“Right. I thought so.”
“None of my business either, Smith. So sit back, listen, and hold the questions.”
Abrams lit a cigarette and sat back. Evans continued his briefing. As he listened, Abrams realized he would have to take some risks if he was to accomplish what was being laid out.
Messrs. Styler and Edwards had wisely excused themselves from this briefing. But to be fair, they were taking a risk just by bringing him.
He looked at Evans, who was staring at him. Evans said, “That house has been subject to more electronic surveillance, low- and high-altitude picture taking, and perimeter surveillance than any spot in the country, including the Russkies’ houses in Manhattan and The Bronx, and their diplomatic and trade buildings in San Francisco and Washington. But you know what?”
“No. What?”
“We’ve never had a pro inside before.”
“Well, I’m not a pro, Evans, and I’m not inside yet.”
“You will be inside. And you’re more of a pro than the tree surgeon, the kid, or that stupid deli guy, or—”
“Who?”
“The deli guy. Delicatessen.”
“What’s his name?”
“What’s it to you, Smith? What’s your name?”
“Is his name Karl Roth?”
“Could be. Probably is. Forget that.”
Abrams nodded.
Evans stared at him a few seconds, then continued. “Anyway, the Russkies have about thirty ways to detect any funny business, so I’m sending you in there clean. Are you clean?”
“All I’ve got is a little Smith & Wesson thirty-eight.”
“You’d better leave that behind.”
“I guess I better.”
“Do you want poison?”
“None for me, thank you.”
“Good. You wouldn’t use it anyway. But I had to ask.”
“Can’t hurt to ask.”
Evans nodded. “Are you going in there under an alias?”
“No.”
“Good. If they got prints from the questionnaire, they’ve already got a make on you. If they get prints while you’re there, the matching takes days, and you wouldn’t be blown while you’re there. But you wouldn’t want to go back for a second visit.” Evans looked at him closely. “No alias, right?”
“I said no.”
“Okay. Sometimes I get clients who are being set up to be blown for some fucked-up reason. They have a cover story that wouldn’t hold glue, much less water, and they have enough electronics on them to open up a Radio Shack. It’s always best to be clean and to be who you say you are.”
“I am.”
“I don’t care about you personally.”
“I know.”
“I don’t like to lose people.”
“Bad for business.”
“Right.” Evans lifted his attaché case onto the desk and opened it so that the inside faced Abrams. Evans said, “Do you know what that is?”
Abrams looked at the electrical components built into the case. “No.”
“That’s an EBI.”
“EBI?”
“Electronic bullshit indicator. Sometimes called a VSA — a voice stress analyzer.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Good. The Russkies use this on their guests. Theirs is American-made, like this one, of course.” Evans reached around and turned on the analyzer. “It doesn’t have to be hooked to you. They watch this digital display as you talk. It can be hidden in their attaché case like this, so you don’t see it.”
“And it tells them when I’m bullshitting.”
“Right. See, we establish a base number on the display for my normal voice. When I start bullshitting, the machine detects subaudible microtremors that occur with stress and deception. If the digital readout rises fifty percent or more above my normal voice range, which is reading forty-five here, then you’re listening to bullshit. Okay, watch the digital readout.” Evans spoke in apparently the same tone of voice he’d been using. “Smith, I think you’ve got a real good chance to pull this off.”
Abrams watched as the red LCD numbers rose to a hundred and six. “Bullshit.”
“Right.” He looked at Abrams. “Now you talk and I’ll get a base number for your voice.”
Abrams sipped on his Scotch, then said, “Okay, chief, I give up. How am I supposed to protect against that?”
Evans spun the attaché case around so it faced him. He played with the sensitivity dial as he replied, “Mostly keep your mouth shut in there. But what you’re doing now is good too.”
“What am I doing now?”
“Alcohol.” Evans reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle. “Cough medicine for your cold. It has alcohol and some other stuff to anesthetize the vocal cords a bit. Confuses the machine.” He pulled another object out of his pocket and rolled it across the desk. “Bronchial mist spray. It’s spiked with helium. Don’t breathe too much or you’ll sound like you got your nuts caught in a revolving door. Use it only if they start asking you really direct questions, hot and heavy.”
Abrams nodded.
Evans sat back, crossed his legs, and rested his hands on his stomach. “Okay, I’m a Russkie. I already fucked around with the papers in my attaché case, but what I really did was get a base number for your voice by shooting the breeze with you about the weather and your nice suit and all that. Now I’m going to pop a stressful question on you.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“You’re going to act a little slow in the head, cough, sneeze, blow your nose, clear your throat, take a swig of cough medicine, or suck up some helium.”
Abrams replied, “That’s going to look like a burlesque act after a while.”
“You’ll get real natural at it when the time comes.”
“And they won’t know what the cough medicine and spray are all about?”
“They probably will if you overdo it. But it’s better than them knowing exactly when you’re lying and when you’re telling the truth. Okay, ready?”
“Sure.”
Evans spoke in a mock Russian accent. “So, Mr. Smith, would you like a tour of our beautiful house?”
Abrams nodded.
Evans laughed. “Don’t appear simpleminded. Answer the question.”
“Yes, I would.”
Evans looked at the display. “Lots of stress, but you see that can be interpreted two ways. One, you’re bullshitting, and you don’t want to see their fucking house, two, you want to see it so bad it’s producing microtremors. No machine is perfect. Have faith.”
“Right.”
Evans cleared his throat and continued, “So, Mr. Smith, what do you think of our case against Van Dorn?”
Abrams replied at length.
Evans nodded, then asked, “What did you do on the police force?”
“I was a traffic cop.”
Evans shook his head. “Jesus, Smith, we’re talking telephone numbers here.”
“Fuck you and your machine.”
“But you’ve got to deal with it. Okay, same question, but go into your act.” Evans again asked the question.
Abrams began to reply, then cleared his throat, put the mister over his nose, and sprayed. He made some heavy-breathing sounds, then said, “I was a traffic cop.” The voice was a bit high-pitched, but not abnormally so.
Evans looked at the digital readout, but said nothing.
“Well?”
Evans did not reply, but asked, “So, Mr. Smith, how long have you been with Edwards and Styler?”
Abrams answered, “About two and a half hours.”
Evans laughed, and peered over the top of the briefcase. “No stress. But the truth can get you into trouble too.”
“It usually does.”
“Right. Okay, we’re going to get you good at this. Ready?”
“Ready.”
Evans and Abrams spent the next half hour working with the voice analyzer. Evans abruptly shut off the machine and closed the attaché case. “Class is out.”