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43.
Linsey and Cleve sat with Louise Trost in her office downtown at ten p.m. that night. All three were tired. Linsey shared Jack's Robertson story, and Louise said: "Write it up. Get all the details and pass them along to me. I think Mr. Collwood is getting deeper into kimchee as the hours pass."
Cleve yawned, and the two women laughed. "Time to go home and get some sleep?" Linsey said to Cleve, as much a suggestion as a question. Cleve nodded. "I don't think we can get much more done today. It's been a full day and a half."
"Well done!" Louise said told Linsey, while shaking Cleve's hand. We're onto Collwood but t's too early to tip our hand. We don't know who the real enemy is, if there is an enemy, and what we need now is intelligence." She picked up the phone. "Patch me through to" [she mumbled something and hung up]. She folded her hands on the desk and said: "I've been on the phone with the Governor's office and also the Director of National Intelligence or DNI, among other people. That's my job—pulling resources together seamlessly to meet any eventuality in the area of counter-terrorism, and secondarily to direct resources to other agencies for non-counter-terrorism related situations. This is, as far as I am concerned, still a counter-terrorism situation. However, based on some of the characteristics—cargo ship from South America, empty cargo holds, disappeared captain and crew, etc—it could also be drug related. Thus, I'm going to call upon our friends in the Border Patrol and the Drug Enforcement Agency to call upon their resources, and there will be a plane in the air within the hour to start infrared and microwave echo reconaissance. We'll want a closer look at all of Anaconda's facilities, particularly the ones at Volcan Mountain and in Brawley. I'm talking warrants, searches, the whole nine yards."
"How long before we know anything?"
"Noon tomorrow."
Linsey and Cleve looked startled. "How is that possible?"
Louise smiled. "I have a sneaking suspicion there's going to be so much pressure up the pipe that we'll have U.S. Air Force spy planes in the air within the hour. They'll map the place inch by inch in the dark and also in the morning light. Signal goes back to an analysis station, probably at Langley, Virginia, or NSA headquarters, and I'll have printouts of maps, photos, and analysis text from experts—noon tomorrow."
"That's effin'-A," Cleve said.
"You got that effin' right," Louise told Cleve in her grandmotherly fashion. "Well, you each have a spouse waiting up. What's on the agenda for tomorrow, Linsey?"
"I'd like to get Cleve assigned to work with me for at least a week, if that's possible."
"I'm sure it is. I can pull any resources I need, and if you say you need him, you've got him."
"And," Linsey said, "I have a list of the crew, so we should put teams together to find the men and interview them. I'd say two people for each crew, so about sixty people should do it."
Louise nodded. "I'll see what I can scrape together. I guess I don't go home tonight, but then so don't a lot of other people."
Linsey said: "Someone will need to talk with the top brass at Anaconda. I understand there is a Mr. Collwood who owns the company, and a Mr. Morton who runs the San Diego show."
"I'm a little leery of that. Let's see what the reconaissance tells us. If his planes have been crop dusting San Diego with yellow seeds or pods or whatever, and at least one person has died, then I'd say we had better be careful what we say to whom. Chances are, if they are his planes, Mr. Collwood knows something about it—or can point us to the person who might."
"One other thing," Linsey said as she shuffled through the handful of quickly yellowing printouts from that afternoon. "We can be reasonably certain that there is a connection between the Lima Voyager and Mr. Collwood's company. What that connection is, I don’t know yet."
As they got up to leave, Louise handed Linsey a printout. "That's a report I requested from the Department of Motor Vehicles while we were talking. They ran it on an emergency basis through the night duty sergeant at the County Marshal's Office. Names, addresses, and phone numbers of the owners of those vehicles you saw parked near Volcan Mountain."
"Thanks," Linsey said. One of the names immediately caught her eye. It was that of Ernie Walesky, a man whose brother Joe worked for the Harbor Police. Sometimes San Diego was still such a small town, even though it was America's sixth or seventh major city. Ernie Walesky might be a good guy of whom to start asking questions tomorrow.
That night, as they lay in bed reading, Jack remarked: "I haven't seen you this tense in quite a while. We need a vacation together, you and I."
"I'm sorry, honey. My head is whirling like a blender."
"You sure you haven't inhaled some of those spores?"
"What do you know about spores, Jack?" She turned and leaned on one pajama-clad elbow, facing him. He seemed to use his fat anthology of Jack Finney novels like a rampart to hide behind. "Well, honey, the entire county is covered by those little yellow fungi. I have two rivals at our newspaper alone, not to mention every television and radio news desk in town, trying to put together a story. We have a dead roofer, a lot of yellow fungi, and the nagging question of those supposed crop dusting planes. Frankly, it stinks."
She had a horrible thought. "You're going to be really mad at me if you get scooped, aren't you?"
He laid his book down on his washboard and folded his arms. "I'm going to go nuclear, yes."
She thought about it. "The last thing I'd want to do is curtail your curiosity and ambition."
"Well said. Or my innate intelligence, considerable analytical skills, and drive to serve truth, justice, and the American way of life."
"Or your ability to shovel manure with the best of them."
"I rest my case. I am a misunderstood genius."
She whacked him with her pillow. "All right, Jack. Let's make a deal."
He dropped his show and sat in eager anticipation. "Yes?"
"Historic events require a reporter with the inside scoop."
"An embedded journalist, as it were."
"Right, like in the recent war. The exception is that, if you report anything, your butt will sit in a Federal prison."
"I'll keep mouth shut, nose clean, but you'll feed me truffles."
"Something like that. I'll take you along on some of my investigations. You and Cleve can protect me."
"Deal." He hugged her and slid close. He was breathing hard and emitting fever-like body heat over her side of the bed. It was catching—she responded with similar symptoms.
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