Binary - Michael Crichton [3]
Phelps needed the telephone lines for data transmission. It was as simple as that. LA was the third largest city in America, and it would have plenty of telephone lines that the Department of State (Intelligence Division) could take over on short notice. It was inevitable.
'Here we are, sir,' the driver said, pulling over to the kerb. He got out and opened the door for Graves. 'Am I to wait for you, sir?'
'Yes, I think so.'
'Very good, sir.'
Graves paused and looked up at the building. It was a rather ordinary four-storey office building in an area of Los Angeles that seemed almost a slum. The building, not particularly new, was outstandingly ugly. And the paint was flaking away from the facade.
Graves walked up the steps and entered the lobby. As he went through the doors he looked at his watch. It was exactly 5 AM. Phelps was waiting for him in the deserted lobby. Phelps wore a lightweight glen-plaid suit and a worried expression. He shook hands with Graves and said, 'How was your flight?' His voice echoed slightly in the lobby.
'Fine,' Graves said. They walked to the elevators, passing the groundfloor offices, which seemed mostly devoted to a bank.
'Like this place?' Phelps said.
'Not much.'
'It was the best we could find on short notice,' he said.
A guard with a sign-in book stood in front of the elevators. Graves let Phelps sign first; then he took the pen and wrote his name, his authorization, and the time. He saw that Decker and Venn were already there:
They got into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. 'Decker and Venn are already here,' Phelps said.
'I saw.'
Phelps nodded and smiled, as much as he ever smiled. 'I keep forgetting about you and your powers of observation.'
'I keep forgetting about you, too,' Graves said.
Phelps ignored the remark. 'I've planned two meetings for today,' he said. 'You've got the briefing in an hour - Wilson, Peckham, and a couple of others. But I think you should hear about Sigma Station first.'
'All right,' Graves said. He didn't know what the hell Phelps was talking about, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of asking.
They got off at the third floor and walked past some peeling posters of Milan and Tahiti and through a small typing pool, the desks now deserted, the typewriters neatly covered.
'What is this place?' Graves said.
'Travel agency,' Phelps said. 'They went out of business but they had a lot of-'
'Telephone lines.'
'Yes. We took over the floor.'
'How long you planning to stay?' Graves asked. There was an edge to his voice that he didn't bother to conceal. Phelps knew how he felt about the Department.
'Just through the Convention,' Phelps said, with elaborate innocence. 'What did you think?'
'I thought it might be permanent.'
'Good Lord, no. Why would we do a thing like that?'
'I can't imagine,' Graves said.
Past the typing pool they came to a section of private offices. The walls were painted an institutional beige. It reminded Graves of a prison, or a hospital. No wonder the travel agency went out of business, he thought.
'I know how you feel,' Phelps said.
'Do you?' Graves asked.
'Yes. You're... ambivalent about the section.'
'I'm ambivalent about the domestic activities.'
'We all are,' Phelps said. He said it easily, in the smooth, oil-on-the-waters manner that he had perfected. And his father before him. Phelps' father had been an under-secretary of state during the Roosevelt administration. Phelps himself was a product of the Dalton School, Andover, Yale, and Harvard Law School. If he sat still, ivy would sprout from his ears. But he never sat still.
'How do you find San Diego?' he asked, walking along with his maddeningly springy step.
'Boring and hot.'
Phelps sighed. 'Don't blame me. I didn't choose it.'
Graves did not reply. They continued down a corridor and came upon a guard, who nodded to Phelps. 'Good morning, Mr Phelps.' And to Graves: 'Good morning, sir.' Phelps flashed his pink card; so did Graves. The guard allowed them to pass farther down the corridor past