inside him—an overworked imagination. What he had come to know about Harold Fletcher's life was so odd that his death couldn't possibly be normal. Yet it probably was. Best for everyone if he consigned Harold Fletcher's case to oblivion. With the subject deceased, there was no purpose in continuing. He could investigate that code and the red cards in his spare time. It wouldn't make any difference to Jan now. He tried not to think about her. In one sense, her problems were over. In another, they were just beginning. He didn't want to become the center of them. Get on a plane to Okinawa and get away from her, he told himself.
He checked his watch. Gault would still be at lunch with Miller and the team. He wondered if he had shoved himself into the doghouse over nothing. Certainly, Gault wouldn't let it passwithout a royal chewing-out.
He had hardly stepped into his cubicle when the phone buzzed. "Chief Levering to see you, sir."
"Send him in."
The maintenance chief bustled into the room, a toolbox practically chained to his wrist. "Christ Almighty, Commander. I wish you'd tell me when your equipment goes on the fritz."
"What?"
"Your phone." Hammond looked at it. "Oh, it's all fixed now. They left about ten minutes ago. And I only find out about it by stumbling in here. I'm supposed to be running maintenance— What's the matter?"
Hammond was staring at the phone.
"Didn't they get it ri—" Hammond cut him off with a signal. He closed the door to his office and motioned the chief down the hall ahead of him. He crossed to the receptionist and said, "Get Internal Security up here on the double." He ignored the startled expression on the girl's face. "I want a full electronic sweep of my office."
He turned to Levering and saw him blanch.
It took less than fifteen minutes to find the three bugs. One had been placed in his phone, one under the corner of his desk, and the third behind a file cabinet. Hammond watched the four-man security team make one last check. Their little black sensing boxes remained silent.
Ensign Collins, the team leader, nodded to Hammond. "You're clean now, Commander." He held up a metal chip no bigger than the head of a match. "Pretty sophisticated stuff, sir," he said. "I've never even seen this last little gadget before. And whoever planted them was good, too."
Hammond didn't appreciate the assessment. "Send them over to the Naval Research Lab and get a receipt," he ordered. "Tell them I want the name of the manufacturer."
"What about fingerprints?" asked Collins, tossing the bugs in his bare hands. Hammond gave him a dark look. Collins caught the bugs in his palm and gazed sheepishly at Hammond. "Sorry, sir," he said.
"You wouldn't have found anything anyway,"
Hammond watched the four men file out. They stood aside in the doorway to let Admiral Gault charge through under a full head of steam, with Lee Miller and the Okinawa team in tow. Gault listened patiently while Hammond filled him in, then snarled, "What the fuck is going on around here? Who the hell would bug you?"
"Don't know, sir," said Hammond. "But there are some other funny things going on right now." Gault looked at him, barely tolerant. "You recall that business with the altered files?"
Gault sighed. "How could I forget what's-his-name?"
"Harold Fletcher, sir. The late Harold Fletcher. He died last night."
Gault regarded Hammond keenly. "Killed?"
"Don't know that either, sir. Everything points to heart attack, but..." He fell silent.
Gault knew right away what he was suggesting. "What's the connection?" he asked.
"I'm not sure if there is one. But I've got the feeling..." He shrugged.
"That feeling, huh?" It was something between them, something they had shared back in the days when they had worked closely together. The feeling was a hunch, an uninformed certainty of intangible foulness. Gault was quiet for a moment, his face impassive except for a small muscle that throbbed in his cheek. When he finally spoke, it
He checked his watch. Gault would still be at lunch with Miller and the team. He wondered if he had shoved himself into the doghouse over nothing. Certainly, Gault wouldn't let it passwithout a royal chewing-out.
He had hardly stepped into his cubicle when the phone buzzed. "Chief Levering to see you, sir."
"Send him in."
The maintenance chief bustled into the room, a toolbox practically chained to his wrist. "Christ Almighty, Commander. I wish you'd tell me when your equipment goes on the fritz."
"What?"
"Your phone." Hammond looked at it. "Oh, it's all fixed now. They left about ten minutes ago. And I only find out about it by stumbling in here. I'm supposed to be running maintenance— What's the matter?"
Hammond was staring at the phone.
"Didn't they get it ri—" Hammond cut him off with a signal. He closed the door to his office and motioned the chief down the hall ahead of him. He crossed to the receptionist and said, "Get Internal Security up here on the double." He ignored the startled expression on the girl's face. "I want a full electronic sweep of my office."
He turned to Levering and saw him blanch.
It took less than fifteen minutes to find the three bugs. One had been placed in his phone, one under the corner of his desk, and the third behind a file cabinet. Hammond watched the four-man security team make one last check. Their little black sensing boxes remained silent.
Ensign Collins, the team leader, nodded to Hammond. "You're clean now, Commander." He held up a metal chip no bigger than the head of a match. "Pretty sophisticated stuff, sir," he said. "I've never even seen this last little gadget before. And whoever planted them was good, too."
Hammond didn't appreciate the assessment. "Send them over to the Naval Research Lab and get a receipt," he ordered. "Tell them I want the name of the manufacturer."
"What about fingerprints?" asked Collins, tossing the bugs in his bare hands. Hammond gave him a dark look. Collins caught the bugs in his palm and gazed sheepishly at Hammond. "Sorry, sir," he said.
"You wouldn't have found anything anyway,"
Hammond watched the four men file out. They stood aside in the doorway to let Admiral Gault charge through under a full head of steam, with Lee Miller and the Okinawa team in tow. Gault listened patiently while Hammond filled him in, then snarled, "What the fuck is going on around here? Who the hell would bug you?"
"Don't know, sir," said Hammond. "But there are some other funny things going on right now." Gault looked at him, barely tolerant. "You recall that business with the altered files?"
Gault sighed. "How could I forget what's-his-name?"
"Harold Fletcher, sir. The late Harold Fletcher. He died last night."
Gault regarded Hammond keenly. "Killed?"
"Don't know that either, sir. Everything points to heart attack, but..." He fell silent.
Gault knew right away what he was suggesting. "What's the connection?" he asked.
"I'm not sure if there is one. But I've got the feeling..." He shrugged.
"That feeling, huh?" It was something between them, something they had shared back in the days when they had worked closely together. The feeling was a hunch, an uninformed certainty of intangible foulness. Gault was quiet for a moment, his face impassive except for a small muscle that throbbed in his cheek. When he finally spoke, it
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