It had been an interesting week. Only seven days ago, Norvell Ransome had been a GG-18 with the National Security Agency, the Department of Defense's critical communications security arm, working in its Fort Meade computer section, when he was summoned to the office of the NSA director, known in the agency's parlance as DIRNSA.
Ransome took the elevator that day too, enjoying the buoyancy of the ride. He loved elevators, and the effect they had on his normally ponderous body.
The blue-uniformed Federal Protective Service guard that day had checked the laminated plastic photo I.D. card dangling under Ransome's three-ply chin and allowed him to waddle unmolested down Mahogany Row, the ninth-floor executive offices, to the bright blue door at the corridor's end, emblazoned with the NSA seal, an eagle clutching a skeleton key.
Ransome entered Room 9A197, checked in with the executive secretary, and was instantly buzzed into the director's comfortable but businesslike office.
The director waved Ransome to a leather armchair, then, catching himself, said, "The couch, if you prefer."
"Thank you sir," Ransome said unself-conciously. The armchair had looked substantial, but Ransome had been known to burst the rear tires on a taxi simply by climbing into the back seat.
"I am holding up a file," the director said crisply. "Do you see the code on front?"
"TOP SECRET CURE," Ransome said, frowning. He was familiar with most NSA codes. Top Secret Umbra, for example. Or the Gamma class-Gyro, Gilt, Gout, etc.-which was reserved for matters pertaining to Soviet intelligence.
"This is so you recognize it when it arrives at your home by Federal Express tomorrow morning." Ransome blinked.
"Why not simply hand it to me?"
"Too risky. I can't have every FPS officer from here to the Cyclone fence trying to trace it back to its source. Officially this file does not exist. Officially we never had this meeting. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir." But of course Norvell Ransome had not understood.
"I doubt that," DIRNSA said. "I don't understand any of this myself. This was messengered over here from the White House. I was told if I opened the file, it would be my neck."
"Who would threaten you, sir?"
"The President of the United States," the director said flatly. "And I may be known as a wheels-up ballsy SOB, but the President is ex-CIA. As much as it galls me to do so, this time I'm just following orders. Tomorrow morning at ten-thirty, Federal Express will deliver this to your door. Sign for it. Study it. Then destroy it. As soon as you have done so, you will go directly to the airport and board a plane for whatever destination is indicated in this file. You will remain on station indefinitely, unless you are relieved. Until such time, consider yourself on leave from all NSA duties."
"On leave? Where?"
"I do not know. And you will not tell me. We will never discuss this matter once you leave my office. The President personally asked me to assign this matter to my most trustworthy computer engineer."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me. This whole thing reeks of plausible deniability. There's a good reason for the President not to assign this to the CIA, and I don't want to think what that reason might be."
Norvell Ransome swallowed uncomfortably. He realized immediately that he could be an expendable component in a larger operation. He did not enjoy contemplating that notion.
"Do I have the option to decline this assignment?" he asked.
"I frankly do not know. But if this is as critical as it sounds, I'd say you already know too much to turn it down."
"I believe I shall accept, then," Ransome had said quickly.
"Wise career move."
Norvell Ransome pushed himself to his tiny feet. It took three tries before he successfully levered himself up into a bandy-legged standing stance.
He walked away trembling from head to toe. The director hadn't even bothered to say good-bye.
The Federal Express package arrived at exactly 10:28 A. M. the next day. Ransome signed for it and pulled open the envelope flap. Inside was the folder stamped TOP SECRET CURE. Before leaving the office the day before, he had run down every code name in the NSA data base. CURE was not one of them. He wondered what it could mean, but there was no point in pondering the matter. DOD code names never reflected their actual meaning or subject matter.
Inside the file was a description of an electronic listening post set up in a private facility known as Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York. There was a brief description of its computer system and passwords. Nothing about its mission.
A simple note on presidential stationery said: "Continue operations until notified." It was not signed. Norvell Ransome arrived at Folcroft by airport limousine less than five hours later. He was met by a flustered secretary, a Mrs. Mikulka, who handed him a sealed envelope and told him Dr. Smith's condition had not changed.
Ransome had wondered who Dr. Smith was as he was led to the second-floor office marked "Harold W. Smith, Director." He opened the envelope in the privacy of the man's office. The desk chair was sturdy. It would support his weight, he thought as he read through the letter signed by Smith.
The letter left out more than it revealed. It told of a hidden stud under the lip of the desk. Ransome found and depressed it. A computer terminal suddenly rose from a concealed well on his left.
With the skill of a professional programmer, Ransome brought up the system and was met by a scrolling series of news and information digests. He had no idea where they were coming from. They were totally random facts. Word that an illegal hostile takeover was in progress against a defense-critical industry. A CIA burn notice warning of a Soviet mole in the U.S. State Department. Statistics, and what he finally deduced were NSA-style "gists" of telephone intercepts that conclusively showed that a high-level politician was arranging for a cocaine shipment to enter his city. The politician was not identified except by telephone number.
Ransome called the number and got the governor's mansion in Florida. He hung up without speaking. Whatever Folcroft was, Norvell Ransome realized, its apparent mission was similar to the NSA message-traffic intelligence gathering. Here was electronic intelligence gathering at its finest. With a start, Ransome realized that some of this information was familiar. He had passed it through the dozen acres of computers-that was how they measured computer capacity at NSA, in acres-only yesterday.
"My God. This is being siphoned off our systems," he said hoarsely.
Not only NSA computers, it turned out, but CIA, FBI, DIA, IRS, Pentagon, and uncountable business and private sources.
The enormity of that realization was just sinking in when a muffled ringing interrupted. He picked up the blue standard telephone, but there was just a dial tone in his baby-shiny ear. The ringing continued. He looked around. There was no other phone. Ransome had reached out to buzz the secretary when he realized it was coming from the upper-right-hand desk drawer.
Ransome pulled out the drawer, and there, amid a profusion of aspirin and antacid bottles, was a bright red telephone with a flat blank area where the dial should have been. Puzzled, Ransome plucked up the receiver.
"Who am I speaking with, please?" a dry familiar voice asked. The accent was a jumble of clipped New England consonants and Texas twang.
"Norvell Ransome."
"This is your President, Mr. Ransome. Are you up and running?"
"Indeed I am, Mr. President."
"Please enter the password RESTORE. Shall I spell that?"
"No, I have it," Ransome had said, complying instantly. His fingers were shaky on the keys. The scrolling data extracts vanished. A cursor began spinning out blocks of text. He read along in silence, his eyes becoming white-edged eggs in his fleshy pear of a face.
"Are you prepared to execute the orders summarized?" the President had demanded.
"Yes, sir."
"When you have succeeded, simply pick up the receiver you are holding and so inform me. Otherwise, continue operations. Do you understand?"
"Yes. "
"What is the latest on Dr. Smith?"
"The staff is worried about him," Ransome answered truthfully.