CHAPTER 103
Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst, Trenton, New Jersey, May 28, 7:37 a.m.
Senator Corbin Davis watched with eager interest as his world-class experts studied the two devices inside the nondescript building in the middle of JB MDL. The scientists’ names were Pembrose and Landgraf. Both were familiar with the device and the science behind it. Both were also skeptical the technology would ever work. They were only too happy to debunk whatever nonsense was afoot, or to be the first ones to hear reconstituted echoes. The trio had been escorted directly inside a small conference room. As soon as the scientists completed their work, they and the senator were to be escorted out of the building and off the grounds.
The scientists clearly knew how to operate the device, having tested it on several previous occasions. They readily caused the box to spring open, revealing the eight one-inch satellite microphones, which performed their perfectly synchronized ballet.
The senator asked, “What’s it doing?”
Pembrose, the younger of the scientists, answered, “Acoustically mapping the room.”
Landgraf, the veteran, added, “In theory.”
Pembrose replied, “We’ll know soon enough.” They both kept their eyes glued to the progress bar that appeared below the three-dimensional image of the space. The counter quickly climbed: Three percent . . . six percent . . . nine percent . . . , but then started to slow. Eleven percent. Twelve percent took longer. Thirteen was even slower than that. After another two minutes, the counter had still not reached fifteen percent.
Corbin Davis studied the differing expressions of his two experts. Pembrose looked disappointed, like a child who didn’t get the present he wanted for his birthday. Landgraf grinned smugly, like he knew this would happen all along.
The senator grew concerned. “Is it supposed to take this long?”
The younger scientist reluctantly replied, “No.”
“So what does this mean?”
The older scientist cleared his throat, then answered bluntly. “The device doesn’t work.”
The senator had trouble remaining calm. “Son of a bitch. You’re sure?”
Landgraf nodded. “Yes.”
Davis turned to the younger brainiac, hoping for a different opinion. “There’s no way you could have missed something?”
The scientists glanced at each other. Pembrose replied, “Give us thirty minutes, and we’ll be able to tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
The senator mumbled under his breath as he moved toward the door. “I’m going to gut Marcus Fenton like a squealing pig.” Corbin Davis stepped outside the small conference room, where he was promptly met by the two guards in plain uniforms. “I need some privacy.” He glanced around at the handful of unmarked doors, expecting to be led into one.
The guards in the plain uniforms didn’t move. The taller one replied, “You will have to step outside the building, sir.”
The senator stared angrily, then stormed outside as he took out his shiny, new encrypted phone. The guards couldn’t help but notice that it matched their own.
CHAPTER 104
American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 28, 7:48 a.m.
Bob Stenson sat calmly in his office as he listened to the Indiana senator yelling over the phone. “Slow down, Senator. I need time to process this.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Your scientists are sure?”
“They’re confirming it now, but that is correct. The damn thing doesn’t work.”
Stenson exhaled loudly, playing his part with aplomb. “What the hell is Fenton up to?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I want him gone.”
Stenson, the master puppeteer, smiled ever so slightly. “It’s your call, Senator. We will support whatever action you see fit.” And like that, it was done. Senator Davis would convene the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence on an emergency basis, and Fenton would be terminated within the week. There was the obvious question of his replacement, but that was a matter that could wait. There was no urgency. Which was why Stenson leaned back in his chair and smiled.
This was, without a doubt, the greatest moment of his professional life. It made the whole hanging-chad business in 2000 pale in comparison. He was now in possession of the single most important technological advancement in intelligence in the last forty years, and no one knew he had it. Within a matter of hours, no one would believe the echo box even worked. The rest of the world would think they’d been led on a wild-goose chase by a blustery, old windbag hell-bent on bolstering his legacy. The good senator from Indiana would demand retribution, and Stenson would allow him to satisfy his bloodlust because Fenton would no longer be of any use to them.
What no one else knew was that after watching Homeland Security Director Merrell deliver the devices to the nondescript building at JB MDL, Stenson had replaced the devices with his own. These duplicates included every one of Eddie’s previous specifications. Namely, the ones that didn’t work. These facsimiles had been produced at Stenson’s request over a year earlier, when he’d decided to give some other brilliant minds a crack at acoustic archeology. While their efforts proved unsuccessful, Stenson had a feeling even then that his duplicates might one day serve a purpose. He just hadn’t imagined how important a role they would play.
All he had to decide now was which of the world’s greatest secrets he would listen to first. He had a president to bring down. And another one to install. There were enemies to destroy. And fence-sitters to bring into line. Bob Stenson and the American Heritage Foundation were about to know anything they wanted, and no one would have a clue how they got their information. They would be unstoppable.
First, there was the matter of Edward Parks, who was officially now a liability. He could not be allowed to create another echo box, nor pass along the algorithms to anyone else capable of doing so. There was only one way to guarantee neither would happen. Stenson had no qualms about proceeding, and intended to initiate the order before leaving the office.
His private moment of glory, however, was interrupted by the sound of footsteps racing down the hall toward his office. “Slow down, Jason.”
Jason did not slow down. He ran straight into his superior’s office. “Sir, we have a problem.”
CHAPTER 105
Dr. Marcus Fenton’s House, Pine Hill, New Jersey, May 28, 8:33 a.m.
A police car parked in Marcus Fenton’s driveway for the second time in less than twelve hours. Prior to these two visits, the last time a law-enforcement vehicle had entered the property was in 2002, to inform Fenton of a string of nearby burglaries. He was not about to take any more nonsense from the NYPD, and he stormed out to the uniformed officer. “I’m not going anywhere, or saying a goddamn thing, without my lawyer.”
The officer looked confused. “Sir?”
Fenton stood his ground. “Unless you have a warrant, I’m not going anywhere.”
The officer shook his head. “I think there must be some misunderstanding. Are you Dr. Marcus Fenton?”
Only now did he notice the car was not NYPD. It had local markings. The officer was a local sheriff. Fenton answered, “Yes, I’m Marcus Fenton. What can I do for you?”
The sheriff paused for a moment, as he had been trained to do when delivering bad news. “Did a Michael Barnes work for you?”
CHAPTER 106
American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 28, 8:58 a.m.