'Just give it your best. We're not doing much better here.' He'd picked up her disappointment. 'Anyway, there's new developments. Could be a breakthrough.'
'What's happened?' The excitement caught at her.
'Reindeer's not alone any more.' He was being careful, knew that however closed a phone circuit was, there was always the possibility of someone overhearing. 'West Wing's joined him.'
'Where?'
'Hanover. In Germany. He worked as a baggage handler. Had just loaded a small commuter plane when he walked into one of its propellers. The plane was starting to taxi, it was a late flight, so no-one found him, or what was left, till the next morning.'
'Anything unusual?'
'Only that he was sixty five and about to retire.'
'Police say anything?'
'Our people are chasing that now. We've got to be careful. Can't use the usual channels. But, according to what we know, it's being treated as an accident. I think he had an alcohol problem. According to his wife.'
'You spoke to her?'
'She rang through. That's how we found out. She was also worried about her pension.'
Who isn't, thought Billie. 'Is that it?'
'For now. I'll get a full report, then modem it through to you.'
'Did the computer show anything?' she asked. She knew the answer before he replied.
'Didn't want to know. Just like before. Same pattern. Anyway, it just opens the door a little more. Gives you more to work with.'
'Was he German?' she asked, unsure about what had prompted the question.
'I don't know. Probably. Why?'
'Just looking for a connection. Not ex-SS by any chance?' It was a joke and she said it lightly.
'Yeah, maybe we finally found Adolf Hitler. Hell, I don't know. And we'll never know now.
'Thanks, Phil.' She knew he wouldn't miss the sarcasm in her voice.
Tucker laughed. 'Have a good day now.'
She sat still for a moment before replacing the receiver.
Two dead. While she sat here in front of this unblinking screen, people were dying out there. And they expected her to find the answer, to just snatch a solution out of thin air
She thought of West Wing, thought of him being sliced and splattered by the spinning propeller, just stamped out as if he'd never existed, not even a whole being to bury.
She shook her head, turned her mind away from the awfulness of it and started to enter what little information she had.
What she couldn't key in, because she didn't know, were those final moments of death. West Wing, turning away from the twin turboprop, nineteen seater Swearingam Metro aeroliner, saw two men approaching him. They both carried long poles and circled him. It was a quiet part of the airport, away from the main terminal and more busy areas. The plane had started to taxi, to swing round towards the runway, when the men had prodded him with their weapons, pushed him backwards towards the spinning blades. He'd cried out, but no-one heard above the roar of the turbo engines. Then, before he could duck away to escape the propeller, the first blade had sliced into his skull, sliced the back of his head off in a ball of matted bloody hair, bone and brain. The second blade ripped his body in half, tore the torso from his arms and legs and left a fleshy mess on the tarmac for the undercarriage wheels to taxi over as the plane headed for the runway.
The two men who had caused his death, returned to the distant terminal. They left the poles in a engineering shed where they had found them. Both men had short blond hair and walked in step, as soldiers would.
In California, Billie keyed West Wing into her computer.
It was only a small clue, but it gave her some small hope. Maybe, when they had modemed over more information on him, she would crack the problem. And then she'd be safe. Maybe then they'd keep her on.
She wondered what instinct had prompted her to ask if West Wing had a war record.
She laughed at herself. Instinct. Some instinct. It hadn't done her much good in her life.
She went back to her terminal.
Facts. That's where the answers lay.
Suck instinct. That was for the birds.
Ch. 11
Phil Tucker sat on the edge of a table and watched the two computer programmers at work.
They were both young, in their early twenties, and more than capable of solving most problems. They had spent over a week trying to find the virus that infected the Langley computer, but with no apparent success. The real problem was that every time they switched the system on, it simply continued to corrupt the information, continuing from where it left off when the computer was powered down.
All that the programmers had managed to identify was that the virus infected only part of the whole system. Most of the Langley database was untouched, the CIA's day to day operations continuing unabated.
The sections corrupted by the virus were mainly of an archival type. Data on the activities of the Office of Strategic Services were the most affected, including the files on OSS counter-intelligence in Europe at the end of the war and up to 1947, when it ceased to exist and became the CIA. But the virus continued, still destroying those files which were a continuation of similar activity until 1958. It was these files that contained information on the early days of the Cold War, of the networks installed throughout Europe by the Americans as the tension between East and West grew, of the many military and scientific secrets that were seized by the OSS from Nazi Germany at the end of the War. Although most of the information was now defunct, there was still the occasional need for it, as in the case of Reindeer. The paper documents had long since been shredded as part of Langley's drive to a paperless situation. All back-ups were also found to be corrupted with the virus.
He thought of the telephone call during the early hours of the morning. Only this time it wasn't 'Reindeer', but 'West Wing'. He'd known better than to dig into the computer, knew that the virus would eat away the information. So he'd kept the woman talking as he tried to find out who West Wing was. Karl Breitling, sixty years old and a baggage handler with the airport authority. She knew little else and yes, he would make sure she received her pension. He had passed the information to the DDA's office, but knew they were as much in the dark as he was without the computer. They'd told him to pass the information on to California.
'Okay, we're ready to give her another run,' said one of the programmers, breaking into his thoughts.
Tucker nodded. ‘Let’s do it.’
The first programmer loaded an old floppy disk into the system, watched the icon come up on the screen to confirm it was loaded. Once satisfied, he switched to the Langley menu and punched in his authorisation code. When the menu was opened, he typed in the codes for the OSS files.
While he waited for the system to retrieve the information, he looked at his companion.
'If the antidote works, then it'll enter the system within ten seconds of the menu opening and stop the information from breaking up,' his companion said, speaking to Tucker, who had now swung himself off the table edge and stood behind them.
The three of them watched the screen.
'You know the difference between sex and computers?' asked the second programmer of Tucker as they waited.
'No.'
'In computers, the software goes into the hardware,' the programmer paused and waited for Tucker's reaction.
'Go on. I'm slow today.'
'In sex, the hardware goes into the soft…' the first programmer butted in.
'Why you always spoiling my gags?' snapped his companion.
Tucker laughed as the screen came alive.