The Speed of Sound (Speed of Sound Thrillers #1)(20)
Fenton struggled to hide his surprise. This was the last thing he was expecting. The newest member of the committee, Denise Claybourne, a proud tree-hugging Democrat from Maine who also happened to be one of the committee’s two females and one of the three dissenters, quickly chimed in. “Doctor, if you don’t mind, I have a few questions.” She flipped through some of the classified Harmony House research materials. “What, for example, is acoustic archeology?”
Fenton smiled. “Think back to some of the most sensitive conversations you’ve ever had. Now imagine that someone could walk into the space where you had one of those conversations, and use a device to re-create the exact dialogue from the degenerated, but still identifiable, waves of energy that were first created when you were having that private dialogue.” He used the analogy of paleontologists re-creating an entire dinosaur from a fossilized bone fragment.
Claybourne’s expression was a mixture of amazement and concern, just like that of every politician who first heard about the possibility. “I would say it’s a good thing my divorce is final.” It got a good laugh—nervous, but good. “Are you telling me that it’s possible?”
“Not only is it possible, it’s on the verge of becoming reality.” The others around the room knew that this had been true for over a decade, but no one made comment. There were clearly bigger agendas at work, and if you didn’t know who you were fighting, it was best not to fight.
Fenton continued. “A more academic variety of acoustic archeology has already been featured in several investigative television shows.”
“What do you mean, ‘more academic’?”
“If this room were being painted as we had this conversation, our words would be etched into the wet paint the same way music was originally recorded onto vinyl records. Once the paint dries, it’s fairly easy to use lasers to measure the microscopic scratches in the paint, which could then be translated back into sound.
“It’s useful if you want to hear what Michelangelo was saying as he painted the Sistine Chapel, or what Anasazi were saying to each other while decorating their caves, but its contemporary relevance is limited.” Dr. Fenton leaned forward. “Senator, what would you like to hear?”
“Everything that happened on the fifth floor of the School Book Depository next to the grassy knoll on November 22, 1963.”
The doctor smiled. “I would go to the Oval Office and listen to every word ever spoken for the last seventy-five years.”
Senator Claybourne now realized the true potential of the science. “It would change law enforcement as we know it. And intelligence.”
Fenton put it simply. “There would be no more secrets.”
The Democratic senator’s mind was racing. “Any lie ever told . . . any crime ever committed . . . my God.”
“Exactly.” Fenton’s eyes were penetrating.
The chairman gritted his teeth like a prizefighter taking a dive. It was only now that it dawned on him why Bob Stenson and the American Heritage Foundation had asked him to approve funding for Harmony House: They know something. They have to. Jesus Christ, what if the echo box finally works?
Dr. Marcus Fenton smiled ever so slightly. “Now imagine another government got it first.”
Denise Claybourne’s voice was low and steady. “We can never let that happen.”
Senator Davis took a moment to congratulate himself. “Thanks to this committee, it won’t.”
Watching the capital disappear from view as he rode an Amtrak Acela Express out of Union Station, Fenton had no idea how hollow and predetermined his victory was. He knew something seemed off about the whole thing, but after getting his entire operating budget approved, he was not about to start asking questions now.
He checked emails, including the daily security report from Michael Barnes, then went to the café car to see what kind of scotch they were serving. He settled for twelve-year-old Dewar’s. It would have to do. Those around him had no idea they were in the presence of a legend whose reputation remained securely intact.
At least, for another year.
CHAPTER 17
Harmony House, Woodbury, New Jersey, May 22, 6:37 p.m.
Michael Barnes sat at his desk in his office, which was located in a secure area of the basement and looked like a smaller version of the Homeland Security critical-response center. The man had electronic snooping devices tapped into eighty different telephones and inside the residences of several dozen people who worked for the facility. Listening to them all, and ferreting out the rare but potentially important nuggets from the massive amounts of chaff, required vigilant organization, serious discipline, and considerable experience. He had all these qualities in spades, and he delegated the work to no one. He didn’t trust anyone to do as thorough a job as he did. The only way he managed to sleep was to know with certainty that nothing had slipped through the cracks. Completing the job often required superhuman effort, and often resulted in the kind of punishing headaches he suffered from now.
He massaged his temples as he listened to transmissions originating in Manhattan, specifically from the newly installed antenna atop Jacob Hendrix’s apartment building. Barnes popped two Excedrin, which he kept in a desk drawer next to a box of hollow points, then continued listening. The professor’s residence was quiet. The only sounds came from the city surrounding it. This didn’t surprise Barnes, because he had already heard an earlier phone conversation between Skylar and Jacob in which they’d decided to eat dinner at a neighborhood Chinese restaurant. Mostly, he was listening to the Manhattan ambience as a sound check.