Binary - Michael Crichton [38]
'Sure,' Graves said. 'Those Army shipments have been going on for years. They're sitting ducks. Anybody with a little money, a little intelligence, and a screw loose somewhere could arrange for a steal. Look: Richard Speck knocked off eight nurses, but he was an incompetent. Charles Whitman was an expert rifleman, and on that basis could knock off seventeen people. John Wright is highly intelligent and very wealthy. He's going to go for a million people and one American President. And thanks to the US Army, he has a chance of succeeding.'
'I don't see how you can blame the Army.'
'You don't?' Graves asked. He watched the other apartment through the binoculars. His eyes felt the strain; his vision blurred intermittently, and he swore. Wright appeared to be fooling with the two metal boxes in the centre of the floor. He had been adjusting them for a long time.
Graves wasn't sure what it all meant. It was a control or alarm system of some kind, though - that much was clear. And if it was a control system, it required power. Power. As Graves watched, he had an idea - one possible way to beat the system that Wright was so carefully setting up. A chance, a slim chance...
'Do it,' he whispered, watching Wright. 'Do it, do
'Do what?' Phelps asked. He was off the telephone now.
Graves did not answer. Wright had finished with the boxes. He turned some dials, made some final adjustments. Then he took the main plug in his hand.
'He's going to do it,' Graves said. And he plugged it into the wall socket. Very plainly, very clearly, he plugged it into the wall. 'He's done it.'
'Done what?' Phelps said, angry now.
'He's connected his device to the apartment electricity.' 'So?' 'That's a mistake,' Graves said. 'He should have used a battery unit.'
'Because we can turn off the electricity in that apartment,' Graves said. 'Remotely.'
'Oh,' Phelps said. And then he smiled. 'That's good thinking.'
Graves said nothing. His mind raced forward in exhilarating high gear. For the first time all day, he felt that he was not only keeping abreast of Wright but actually moving a few steps ahead. It was a marvellous feeling.
'Time?'
'Two fifty-one.'
And then, as he watched, Wright did something very peculiar. He placed a small white box alongside the two other metal boxes. And he closed the windows to the apartment. Then he taped the joints and seams of the windows shut.
Then he left. 'What the hell does all that mean?' somebody asked. 'I don't know,' Graves said. 'But I know how we can find out.'
HOUR 2
SAN DIEGO
3 PM PDT
Wright emerged from the apartment house lobby wearing a grey suit. He carried a raincoat over his shoulder. Graves was waiting for him, along with two federal marshals carrying drawn guns.
Wright did not look surprised. He smiled and said, 'Did your son like his gift, Mr Graves?'
Before Graves could reply, one of the marshals had spun Wright around, saying gruffly, 'Up against the wall hands wide stand still and you won't get hurt.'
'Gentlemen,' Wright said in an offended voice. He looked at Graves over his shoulder. 'I don't think any of this is necessary. Mr Graves knows what he is looking for.'
'Yes, I do,' Graves said. He had already noticed the raincoat. Nobody carried a raincoat in San Diego in August. It was as out of place as a Bible in a whorehouse. 'But I want to know what time it leaves.'
'There's only one possible flight today,' Wright said. 'Connexions in Miami. Leaves San Diego at four thirty.'
The marshal took Wright's shoulder wallet and handed it to Graves. The ticket was inside: San Diego to Los Angeles to Miami to Montego Bay, Jamaica. The ticket was made out to Mr A. Johnson.
'May I turn around now?' Wright asked. 'Shut up,' the marshal said.
'Let him turn around,' Graves said.
Wright turned, rubbing the grit of the wall from his hands. He smiled at Graves. 'Your move.' In the smile and the slight nod of the head, Graves got a chilling sense of the profound insanity of the man. The eyes gave it away.
Wright's eyes were genuinely amused: a clever chess player teasing an inferior