Everything he tried wasblocked, or else it didn't lead anywhere. Like this Berlin Conference.It's a powder keg. Dad gambled everything on going there, forcing thedelegates to face facts, to really put their cards on the table. Eversince the United Nations fell apart in '72 dad had been trying to getAmerica and Russia to sit at the same table. But the President cut himout at the last minute. It was planned that way, to let him get up tothe very brink of it, and then slap him down hard. They did it allalong. This was just the last he could take."
Shandor was silent for a moment. "Any particular thorns in his side?"
Ann shrugged. "Munitions people, mostly. Dartmouth Bearing had apressure lobby that was trying to throw him out of the cabinet. ThePresident sided with them, but he didn't dare do it for fear the peoplewould squawk. He was planning to blame the failure of the BerlinConference on dad and get him ousted that way."
Shandor stared. "But if that conference fails, _we're in full-scalewar_!"
"Of course. That's the whole point." She scowled at her glass, blinkingback tears. "Dad could have stopped it, but they wouldn't let him. _Itkilled him_, Tom!"
Shandor watched the smoke curling up from his cigarette. "Look," hesaid. "I've got an idea, and it's going to take some fast work. Thatconference could blow up any minute, and then I think we're going to bein real trouble. I want you to go to your father's office and get thecontents of his personal file. Not the business files, his personalfiles. Put them in a briefcase and subway-express them to your home. Ifyou have any trouble, have them check with PIB--we have full authority,and I'm it right now. I'll call them and give them the word. Then meetme here again, with the files, at 7:30 this evening."
She looked up, her eyes wide. "What--what are you going to do?"
Shandor snubbed out his smoke, his eyes bright. "I've got an idea thatwe may be onto something--just something I want to check. But I think ifwe work it right, we can lay these boys that fought your father out bythe toes--"
* * * * *
The Library of Congress had been moved when the threat of bombing inWashington had become acute. Shandor took a cab to the Georgetownairstrip, checked the fuel in the 'copter. Ten minutes later he startedthe motor, and headed upwind into the haze over the hills. In less thanhalf an hour he settled to the Library landing field in westernMaryland, and strode across to the rear entrance.
The electronic cross-index had been the last improvement in the Librarysince the war with China had started in 1958. Shandor found a readingbooth in one of the alcoves on the second floor, and plugged in theindex. The cold, metallic voice of the automatic chirped twice and said,"Your reference, pleeyuz."
Shandor thought a moment. "Give me your newspaper files on DavidIngersoll, Secretary of State."
"Through which dates, pleeyuz."
"Start with the earliest reference, and carry through to current." Thespeaker burped, and he sat back, waiting. A small grate in the panelbefore him popped open, and a small spool plopped out onto a spindle.Another followed, and another. He turned to the reader, and reeled thefirst spool into the intake slot. The light snapped on, and he beganreading.
Spools continued to plop down. He read for several hours, taking a dozenpages of notes. The references commenced in June, 1961, with a smallnotice that David Ingersoll, Republican from New Jersey, had beennominated to run for state senator. Before that date, nothing. Shandorscowled, searching for some item predating that one. He found nothing.
Scratching his head, he continued reading, outlining chronologically.Ingersoll's election to state senate, then to United States Senate. Hisrise to national prominence as economist for the post-war Administratorof President Drayton in 1966. His meteoric rise as a peacemaker in anation tired from endless dreary years of fighting in China and India.His tremendous popularity as he tried to stall the re-intensifyingcold-war with Russia. The first Nobel Peace Prize, in 1969, for theill-fated Ingersoll Plan for World Sovereignty. Pages and pages andpages of newsprint. Shandor growled angrily, surveying the pile of noteswith a sinking feeling of incredulity. The articles, the writing, thetone--it was all too familiar. Carefully he checked the newspapersources. Some of the dispatches were Associated Press; many came directdesk from Public Information Board in New York; two other networkssponsored some of the wordage. But the tone was all the same.
Finally, disgusted, Tom stuffed the notes into his briefcase, andflipped down the librarian lever. "Sources, please."
A light blinked, and in a moment a buzzer sounded at his elbow. A femalevoice, quite human, spoke as he lifted the receiver. "Can I help you onsources?"
"Yes. I've been reading the newspaper files on David Ingersoll. I'd likethe by-lines on this copy."
There was a moment of silence. "Which dates, please?"
Shandor read off his list, giving dates. The silence continued forseveral minutes as he waited impatiently. He was about to hang up andleave when the voice spoke up again. "I'm sorry, sir. Most of thatmaterial has no by-line. Except for one or two items it's allstaff-written."
"By whom?"
"I'm sorry, no source is available. Perhaps the PIB offices could helpyou--"
"All right, ring them for me, please." He waited another five minutes,saw the PIB cross-index clerk appear on the video screen. "Hello, Mr.Shandor. Can I help you?"
"I'm trying to trace down the names of the Associated Press and PIBwriters who covered stories on David Ingersoll over a period from June1961 to the present date--"
The girl disappeared for several moments. When she reappeared, her facewas puzzled. "Why, Mr. Shandor, you've been doing the work on Ingersollfrom August, 1978 to Sept. 1982. We haven't closed the files on thislast month yet--"
He scowled in annoyance. "Yes, yes, I know that. I want the writersbefore I came."
The clerk paused. "Until you started your work there was no definiteassignment. The information just isn't here. But the man you replaced inPIB was named Frank Mariel."
Shandor turned the name over in his mind, decided that it was familiar,but that he couldn't quite place it. "What's this man doing now?"
The girl shrugged. "I don't know, just now, and have no sources. Butaccording to our files he left Public Information Board to go to work insome capacity for Dartmouth Bearing Corporation."
Shandor flipped the switch, and settled back in the reading chair. Onceagain he fingered through his notes, frowning, a doubt gnawing throughhis mind into certainty. He took up a dozen of the stories, analyzedthem carefully, word for word, sentence by sentence. Then he sat back,his body tired, eyes closed in concentration, an incredible ideatwisting and writhing and solidifying in his mind.
It takes one to catch one. That was his job--telling lies. Writingstories that weren't true, and making them believable. Making peoplethink one thing when the truth was something else. It wasn't so strangethat he could detect exactly the same sort of thing when he ran into it.He thought it through again and again, and every time he came up withthe same answer. There was no doubt.
Reading the newspaper files had accomplished only one thing. He hadspent the afternoon reading a voluminous, neat, smoothly written,extremely convincing batch of bold-faced lies. Lies about DavidIngersoll. Somewhere, at the bottom of those lies was a shred or two oftruth, a shred hard to analyze, impossible to segregate from the garbagesurrounding it. But somebody had written the lies. That meant thatsomebody knew the truths behind them.
Suddenly he galvanized into action. The video blinked protestingly athis urgent summons, and the Washington visiphone operator answered."Somewhere in those listings of yours," Shandor said, "you've got a mannamed Frank Mariel. I want his number."
* * * * *
He reached the downtown restaurant half an hour early, and ducked into anearby visiphone station to ring Hart. The PIB director's chubby facematerialized on the screen after a moment's confusion, and Shandor said:"John--what are your plans for releasing the Ingersoll story? Themorning papers left him with a slight he
ad cold, if I remember right--"Try as he would, he couldn't conceal the edge of sarcasm in his voice.
Hart scowled. "How's the biography coming?"
"The biography's coming along fine. I want to know what kind ofquicksand I'm wading through, that's all."
Hart shrugged and spread his hands. "We can't break the story properuntil you're ready with your buffer story. Current plans say that hegets pneumonia tomorrow, and goes to Walter Reed tomorrow night. We'regiving it as little emphasis as possible, running the Berlin Conferencestories for right-hand column stuff. That'll give you all day tomorrowand half the next day