"I don't get it," Patrick said. His stomach lurched as one of the Federal Plaza elevators lifted them toward OPRR's offices.
They'd held off talking about Alice during the ride over from Alphabet City. The odds that one of New York's current crop of cabbies would know enough English to follow their discussion were astronomical, but still they hadn't wanted to risk it. Now they had an elevator car to themselves.
"I think I do," Romy said. "I think she did perform some service for SimGen in its early years, maybe even before it started calling itself SimGen. And it may well have had something to do with a baby."
"What about the space alien angle? You're not buying into - "
"Of course not. I'm no psychologist, but I can see how she may have felt very guilty about what she did. Combine that with not being too tightly wrapped in the first place, and you can understand someone unraveling. She structured a fantastic scenario that blended fact and fiction."
"But Mercer Sinclair?"
"More mixing of fact and fiction," Romy said. "Alice must have had some direct contact with him because he keeps reappearing in her story - taking the sim baby, signing her check."
"Right. The check. Why did she think it had changed?"
"You heard her. She hadn't looked at it for years, and during that time it did change - in her mind. Maybe Mercer Sinclair had given it to her himself. She remembered that and so over the years her loosely hinged mind substituted his signature for whoever really signed it. And since Mercer Sinclair is synonymous with SimGen, she began to remember it as a SimGen check."
"Poor lady. I'd give anything to know the truth about her."
"I don't think even she knows anymore."
He slipped an arm over Romy's shoulders and pulled her closer. "You were good with her."
"I felt sorry for the poor thing."
It had taken Romy a while, but finally she'd managed to calm Alice Fredericks, telling her she was safe now: The aliens had what they wanted and so they wouldn't be bothering her again. She could take down the foil, let some fresh air into the room, and stop worrying. Alice seemed to buy it. She hadn't seemed quite ready yet to peel the foil from the walls, but she'd been in better spirits, and even gave them the check to take with them. After all, it wasn't the real thing, so it was no use to her.
"How old do you think she is?" Patrick said.
"She said she was forty-seven."
"Yeah, but is that reliable? She looks sixty."
"Poverty and madness can age you pretty fast."
"Yeah, well..." He sighed. "I guess there's no way to find out what really went on between her and SimGen - or rather, the proto-SimGen being directly financed by Manassas. Which leaves us no closer finding out who's behind Manassas."
"But we've got a Manassas Ventures check, and it's signed. That'ssomebody's signature."
"Right." With his free hand Patrick pulled the old check from his pocket and held it up. "A C-like letter connected to a squiggle, and then an L-like thing connected to another squiggle, on a check drawn on a Virginia bank that was no doubt gobbled up by another bank that merged with yet another bank which was taken over by still another bank."
"But the check's dated back when all that appropriation money was being funneled into SIRG. If we can connect SIRG to that Arlington Federal account..."
"Fat chance."
"Don't be so sure. I've got Uncle Miltie working on SIRG."
Patrick had to laugh. "How do you get your superior to do your scut work?"
She lifted her chin defiantly. "I'll have you know I'm superior to Milton Ware in every way."
"Except in seniority, position, and salary, right?"
"Mere details. Besides, he's crazy about me."
"Aren't we all?"
"And he's an expert at tracking down funding. Nobody better. Knows a ton of passwords and can sniff out an unclaimed research dollar at a thousand paces. That's how I sicced him on SIRG. I told him this group got zillions in funding without ever revealing what it was doing. Maybe if OPRR learned its secret..."
"And he bought it?"
"Why not? It's true, isn't it?"
"Did you tell him it hasn't received a dime in years?"
"Of course. But I suggested that if he could find where all that funding came from, maybe some of it might still be around for OPRR to tap into."
"And he bit?"
"Like a dog on a bone. And Milton Ware is the kind of dog who'll work a bone until there's nothing left."
They reached the OPRR offices, a nondescript suite on the eighteenth floor. Romy led Patrick to a windowed office where a peppy, white-haired little man sat hunched before a computer. The plaque on his desk readMILTON WARE .
"Any luck?" she said.
The man looked up and regarded them with bright blue eyes. "Yes and no."
After Romy made introductions, Ware took off his glasses and pointed to the inch-high stack of printouts on his desk.
"The good news is that I know where Social Impact Research Group's money came from. The bad news is that OPRR won't be able to get any of it."
"Why not?" Romy said.
"Because its ultimate source was the Department of Defense."
"Knew it!" Romy said, clapping her hands once. "Just like SOG - military bucks laundered through an innocent-sounding subagency. Any indication where the money went after it was cleared through SIRG?"
"Hell," Patrick said, "we know damn well - " But a quick look from Romy shut him up.
Right. They both suspected that the money had marched through a parade of holding companies until it reached Manassas Ventures, which used it to fund the nascent SimGen. But Milton Ware knew nothing of this.
"We know it wasn't anything legit," Romy said, jumping in to cover for him. "Otherwise they would have been more open about the funding."
"I don't see why it matters," Ware said. "It doesn't exist anymore. No trace of it in anyone's budget anymore."
Patrick leaned back and thought a moment. They knew SIRG was still active - Daniel Palmer had said the name before his speech center blew a fuse. But where was it getting its funding now? The path to the answer might not lie with government agencies but with people. He'd seen it happen time and again during his labor relations practice: certain shady characters, on both the labor and management sides, would be found out and sent packing, only to pop up in another company or union local the following year.
"SIRG might be operating under a different name," he said, "but I bet the personnel are the same. Any idea who headed SIRG?"
Ware leaned forward and put on his glasses. "Yes. I remember coming across that somewhere..." He began shuffling through his printouts. "Here it is: the director was a Lieutenant Colonel Conrad Landon."
"And where is he now?"
"Easy enough to find out." Ware turned to his computer. After a number of flamenco bursts on his keyboard, he leaned closer to the screen and said, "Conrad Landon retired as a full bird colonel."
"Damn. When?"
Ware stared at the monitor. "The same year the funding died."
"What a surprise," Romy murmured.
Patrick leaned across the desk for a peek at Ware's screen. "Any hint at where he might - ?"
The picture of Landon startled him. Something familiar about the man in the grainy, black-and-white personnel-file photo.
"What's up?" Romy said.
"Nothing. I just - " And then he knew. Add a few decades, enough to whiten the hair and deeply line the face, and Patrick recognized him. "Nothing." Repressing a shout of triumph, he rose and extended his hand across the desk. Had to get out of here, had to talk to Romy alone before he exploded. "Nice meeting you, Mr. Ware. I've got to run. Romy, could you show me out?"
He fairly pulled her out of her seat and propelled her ahead of him down the hall.
"What is it?" she said.
"Where can we talk?"
"My office is - "
"Might be bugged." He saw the elevators ahead. "Back to our mobile conversation pit."
He pressed both theUP andDOWN buttons. The upward bound car arrived first, carrying four people. He let it go. The downward was empty. Perfect. He dragged Romy inside, jabbed the button for the lobby. As soon as the doors closed...
"Remember when we had our little face-to-face in my office with the Manassas Ventures lawyers?" he said, his tongue all but tripping over the words in his rush to get them out before someone else entered the car. "And remember how I followed them downstairs to their limo, hoping to find someone like Mercer Sinclair sitting in the back?"
She frowned. "Vaguely."
"But it turned out to be someone I'd never seen before. Well, I've just seen him again. The man in the back seat was Conrad Landon, former Army colonel, and former director of SIRG. Maybe not so former. I'll bet SIRG never went away and he's still calling the shots. Find this Conrad Landon and we'll find SIRG."
