the
manager's voice said languidly.
"We'll
be glad to give you a complete picture of the situation in another half hour,
but we'd like to request that you . . . er . . . hold
off on that broadcast," Bahr said. "It might cause some . . . er . . . confusion to have different interpretations of the
event in circulation."
"Yes, I should think it would," the
manager said.
"Then you'll cancel the broadcast?"
"Oh,
I'm really afraid that would be out of the question, Mr. Bahr." The voice
was infinitely regretful, but quite firm. Bahr caught the remark from the radio
about the tape
recording ,
and realized instantly that TBX was a cover code for one of the Canadian
intercepts for BRINT. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand.
"BRINT
picked up our 'copter chatter last night," hp said, looking at McEwen's white face.
"They've got to kill
it," McEwen said hoarsely.
Bahr
uncovered the mouthpiece. "We would appreciate it very much if you could
hold that broadcast, somehow," he said, throwing up the lure. There was no
time to lose.
" Er ... do you
think we could get a reporting team into the area?" That meant, of course,
a BRINT intelligence team.
"I
doubt it," Bahr countered, curious to see just how eager BRINT was.
"We'll give you a complete report."
"I'm not sure that
would be completely satisfactory."
They were eager. Very eager.
"Well,
but the Wildwood plant is a highly classified government project," Bahr
said, "and our security people are naturally leery about commercial news
agencies which aren't subject to our security regulations nosing around . . .
not that I doubt your discretion. . . ."
"Of
course, I understand the problem you have with security," the manager
said, warming to the bargain. In the background Bahr could hear the first
fragments of 'copter-chatter coming through—his own voice, directing the Unit
Seven 'copters toward the strike area. "Still, we do have an obligation to our public to verify newscasts as thoroughly as we
can." Meaning that BRINT knew something was in the wind but hadn't pinned
it down yet. Bahr cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to McEwen and
Carmine.
"BRINT wants in. Badly. They must have flushed Project Frisco and—"
He
never finished the sentence. Quite suddenly McEwen clutched at his chest and
moaned, his eyes bulging. His breath went ragged, his face turning blue.
"The chief!"
McEwen coughed, a
strangled sound. Then his arms dropped and his body slumped back, his eyes
staring blankly at the ceiling.
"Get
a doctor!" Bahr
roared, slamming the phone down, the Canadian broadcast forgotten. "For
Christ sake get a doctorl " He lifted McEwen onto
the desk, stripped off his own jacket and put it over the director's chest,
felt quickly for a pulse.
A doctor arrived in a few minutes, but it was
too late. McEwen was dead, diagnosis coronary occlusion precipitated by
overwork and sudden shock.
As
the white-coated ambulance attendant carried the stretcher out, Frank Carmine
put a hand on Bahr's shoulder. "Well, Julian," he said, "it
looks like it's up to you, now."
Chapter Four
Libdy Allison , make-up pencil in
hand, was trying ineffectually to smoodi her dark
red hair and paint her mouth back into shape as the small private elevator shot
up from the lobby of the New York DEPEX building to DIA headquarters on the eightieth
floor.
Julian
was up there, she was certain of that, even though his office front-runner had
denied it when she tried to contact him earlier. She should have known there
was trouble in the wind when Julian didn't call her when he got back into town
last night. She had tried to call him after midnight, and had gotten Frank
Carmine instead, pleasantly apologetic but pleasantly firm. No,
nothing wrong, just a dozen top-level conferences since he'd gotten back to New
York. He'd be in touch with her, she shouldn't worry . . .
But,
of course, he hadn't. Instead, there was a visit from Adams that morning in her
office at DEPCO. Little, weasel-faced Adams,
manager's voice said languidly.
"We'll
be glad to give you a complete picture of the situation in another half hour,
but we'd like to request that you . . . er . . . hold
off on that broadcast," Bahr said. "It might cause some . . . er . . . confusion to have different interpretations of the
event in circulation."
"Yes, I should think it would," the
manager said.
"Then you'll cancel the broadcast?"
"Oh,
I'm really afraid that would be out of the question, Mr. Bahr." The voice
was infinitely regretful, but quite firm. Bahr caught the remark from the radio
about the tape
recording ,
and realized instantly that TBX was a cover code for one of the Canadian
intercepts for BRINT. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand.
"BRINT
picked up our 'copter chatter last night," hp said, looking at McEwen's white face.
"They've got to kill
it," McEwen said hoarsely.
Bahr
uncovered the mouthpiece. "We would appreciate it very much if you could
hold that broadcast, somehow," he said, throwing up the lure. There was no
time to lose.
" Er ... do you
think we could get a reporting team into the area?" That meant, of course,
a BRINT intelligence team.
"I
doubt it," Bahr countered, curious to see just how eager BRINT was.
"We'll give you a complete report."
"I'm not sure that
would be completely satisfactory."
They were eager. Very eager.
"Well,
but the Wildwood plant is a highly classified government project," Bahr
said, "and our security people are naturally leery about commercial news
agencies which aren't subject to our security regulations nosing around . . .
not that I doubt your discretion. . . ."
"Of
course, I understand the problem you have with security," the manager
said, warming to the bargain. In the background Bahr could hear the first
fragments of 'copter-chatter coming through—his own voice, directing the Unit
Seven 'copters toward the strike area. "Still, we do have an obligation to our public to verify newscasts as thoroughly as we
can." Meaning that BRINT knew something was in the wind but hadn't pinned
it down yet. Bahr cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to McEwen and
Carmine.
"BRINT wants in. Badly. They must have flushed Project Frisco and—"
He
never finished the sentence. Quite suddenly McEwen clutched at his chest and
moaned, his eyes bulging. His breath went ragged, his face turning blue.
"The chief!"
McEwen coughed, a
strangled sound. Then his arms dropped and his body slumped back, his eyes
staring blankly at the ceiling.
"Get
a doctor!" Bahr
roared, slamming the phone down, the Canadian broadcast forgotten. "For
Christ sake get a doctorl " He lifted McEwen onto
the desk, stripped off his own jacket and put it over the director's chest,
felt quickly for a pulse.
A doctor arrived in a few minutes, but it was
too late. McEwen was dead, diagnosis coronary occlusion precipitated by
overwork and sudden shock.
As
the white-coated ambulance attendant carried the stretcher out, Frank Carmine
put a hand on Bahr's shoulder. "Well, Julian," he said, "it
looks like it's up to you, now."
Chapter Four
Libdy Allison , make-up pencil in
hand, was trying ineffectually to smoodi her dark
red hair and paint her mouth back into shape as the small private elevator shot
up from the lobby of the New York DEPEX building to DIA headquarters on the eightieth
floor.
Julian
was up there, she was certain of that, even though his office front-runner had
denied it when she tried to contact him earlier. She should have known there
was trouble in the wind when Julian didn't call her when he got back into town
last night. She had tried to call him after midnight, and had gotten Frank
Carmine instead, pleasantly apologetic but pleasantly firm. No,
nothing wrong, just a dozen top-level conferences since he'd gotten back to New
York. He'd be in touch with her, she shouldn't worry . . .
But,
of course, he hadn't. Instead, there was a visit from Adams that morning in her
office at DEPCO. Little, weasel-faced Adams,
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