The Doomsday Conspiracy
Early the following morning, Dustin Thornton sent for Robert. “What are you working on, Commander?”
He knows perfectly well what I’m working on, Robert thought. “I’m winding up my file on the diplomat from Singapore, and …”
“It doesn’t seem to be occupying enough of your time.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Commander, the Office of Naval Intelligence is not mandated to investigate American citizens.”
Robert was watching him, puzzled. “What are you …?”
“I’ve been notified by the FBI that you have been trying to obtain information that is completely out of the jurisdiction of this agency.”
Robert felt a sudden rush of anger. That sonofabitch Traynor had betrayed him. So much for friendship. “It was a personal matter,” Robert said. “I …”
“The computers of the FBI are not there for your convenience, nor to help you harass private citizens. Do I make myself clear?”
“Very.”
“That’s all.”
Robert raced back to his office. His fingers trembled as he dialled 202-324-3000. A voice answered, “FBI.”
“Al Traynor.”
“Just a moment, please.”
A minute later, a man’s voice came on the line. “Hello. May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m calling Al Traynor.”
“I’m sorry, Agent Traynor is no longer with this office.”
Robert felt a shock go through him. “What?”
“Agent Traynor has been transferred.”
“Transferred?”
“Yes.”
“To where?”
“Boise. But he won’t be up there for a while. A long while, I’m afraid.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was struck by a hit-and-run driver last night while jogging in Rock Creek Park. Can you believe it? Some creep must have been drunk out of his mind. He ran his car right up on the jogging path. Traynor’s body was thrown over forty feet. He may not make it.”
Robert replaced the receiver. His mind was spinning. What the hell was going on? Monte Banks, the blue-eyed all-American boy, was being protected. From what? By whom? Jesus, Robert thought, what is Susan getting herself into?
He went to visit her that afternoon.
She was in her new apartment, a beautiful duplex on “M” Street. He wondered whether Moneybags had paid for it. It had been weeks since he had seen Susan, and the sight of her took his breath away.
“Forgive me for barging in like this, Susan. I know I promised not to.”
“You said it was something serious.”
“It is.” Now that he was here, he didn’t know how to begin. Susan, I came here to save you? She would laugh in his face.
“What’s happened?”
“It’s about Monte.”
She frowned. “What about him?”
This was the difficult part. How could he tell her what he himself didn’t know? All he knew was that something was terribly wrong. Monte Banks was in the FBI computer all right, with a tickler: No information to be given out without proper authorization. And the inquiry had been kicked right back to ONI. Why?
“I don’t think he’s … he’s not what he seems to be.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Susan – where does he get his money?”
She looked surprised at the question. “Monte has a very successful import-export business.”
The oldest cover in the world.
He should have known better than to have come charging in with his half-baked theory. He felt like a fool. Susan was waiting for an answer and he had none.
“Why are you asking?”
“I was … I just wanted to make sure he’s right for you,” Robert said lamely.
“Oh, Robert.” Her voice was filled with disappointment.
“I guess I shouldn’t have come.” You got that right, buddy. “I’m sorry.”
Susan walked up to him and gave him a hug. “I understand,” she said softly.
But she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand that an innocent inquiry about Monte Banks had been stonewalled, referred to the Office of Naval Intelligence, and that the man who had tried to get that information had been transferred to the boondocks.
There were other ways of obtaining information, and Robert went about them circumspectly. He telephoned a friend who worked for Forbes Magazine.
“Robert! Long time no see. What can I do for you?”
Robert told him.
“Monte Banks? Interesting you should mention him. We think he should be on our Forbes Four Hundred wealthiest list, but we can’t get any hard information on him. Do you have anything for us?”
A zero.
Robert went to the public library and looked up Monte Banks in Who’s Who. He was not listed.
He turned to the microfiche, and looked up back issues of the Washington Post around the time that Monte Banks had had his plane accident. There was a brief item about the plane crash. It mentioned Banks as an entrepreneur.
It all sounded innocent enough. Maybe I’m wrong, Robert thought. Maybe Monte Banks is a guy in a white hat. Our government wouldn’t have protected him if he was a spy, a criminal, into drugs … The truth is that I’m still trying to hold onto Susan.
Being a bachelor again was a loneliness, an emptiness, a round of busy days and sleepless nights. A tide of despair would sweep over him without warning, and he would weep. He wept for himself and for Susan and for everything that they had lost. Susan’s presence was everywhere. The apartment was alive with reminders of her. Robert was cursed with total recall, and each room tormented him with memories of Susan’s voice, her laughter, her warmth. He remembered the soft hills and valleys of her body as she lay in bed naked, waiting for him, and the ache inside him was unbearable.