Graves looked at the boxes. `What's in them?'
`Detergent,' the old man said. `Gallon jugs of detergent. He wanted ten of them. Don't ask me why - he didn't touch them.'
`When did he ask for them?' Graves said. He walked ever and opened one of the cardboard boxes. Inside was a jug marked KEN-ALL 7588 INDUSTRIAL DETERGENT.
`Last week. Wanted to be sure he had them.'
`What's this stuff normally used for?'
The old man shrugged and continued sweeping. `This is an airfield,' he said. `We use a lot of it to get grease off parts. That stuff will cut anything. Axle grease, anything, cuts it right off.'
Graves nodded.
Across the hangar Lewis was bent over. `Have a look at this,' he said. He pointed to a small plastic bag on the concrete floor.
`Dozens of those around,' the old man said. `All over the floor when I came in.'
Graves picked up the bag, sniffed it, touched the inside surface. There was some kind of milky, oily stuff inside.
`He's been getting this place ready for a week,' the old man said. `Bring in equipment, take out equipment, new stuff, old stuff. Damnedest thing you ever saw. For instance, he has this washing machine -'
`Washing machine?'
`Sure. It's still here.' He pointed to the corner. `You're probably too young to remember those things.'
Graves walked over to it. It was an old-fashioned hand-operated tub washing machine with two rollers mounted above for a wringer. The rollers were operated with a crank. Beyond the rollers was a long, flat tray of highly polished metal.
Graves looked at the manufacturer's label: WESTINGHOUSE. The year was 1931.
`Now what,' asked the old man, `does Mr Johnson want with an old washing machine? Huh?'
Graves began to feel nervous. For the first time all day, he felt that Wright was too far ahead of him, that the clues were too subtle, that the game was beyond him. A washing machine?
Lewis touched the roller assembly. `I guess you could squeeze out a thin strip of anything on that machine,' he said, `assuming it had the right consistency. A putty kind of consistency.'
Plastic bags on the floor, boxes of industrial detergent in the corner - ordered but unused - and a washing machine. Then he remembered.
`Where's the pump?'
`I don't know,' Lewis said. `But it doesn't matter. Look over here.' He pointed to some equipment near the washing machine. A canvas tarp was draped over it; he pulled it away.
`Spray gun and four cans of paint.' He bent over. `Black, yellow, white, red.'
`He was using the pump to spray paint?'
`That'd be my guess,' Lewis said.
Graves looked around the room. `What'd he spray it onto?'
`Whatever it was, he took it with him. Wait a minute.' Lewis was again bent over. `Have a look at this.'
He moved another tarp to reveal a full rubber diving wet suit, a full face mask that covered eyes, nose, and mouth, and a small air tank - one of the three that Graves had seen Wright purchase earlier in the day.
There were also several black rubber loops of different sizes.
`Just one suit?'
`Looks like it,' Lewis said. He moved the suit with his foot, spreading it flat on the floor. 'Wright's size?'
`Roughly. But these black loops...'
`I counted six,' Lewis said. `Four little ones, one big one, and one medium.'
`What the hell did he use them for?'
The old man came over and stood by them, staring down at the rubber suit. `You ask me,' he said, `he's just a crazy man. Rich people get that way.' He sighed. `Ten gallons of detergent. Now what am I going to do with that?'
Graves was tense in the car going back to San Diego. Lewis asked him what he was thinking about and he said, `My psychological tests.'
`Did they surprise you?'
`In a way.' He didn't bother to explain.
Graves felt the same way about his tests that he did whenever somebody sent him a photograph of himself. The question in his mind was, Is that the way you see me? Really? It was surprising. There was nothing new, no great discovery - but the quality, the em?hasis, could be unsettling.
It was no news to, him that he was competitive. He'd spent enough late nights playing poker with killers -and Washington had plenty of lethal poker players, Mood players who got into nothing but twenty-dollartnte games - to know that he was fiercely competitive. He liked to win and he hated to lose. That was nothing new.
The idea of his impulsiveness was not new, either. He had recognized it in himself. But the notion that this impulsiveness could be destructive - could get in his way - that was new. He had never considered it before.
There was a second problem relating to the psychological tests: How had he managed to get them in the first place? Burnett had been reluctant until Graves mentioned something about Wright. Then Burnett couldn't move fast enough.
Why?
The car radio buzzed. Lewis answered it. `701 here.'
`701, this is Central. Do you have Mr Graves there?F
'He's with me,' Lewis said, and handed the mike to Graves.
`Graves speaking.'
`We have a Washington call for you. Hold on please.'
There was a clicking, an electronic tone, and more clicking.
`Listen, you son of a bitch, I want your information.' Graves recognized the voice as Morrison at Defence.
`What information?' He glanced at Lewis and lit a cigarette.
`Look, god damn it, we had a shipment stolen last night.'
`Did you.' Graves kept his voice calm, but his heart was thumping wildly.
`Yes we did, and now somebody's got themselves a half-ton of ZV gas in binary aerosol cylinders, and we want to know who.'
`You certainly ought to be concerned,' Graves said, `but this is an open line.'
`Screw the open '
`You say it was ZV gas?' Graves said.
`You're fucking right.'
`Isn't that nerve gas?'
`You get your -'
`I'll tell you what,' Graves said. `You fill out requisition form KL-915 and send it over to us, and maybe we can get you the information by the end of the week.'
When he hung up, he began to feel better. The pieces were beginning to fall together. Wright was no longer so far ahead.
`Was he serious?' Lewis asked.
`Completely,' Graves said.
`Half a ton of nerve gas was stolen?'
`Right,' Graves said.
The radio buzzed again. Graves answered it.
`Where are you? This is Phelps.'
`I know who it is. I'm going west on Route Five from El Cajon.'
`Do you have Wright with you?'
`No.'
`You've made a terrible mistake,' Phelps said. `Binary 75 slash 76 is -'
`I know what it is,' Graves said.
`I doubt that,' Phelps said. `I'm at the Westgate Plaza Hotel, Room 1012. How fast can you get here?'
`Fifteen minutes.'
`Be here in ten,' Phelps said. `I have somebody you better meet.'
`Is it Wright?' Graves asked.
But Phelps had already hung up.
The Westgate Plaza was one of the three greatest hotels in the world, if you believed Esquire magazine. If you didn't, it was a pretentious modern dump decorated with a lot of phoney statuary in the lobby and downstairs lounge. Walking past statues of winged Mercury and Diana hunting, Graves took the elevator to Room 1012.
Phelps answered the door and said, `The poker game is over. I just ordered them to arrest Wright.'
Graves said, `May I come in?' He was not really concerned. He knew the limousine and the furniture van were still en route back to the city. There was time to countermand the order.
`Come in,' Phelps said. As Graves entered, he said, `This is Dr Nordmann from UCSD.'
Graves had never seen Nordmann before, though he knew who he was. He was a biologist on the faculty of the University of California at San Diego, and he was on the President's Advisory Council on something or other. And he was a strongly vocal opponent of chemical and biological weapons. He had been influential in getting Nixon to disavow biologicals in November 1970. He was reportedly still pushing for a similar disavowal on chemicals.
Nordmann was a tall and ungainly man with a sour expression. Graves wondered if it was permanent, or special for the occasion. Nordmann shook hands and said with some distate, `Are you in State Intelligence too?'
`Yes,' Graves said. `But we're not all the same.'
Phelps gave him a sharp look.
`Well, I'm not very clear on the reason for this briefing,' Nordmann said. `But I brought the film.'
`Good,' Phelps said. `There's a projector in the bedroom.'
As they went into the bedroom, they passed the TV.
Graves paused to watch: it was a demonstration in the Convention hall - a `spontaneous' demonstration for the President, who stood on the podium smiling, waving his arms, giving the V sign with both hands.
`There's very little time,' Phelps said. Graves went into the bedroom.
Drapes and shades had been drawn and it was quite dark. Graves sat on the bed. Phelps took a chair. Nordmann stood in front of the small projection screen, which was mounted above the bedroom dresser. He said to Phelps, `Where should I begin?'
`Just give us necessary background for the film.'
Nordman nodded, looking sourer than ever. Distantly in the background they could hear the chanting of the delegates on the living-room TV: `We want the President; we want the President...'
`You will be seeing,' Nordmann said, `the final product of more than half a century of research in chemical warfare. The official date for the start of chemical war is April 22nd, 1915, when the Germans launched an attack with chlorine gas. It was a primitive business - you sat in your trench, opened a canister of gas, and hoped the wind would blow it towards the enemy. If it didn't you were in trouble.
`A lot of improvements - if that's the word - came in the course of the First World War. Gas bombs, and better agents. Mustard gas, nitrogen mustard, and lewisite. All oily liquids that burn and blister your skin. They could kill you, too, but not very efficiently.'
Nordmann paused. `Second World War: a new advance, again from the Germans. Remember, the Germans were the best chemists in the world for most of the twentieth century. In 1936 they synthesized a complex organophosphorous ester called tabun. It was a nerve gas. It would kill anybody who breathed enough of it. All later developments - sarin, soman, GB, VX, and ZV - are just refinements within this basic class of chemical compounds.
`It's called nerve gas,' Nordmann said, `because it kills by interfering with transmission of nerve impulses. Nerves work electrically, but the impulses jump from nerve cell to nerve cell - across gaps called synapses - by chemical means. Nerve gases such as tabun, sarin, and ZV interfere with that jumping process. The result is difficulty in breathing, respiratory paralysis, and death. Now let's talk about potency.'
Graves lit a cigarette and glanced at Phelps. Phelps was smiling, nodding his head as Nordmann talked. Faintly from the TV they heard: `He's our man, he's our man, he's our man...' And loud cheers.
'Tabun and sarin,' Nordmann said, `or the American gas GB, must be inhaled to kill. Therefore gas masks provide an adequate defence. These gases are also relatively weak. They're not produced any more. But there is another family of gases, like VX, which can kill by absorption through the skin as well as by inhalation. The smallest fraction of an ounce is lethal. Am I clear?'
`You're clear,' Graves said.
`VX is terribly powerful,' Nordmann said. `The lethal dose is estimated to be between two and ten milligrammes, or a few thousandths of an ounce. But powerful as that is, it's nothing compared to ZV. ZV, like VX, is an oil. It's sticky, it clings to things, it hangs around the environment. But a tenth of a milligramme is a lethal dose. In other words, it's about a hundred times as powerful as VX. We're now talking about extraordinary potency.'
Phelps was still smiling, still nodding. Graves felt very cold.
`It is so potent that it has never been manufactured as a single gas. Instead, it's a binary - that is, it's produced as two separate gases, each harmless by itself. But when they mix, they're deadly. The gases are designated Binary 75 and Binary 76 respectively. They're generally stored in yellow and black tanks. The film you are going to see is a French Army
training film showing the effects of ZV on a condemned prisoner.'
Phelps got up and turned on the projector.
On the screen they saw a man in denim clothing standing in an enclosed room. The man was looking around nervously.
`This subject,' Nordmann said, `is going to be exposed to the LD500 dose of the gas, that is, five tenths of a milligramme. It is a fully lethal dose.'
Faintly from the other room they heard, `My fellow Americans, it is with great pleasure that I -'
At the bottom of the screen appeared the words GAS 75 INTRODUCED. The prisoner did not react. Moments later: GAS 76 INTRODUCED. The prisoner responded instantly. He placed his hand on his chest, coughed, and wiped his nose.
`- join you in this great tradition, this reaffirmation of the democratic process -'
On the screen: EARLY STAGES - RUNNING NOSE, CHEST
TIGHTNESS, DIMNESS OF VISION
`- and I must urge you to follow the vision of our great land, to seek the promise, to fulfil the expectations. Let me make one thing perfectly clear '
'Will somebody shut that door?' Graves said.
On the screen the prisoner appeared in close-up. His nose was running profusely; the liquid dripped down to his shirt. His eyes were hard black dots.
PINPOINT PUPILS
A full-body shot showed the man bent over in evident pain.
MIDDLE STAGES - CRAMPS AND NAUSEA
The prisoner vomited explosively, and the caption stated unnecessarily, VOMITING.
Very faint now from the living-room they heard the sound of prolonged applause.
On the screen the prisoner was clearly confused and in great pain. A dark stain appeared on his trousers.
INVOLUNTARY URINATION
The man staggered and leaned against the wall. His legs and arms twitched and jerked spastically.
STAGGERING
The prisoner looked around briefly, but his face was contorted in agony. He lost his balance and fell, twitching and jerking, to the floor. The camera panned down to follow him. From the other room the applause continued.
DROWSINESS
The man was not really awake. He lifted his head from the floor in short jerks and finally flopped down, not moving.
COMA
The camera remained on the man. His chest was still moving slightly. Then it stopped.
CESSATION OF BREATHING
A moment later.
DEATH
The screen faded to dark. And the last letters appeared. TIME FROM INTRODUCTION OF BINARY GAS TO DEATH: 1.7 MINUTES.
