A Time for War (21 page)

She knew that couldn't be true. There were probably sensors of some kind in the eagles, along with video cameras. Glancing at the cars nearest the gate she noticed windshield stickers. They were probably embedded with ID chips.

Workers were just beginning to file out in the twilight. Tired from the trip, Dover was planning to wait until tomorrow before trying to talk to anyone. But it occurred to her that she might be able to set up an appointment for the morning, at least find out who she needed to see to start this matter working up the chain.

She hesitated. The moment of truth was more frightening than it had seemed back in Suitland.

But you've got to push yourself,
she thought.
You're not in school or behind a desk. Courage, risk—that's how things get done out here in the real world.

She turned into the parking lot. Painted on the asphalt was a series of white arrows with a small white label painted at the top:
GUEST PARKING.
She followed the arrows to a small lot on the west side of the complex, under the shadow of the wind turbines, away from where employees were leaving. The lot was empty. In the back of the complex she saw the area where delivery trucks were parked and, beyond that, an area marked
SECURITY.
Pulling in near a door that said
VISITORS
, she walked over. There was another, smaller bronze hawk above the door. She appreciated the bird-of-prey irony since these birds were also most likely for surveillance.

The scrutiny suddenly gave Dover reservations about what she was doing. She felt exposed, unprotected. Maybe that was the subtle effect of the hawk iconography. To make ordinary citizens feel a little like field mice.

Don't go there,
she told herself.
What's the worst they could do to me? Deny my request? Have a security guard escort me from the complex? Call the ONI and get me refired for doing my job?
She didn't relish any of those prospects but she wasn't afraid of them, either. She didn't think there were any legal reasons she couldn't be here. It wasn't as if she were going to break into the place.
You've got to think more like Jack Hatfield
.

She entered the reception area and was momentarily distracted: it was like stepping into a museum. There were framed photographs of Hawke with heads of state going back to Ronald Reagan, as well as a row of relics in glass cases resting on marble columns—not just models and mock-up memorabilia from Hawke projects but also, according to brass plates fastened to the marble, prototypes by Thomas Edison, Samuel Morse, and Alexander Graham Bell. And standing to the right of the opaque glass doors beyond the reception desk was a full-size, moving figure of Hawke. It reminded her of the American Presidents attraction in Disneyland, only more lifelike. As she neared the desk, however, Dover saw that the figure cast no shadow. It was, in fact, a hologram, seemingly solid and complete in every detail—fascinating, a little freakish, and uncomfortably self-worshipful. The eyes watched her as she approached, the expression changing from austere to welcoming.

There was no greater tribute the man could give to himself than hagiography using the kind of technology he championed.

A young woman sat behind a desk that consisted of a glass top and four legs, with what looked like an LED display built into the glass. The receptionist was dressed in a white suit and black tie that had a white zigzag pattern. A nametag said
CHENOA.
She seemed oblivious to the presence of her “boss.”

“What a lovely name,” Dover said as she approached.

“Thank you,” the woman smiled.

“Native American?”

“Yes. It means ‘dove' in the language of the Pechanga,” she replied.

Dover grinned. “There's kismet. My name is Dover.”

The pretty woman smiled back. It was a neutral smile, unmoved by the synergy. “How may I help you, Dover?”

“This is the lab that ran the Squarebeam research. I'd like to make an appointment with someone about that. Specifically, the status of the technology.”

“May I ask your affiliation?”

Dover took her ONI ID from her wallet and passed it to the woman. She felt gutsy and justified.

The woman did not react as she entered data from the ID into her desktop—literally, by touching a keyboard that was apparently built into the desk. “Are you here on official business?”

“Yes,” Dover lied.

After looking at the desk for a long moment the woman said, “I see that no one from your office has contacted us.”

“That's correct.”

“Then this is
not
an official visit?”

“It's part of an investigation,” Dover said. “I'm afraid I can't say more.”

“You want to talk to someone—in what department? Scientific? Public relations?”

“How about International Relations?”

“We don't have a division by that name.”

“What's the closest?” Dover pressed. “What department makes technological deals with foreign customers?”

“Global Sales and Logistics?”

“That sounds right,” Dover said.

The receptionist touched the desk. A blue light came on in a small device in her ear. “Fay, there is a Dover Griffith from the Office of Naval Intelligence at reception. She would like to speak with Mr. Siegel whenever it is convenient.”

“Tomorrow, if possible,” Dover said quietly.

“Tomorrow, if possible,” Chenoa repeated.

Dover could hear nothing of the other side of the conversation. It wouldn't surprise her to learn that the Bluetooth was custom-fitted with zero sound leakage.

“Thank you,” Chenoa said. “I'll let her know.”

A finger tap on the desk and the conversation was over.

“Mr. Siegel has a few minutes to see you now, if that is convenient,” Chenoa said. “He is Vice President of Business Development, GTL.”

“Perfect!” Dover said. “Thanks.”

“Follow the lights. They will lead you to his office.”

Dover had no idea what the woman was talking about until the thickly frosted glass door clicked open behind her. As Dover passed through the door she saw small squares of light on the floor. They literally traced a path through the maze of offices, each one vanishing as she passed. It was functional, showy, and a little intimidating. As fast as technology was infiltrating normal lives, there were obviously levels to which the general public had not yet been exposed.

Like portable EMPs,
she reminded herself.

Dover walked slowly, gathering her thoughts as she walked. She hadn't been prepared to see anyone now. She wasn't dressed for a meeting, hadn't made her mental list of bullet points.
Knock it off,
she told herself.
You're in. You should feel good about that.

During the short walk, Journalism 101 came flooding back.
Start an interview conversationally. It's a chat, not an interrogation. Convince your subject you're a friend, an ally.

The path ended at another glass-topped desk outside an office. The young woman, presumably Fay, welcomed her with a quick look.

“Go right in.”

Another click and another glass door opened behind her. Dover entered the Spartan office. It was mostly windows on one wall, looking out at the landscaped hill to the east. He had the same glass-topped desk as the women, though the office did have two personal touches: framed, antique, global maps on the wall and an MBA from Harvard Business.

A tall, lantern-jawed man came from behind his glass desk. “Dick Siegel,” he said. He had short salt-and-pepper hair and a Boston accent.

“Dover Griffith,” she replied. “This is quite a place.”

“You've never been?”

“No.” She grinned. “You obviously have a thing for hawk sculptures.”

He smiled. “Most people assume it's just an iteration of the corporate logo, but the truth is they keep away the owls. Otherwise, the darn things hoot down the vents and disturb the night crew.”

Dover gave herself a mild reprimand. The bronze birds might well represent Hawke and conceal surveillance equipment but they also had a very practical function.

Therein lay the undoing of many journalists,
she thought.
Jumping to conclusions.

Siegel did not ask Dover to sit. “I only have a minute, but you have questions about Squarebeam.”

The man seemed to hesitate a little when he said the word. Or maybe it was just Dover's imagination.

“Concerns, actually,” she said. “There have been two incidents recently in which vehicular electronics in different parts of the world have been one hundred percent shut down. I'm trying to rule out the idea that Squarebeam technology was involved.”

“May I ask what these incidents were?”

“I'm not at liberty to disclose that,” she replied. “But there is some concern that the technology could have made its way into foreign or private hands.”

“Concern by—?”

“Several of us investigating the matter.”

“All of our technology is strictly protected by patents which are vigorously enforced,” he said. “And as you are probably aware, that particular resource has been retired.”

“Officially, yes,” she said. “But is there any way someone could be using it unofficially?”

“We have many, many safeguards to ensure that our research and blueprints are secure. We have never been hacked. It's been attempted.”

“What about someone on the inside downloading and transmitting information?”

“Impossible,” he said. “Each department has only portions of any given project for R and D. Only Mr. Hawke's inner scientific circle has access to what we call ‘full picture' technology.”

“And those people are—”

“Beyond reproach,” Siegel said. “Look, I have a conference call with our Taipei office but why don't I do this—I'll make sure all the old Squarebeam systems and components are accounted for and then give you a call. Is there a number where I can reach you?”

There was that hesitation again, as though he was watching what he was saying. This time Dover was sure of it.

“I'm staying in the Valley tonight. Would you mind if I stopped by in the morning?” Dover remembered another journalism adage: keep your foot in the door.

“Sure,” Siegel said. “We'll have breakfast in the executive dining room. Maybe I can pry more information from you then and we can figure this out together.”

She gave him a “good luck” smile.

“Come by at nine?” Siegel said.

“I'll be here,” she said. “Thank you.”

Dover left, the little light road illuminating her way back. It occurred to her as she walked that these were little square beams. A coincidence, no doubt.

She felt good about the meeting. She did not feel as though Siegel were hiding anything or trying to mislead her. He seemed sincere. With luck, a second, longer session would prove more enlightening. Hopefully she would be able to talk to Jack before then, see what pointers he might have, learn what he might have picked up if he'd met with Hawke himself.

She did not notice the eyes upon her as she left. They were not the eyes of a hawk but the eyes of a pair of men in a black Mercedes in an area of the parking lot marked
SECURITY.

*   *   *

Dick Siegel checked his watch as he sat at his desk. The meeting had been unexpected and alarming. It was not company policy to see anyone who walked in off the street, even if they were affiliated with a national security organization. There were security issues, first and foremost. There were also liability issues: this
was
a lab. There were occasional “work from home” alerts when radioactive materials were being brought in or tested. Just a week ago they had an “inert bug” brought in from the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. The buzz was that they had brought smallpox. The rumor was, Hawke Industries was creating a capsule to store them—in space, where they could be replicated automatically, safely, and dropped on any nation that failed to respond to diplomacy. People were told to stay home. Siegel didn't always know what these experiments entailed, only that whenever he had contact with their insurance representatives he found them to be an unusually skittish group.

The CelesTellia debacle had been in full bloom when Siegel went to work here. The newspapers were describing the broadband technology as Hawke's Albatross, his first big failure, his first public embarrassment, and Hawke hadn't come back swinging with Squarebeam yet. That was when Siegel learned just how dedicated Hawke was to his inner circle: as disastrous as CelesTellia had proven in terms of several lives being lost and tens of millions of dollars of military aircraft destroyed—not to mention Hawke resources tied up and ultimately wasted—Richard Hawke accepted the full blame, passing it to no one, dismissing no one.

However, CelesTellia and Squarebeam had become unmentionable around HITV, the way Jack Hatfield was to the media. If a conversation led to Squarebeam, talk suddenly stopped and took a different course. Which was why, when someone came to Hawke Industries and actually said the word, he had to see them. Though it had taken a little bit of psychological gearing up, with a self-imposed gag reflex to overcome, talking to an outsider made it seem all right.

None of which addresses the reason for her visit,
he reminded himself. As soon as he got off the Asian call he would talk to Mike Alexander, head of internal security.

Siegel touched the Bluetooth, was about to phone Taipei, when an incoming call stopped him. Calls at HITV were not announced with a tone but with a number. This number was 884. Siegel knew who that was.

“Mike,” he said. “I was going to call you in a few minutes. I have a call to make—”

“I won't keep you long,” the caller said. “What did Dover Griffith want to know?”