The Second Saladin - Страница 65

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“No, Miles. You’re the one who has to talk.”

Miles said, “I can’t tell you anything about computers. All that stuff is highly classified.”

Leo said, “I can still shoot him up.”

“No,” Chardy said, “we need him sober.”

He turned back to Miles.

“Miles, we’re very close to something very big. And it’s come to pass that you’ve got the key.”

Miles just looked at him blankly.

“The files. All on computer discs, right?” Chardy asked.

Miles answered with silence. But his eyes must have signaled yes, for the conversation continued. But he wasn’t sure where this computer angle had come from all of a sudden. It seemed to come from nowhere. Or maybe it had been there all along, and he just didn’t know.

“Harris got the contract, didn’t they?” asked a new voice. “The fifteen-hundred line of terminals in the pit. They bump ’em up to seventeen-fifties yet?”

An expert. They had an expert.

He said nothing.

“Mr. Lanahan, if you want I can show you photocopies of the contract. We’re on pretty solid ground.”

“Paul, why are you doing this to me?”

For the first time Chardy showed his temper.

“Look, nobody’s done a thing to you. People are dead on account of this business, have died horribly, pointlessly. People were ruined, people were destroyed—”

“Paul—” Leo was trying to hold him back.

“That’s the way it’s played, that’s how rough a game it can be. And you still don’t have a clue. Nobody’s ever even breathed hard on you. So don’t tell me you’re having troubles, Miles, because I just don’t have time to listen.”

He’ll make you choose, Sam had said. Sam had known. Sam must have had his suspicions all along, had it doped out, tried to warn him, give him some strength. Sam had known it would fall this way: Sam and Paul locked in it for Miles’s young soul.

“It doesn’t really matter,” said the expert. “If you can fly the fifteen-hundred you can fly the seventeen-fifty. It’s keyboarded up the same, has the same command vocabulary. It’s just bigger, more flexible, and has a much faster response time, which can be important if you’re in a rush.”

“I’m not sure the seventeen-fifties have gone on-line,” Miles finally said. “They were slated to go in earlier this year, but that stuff is always behind. I’ve never worked at a seventeen-fifty. In my time in the pit, we were fifteen-hundred all the way. If you know so much, then how come—”

“Okay, Miles, fair question. Here’s the answer. We think there’s a piece of information buried in the Langley computer memory. And we—”

But Lanahan, computer genius himself, instantly saw the flaw in the supposition and could not hold himself back.

“That’s crazy,” he said in utter indignation. “That’s the largest, the most carefully tended, the best system in the world. It’s limited access all the way; it goes off of generators on-site. There’re no lines into it, no lines out of it. You couldn’t possibly tap into it, or tuck something into it.”

“The guy who buried this item buried it a long time ago, back in the first days, when the system was being set up. He worked there for a little while. And he buried it very carefully.”

“Tell him,” Lanahan petitioned the expert, “tell him that the capacity of the Langley computer is two billion bits. You can’t imagine a number that big. That’s all the libraries in the world; that’s a trillion words. And it’s all broken down into individual units or entries called slugs and the slugs are in directories. And there are directories inside of directories. You fetch a directory by its code. It’s got ten thousand coded entries. One, just one of those, gets you another directory. Same thing again. You’ve got codes inside of codes, combinations. It’s the biggest combination safe in the universe. First” — he looked around desperately — “first you’ve got to have access to a terminal in the pit. I mean, physically you have to get into the goddamned building, past all the checkpoints, ride the elevator down, and get a terminal, and the terminals are always busy, every morning, every night, every afternoon, every second of the day.”

He took a deep breath and saw that he was not impressing them.

“Then,” he went on, “then you’ve got to have the right code, or code sequence. I mean there’s no dial-information to help you. You’ve got to know it, know it cold. And it can be anything — the different directorates have their different styles. It can be letters; it can be numbers; it can be a sequence of both, a combination; it can be—” He paused again. Damn them, when would they be impressed?

“The whole thing is built so that only a guy who knows exactly where he’s going has a chance. It’s built to keep people from stumbling into things. You have to know. You’ve got to go from directory to directory, from slug to slug. It’s not the sort of system you can browse through. It’s a labyrinth. Paul, forget it. I worked in that room for two years. I was a champion down there. It can’t be done. We used to try and figure out just as a joke how you could crack the system, but it can’t be done. Paul, I know. That was my war. I never lost.”

He looked beseechingly over at the expert.

“Tell him,” Miles said.

“We need that information,” was all the man said.

A moment of silence came to the room. Somebody snorted; somebody coughed. Miles had a feeling of loss, of hopelessness. He was so alone. He felt like a martyr, trussed for a chestful of pagan arrows.

He now saw what they expected.

“Forget it,” he said. “Paul, just get it out of your head. Do you think I’m crazy?”

He stopped, breathing hard.

But Chardy was just looking calmly at him.

“It’s academic, Paul. Even if I got in, even if I got ’em to plug in the right disc, even if I got a terminal — even if I got all that, I still wouldn’t have a thing without that code. You can’t even—”

“Miles—”

“You can’t even begin to think about it without that code. It would be like walking into the biggest library in the world and randomly pulling volumes off the miles of shelves—”

“Miles—”

“—in search of an index card somebody once taped to a page. It’s—”

He ran out of words.

“Miles,” said Chardy, “we’ve got the code.”

Lanahan was suddenly cold. He shivered. When had he gotten so cold? He rubbed his dry lips. How could all this be happening so fast? Father, help me. Father, tell me what to do. Father —

“Give me a break,” said Miles.

“I can’t give you a break, Miles. You’re our break.”

Miles said nothing.

“The thing we’re looking for was put in place by a guy named Frenchy Short, an old Special Operations Division cowboy who spent six months in Computer Services, right when Harris got the contract and the new system was installed. Frenchy left me a message right before he went off on a solo job to Vienna, where he got killed in a bad, bad way. It’s the sort of thing an old agent would do, and Frenchy at one time was one of the best. Frenchy left me a message with his wife; she was supposed to tell me if he got killed. But things happened, and I didn’t get to see her for six years. Finally, a month or two ago, I got that message. Fetch the shoe that fits, Frenchy told Marion to tell me, Miles. Fetch, these FBI geniuses say, is the key. It’s a computer command; it’s how you order the computer to bring something up out of its guts so you can look at it. The code is the shoe that fits, Miles. It’s H-S-U. That’s pronounced shoe in Chinese. So it’s H-S-U or S-H-U or something like that. A smart operator, they say, with just that much, could probably dig it out.”

Miles looked at him. He was so damned cold.

“What’s down there? What are you fishing for? What’s the shoe that fits?”

“The reason why poor Frenchy sold me — sold Saladin Two, sold the Kurds — to the Russians. To a KGB officer named Speshnev. The reason why he blew us. And the man for whom he did it.”

“Paul, I—”

“Miles, haven’t you caught on yet? To what this is all about? You’re a smart guy. I’m surprised you’re so slow.”

“Paul—”

“Shhh, Miles. Let old Paul tell you why. Miles, the Russians are going to a great deal of trouble to eliminate Joe Danzig, because when he gets to a certain section of his second volume of memoirs he’ll be the first man in history to look carefully at the operation we called Saladin Two, the operation in which we channeled arms and ammo to Kurdish insurgents in northern Iraq from nineteen seventy-three to nineteen seventy-five. You see, somebody in the Agency, one of Danzig’s fans, has slipped him, among a lot of other stuff, the operation files. And when he looks at it carefully, analytically, as he’s sure to, because a lot of his reputation depends on how he justifies it, he’ll see that according to our own files, the Soviet helicopter ambush was sprung in the middle of the afternoon of the sixth day after I’d been captured. But the Russians didn’t crack me until the evening of the sixth day.”

“They had it set up,” said Miles.

“That’s right. They had it beat from the start. They knew it all — the codes, the frequencies, everything. They got it from Frenchy Short, in Vienna. But what they needed to hide the fact they’d gotten it from Frenchy was somebody to take the blame. That’s why it was so important to Speshnev to crack me open. He already had the script. He had a voice expert do me reading the phony stuff to Ulu Beg — that’s how well set up it was. Then that night, I read the same words into a dead mike.”