oh, I thought, I guess I just assumed that. You’re just the percussionist.”
“Percussionist?” Pamela asked, perplexed.
“Bomb maker. Bomb designer. You know, the explosives expert,” he said, seeing Pamela’s blank expression.
“An old military term.” Ginter waved his hand. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”
Pamela took a few more steps before speaking. When she did there was uncertainty in her voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I don’t know anything about bombs.”
Lewis Ginter slowly came to a stop and turned again toward Pamela. Her face betrayed nothing but apparent confusion. He reached out and grabbed her arm. When he spoke, he did so slowly, deliberately spacing each word.
“What do you mean you don’t know anything about bombs?” he asked. “Weren’t you Arthur’s bomb maker?”
Pamela shook her head in bewilderment. “Me? No way. All I ever did was put pamphlets into those circulars at restaurants and such. You know the circulars advertising used cars and real estate you see all around? I’d swipe a whole bunch and then insert information packets about the Sovs and then put the whole bunch back the next day. I never did anything violent.”
Pamela looked down at her arm and winched with pain. Over her shoulder Ginter could see a housewife in a white cape style house peering at him through a front picture window. Ginter swore to himself and let go of her arm. He turned and started walking again.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize my grip was so tight.”
She rubbed her left arm. “Why are you so upset?” she asked.
“I was told you were an explosives expert and that’s why Eckleburg sent you to check out our weapon.”
“Who told you that?” Pamela asked.
“Eckleburg told me that night in New…” Ginter stopped in mid-sentence.
“Shit. Shit. SHIT!” he said. “Eckleburg never told me that. It was Lorrie Maddox who told me that.”
He replayed the scene of himself standing at the doorway in Newton peering out at the falling torrent as Lorrie explained that Pamela was the bomb expert who Eckleburg had chosen to check out the Intervention Project.
“If you’re not a bomb maker, then why did Eckleburg think you were?” he asked.
“Search me. I never told him I was.”
“You only met Eckleburg twice, and were not Pomeroy’s girlfriend. Then what were you doing in Newton?”
“I came down to see Eckleburg to get money for a computer system to hack into print shops and change the text before production. We would have been able to print all sorts of messages on mass mailings.”
“We?” Ginter asked.
“Me and some friends in Portland.”
“When did you come down to ask him?”
“July, beginning of the month. I came down the weekend of the Fourth for the fireworks. I stayed at Lorrie’s.”
“Before Pomeroy was picked up?”
Pamela nodded. “I saw Eckleburg that Friday and ran the request by him. He said he’d think about it and get back to me. Arthur got picked up after I was back in Maine. I heard that Eckleburg wanted to meet me again and so I came back down and he asked me to do this job for him. But I never said I was any bomb expert.”
“That was the only other time you saw him?”
Pamela pondered a moment. “Yeah, except at that meeting at Lorrie’s house the night I met you. It was during the week and I had to leave work early.”
“I saw you at a meeting in Somerville last April,” Ginter argued.
Pamela nodded again. “Yeah. A friend up in Portland told me Arthur was down here and had a good money connection and I should go down and meet this guy. She set it up and I came down and hooked up with Arthur who took me to that meeting. It was a Saturday night; I remember that. The doctor was supposed to be there and I was going to meet him but he never showed up. Arthur got drunk and was running off at the mouth and I got spooked. I had to work Monday so the next day I drove back to Portland.”
“How long had Arthur been down here?”
Pamela considered. “I’m not sure exactly. I think he said he came down the end of January.”
“End of January?” Ginter was incredulous. “He came down in January to ask for money and was still here in July? What the hell was he doing all that time?”
Pamela shrugged. “He got a job delivering the Boston Herald in the morning. You know, a paper route. Dropped them off at stores and stuff. He said it was good money and things had been a bit warm for him in Portland since he tried to blow up that guy last fall.”
Ginter considered. “Did Gonzalez get him the job at the Herald?”
Pamela pursed her lips. “Gonzalez? Yeah, I think Arthur said that he did. The guy at Lorrie’s house, right? Carlos?”
Ginter walked on, head bowed. A hundred possibilities floated in and out of his mind.