Текст книги "Gideon's Corpse"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

34

After a long, arduous climb up the mountainside, in the late afternoon they topped the last ridge and found themselves looking across a wilderness of mountains and valleys, unbroken by roads or any sign of human life. They stopped to rest. From time to time Gideon had heard the throbbing of choppers, some passing fairly close overhead. But the forest was so dense that he’d been able to hide the two of them under thick vegetation before there was any chance they’d be spotted.

It was a vast area called the Bearhead: the remotest part of the Jemez Mountains. Gideon had fished the lower reaches of the Bearhead but had never been deep into it before. The sun was now setting, throwing the mountains into deep purple.

“A person could go in there and vanish forever,” Alida said, squinting into the hazy distance.

“Right,” said Gideon. He dropped the saddlebags and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I’m afraid I have to pee.”

She stared at him, her eyebrows arching in disdainful amusement. “Go ahead.”

“Maybe you should turn around.”

“Why? I didn’t ask you to cuff us together. Go on, let’s see what you’ve got.”

“This is ridiculous.” He unzipped his fly and peed, turning away from her as best he could.

“My, your face is red.”

They descended a series of steep slopes, keeping to the cover of a gully, and found themselves in a heavy oak brush, forming an understory below towering firs and spruces. They pushed ahead, barely able to see where they were going, up and down precipitous slopes. It was hard travel, but they were well hidden.

“So what’s the plan, Abdul?” Alida asked at last.

“That’s not funny.”

“As I see it, you’re running from the combined law enforcement of the entire US of A, the sun is setting, you’ve got no shirt, we’re in the middle of nowhere with no food and no water. And you don’t have a plan. Wow.”

“There are supposed to be some old mines in the Bearhead. We’ll go to ground.”

“Okay, we spend the night in a mine. And then?”

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” What would my old buddy Sergeant Dajkovic do in a situation like this?he wondered to himself. Probably drop and do a hundred push-ups.

They hiked into the Bearhead, following elk trails that appeared and disappeared, until they came to the edge of a tiny meadow beside a dry creekbed. Beyond, partway up the hillside, stood the dark openings of several mines, with old shaft houses and tailing piles.

“Here’s where we spend the night,” Gideon said.

“I’m thirsty as hell.”

Gideon shrugged.

He gathered handfuls of dry grass from the meadow and tied them into a tight bundle. They climbed up to the closest tunnel. At the mouth, he borrowed her lighter, lit the bundle, and then they moved cautiously into the passage, the firelight flickering over the massively timbered walls and ceiling. It was an old hard-rock tunnel that went straight into the hillside. He hoped to find signs of water, but it was as dry in the mine as it was in the creekbed outside.

The bottom of the mine was a bed of soft sand. Alida sat down and fished a cigarette out of her pocket, used the burning grass bundle to light it. She inhaled deeply, blew out a long stream of smoke. “What a day. Thanks to you.”

“Um, may I—?”

“Unbelievable. You kidnap me, hold me hostage, get me shot at—and now you’re bumming cigarettes.”

“I never said I was perfect.”

She held out a cigarette. “Give me the saddlebags.”

He handed them to her and she unbuckled them, fished around, and took out two granola bars. She tossed him one, opened the other. Gideon took a bite, the crumbs clogging his dry mouth.

“Tomorrow, the first thing we do is find water,” he said, gagging and putting the rest of the bar into his pocket.

They sat in silence for a while, in the dark, smoking.

“This is depressing,” said Alida. “We need a fire.”

They rose and went outside, filling their cuffed arms as best they could with dry pieces of oak. The sun had set and the air was now cool, stars sprinkling the sky. Gideon could hear, from time to time, the distant sound of choppers, but as the night deepened they faded away and all grew silent. He lit a small fire, the dry wood producing barely any smoke.

Alida yanked Gideon’s cuff-chafed wrist. “Lie down. I’m going to sleep.”

He lay down with her next to him, on their backs. For ten minutes, nobody spoke. Then Alida said: “Shit. I’m too upset to sleep. One moment I’m shooting a film, the next I’m shackled to a terrorist who’s got the whole damn country after him.”

“You don’t really think I’m a terrorist. I hope.”

A long silence. “I have to say, you don’t look the type.”

“You’re damn right I’m not the type. There’s been a ludicrous mistake.”

“How do you know it’s a mistake?” she asked.

Gideon paused. Fordyce’s words came back to him. You did a fine job of pretending to dislike the guy—and here it turns out you’re best buddies, in with him from the beginning.And then the craziest accusation of them all: All that stuff on your computer—frigging jihadist love letters almost.

“Jihadist love letters,” he said out loud.

“What?”

“That’s what the FBI agent who tried to arrest me said. That I had, quote, jihadist love letters, unquote, on my computer.”

Another long silence.

“You know,” Gideon went on, “you asked a very good question. Of course it wasn’t a mistake. I’ve been framed.”

“Oh yeah?” came the reply, in a voice laced with skepticism.

“First they tried to kill us by sabotaging our plane a few days ago. When that didn’t work, they framed me.”

“Why would anybody do that?”

“Because our investigation touched the person or group behind this.” He thought a moment. “No, not touched—we must’ve scored a direct hit. Scared the shit out of someone. Sabotaging the plane, framing me—those are risky, desperate measures.”

He paused, thinking.

“The question is, which computer of mine did they salt? I know it can’t be my personal computer at the cabin—the entire hard disk is encrypted with an RSA 2048-bit key. Unbreakable. So they must have salted my computer up on the Hill.”

“But isn’t that a classified system?”

“That’s just it. It’s jacked into a highly classified, isolated network. But because of the security, the contents of every computer are accessible in their entirety to the network security officers and certain other officials. The network automatically logs everything and everyone on the system and records every keystroke, everything they do. So if someone monkeyed with my computer up at the lab, it would have to be an insider– and it would be recorded.”

In the dying glow of the fire, he could see Alida’s eyes on him. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Talk to Bill Novak. The network security officer. He’s the guy with access to all the files.”

“So you’re going to have a nice chat. And he’s just going to tell a wanted terrorist everything he needs to know.”

“With that six-gun of yours pressed to his head, he will.”

She laughed harshly. “You moron, it’s a stage gun, loaded with blanks. Otherwise, I would’ve blown you right out of the saddle back there.”

He slid it out of his belt, examined it, frowned. It was indeed loaded with blanks. “I’ll think of something.” He paused. “Anyway, we’re going to Los Alamos.”

“But that’s across the Bearhead wilderness, twenty miles away!”

“You wanted a plan—you got it. And Los Alamos is the last place they’ll think of looking for me.”

35

Stone Fordyce paused, swiping the sweat from his brow, and checked his GPS. They were approaching an altitude of nine thousand feet, the ponderosa pines giving way to fir trees, the forest getting heavier. The powerful halogen beams of his men’s flashlights swept through the trunks, casting stark shadows, and the pair of bloodhounds bayed their frustration at the pause. He held up his hand to listen, and all movement behind him ceased, the men falling silent. The dog handler hushed the dogs.

He knelt, examining the trail. It was getting fresher, the crumbled edges of dirt sharper and more defined. All day and through the evening they had steadily been gaining on the trail, and now they were very close: the dogs were frantic and straining at their leashes. Slowly he stood, keeping his hand up for silence and listening intently. Above the sighing of the wind in the trees he thought he could hear something else—the repeated sound of measured footfalls. The horse was moving laterally on the steep slope above them.

It was almost over.

“They’re up there,” he murmured. “Five-meter separation. Flank them on the right. Move!”

They exploded into action, the dogs baying loudly, the men fanning out and surging up the hill, weapons drawn. They were exhausted, but the closeness of their quarry gave them fresh energy.

Fordyce drew his own .45 and started up. Once again he felt a surge of self-blame. He should have seen it days ago. Gideon was a con artist par excellence—and he’d taken Fordyce for the ride of a lifetime. But all that was over now. Once they got Gideon, they’d make him talk and the plot would be blown open.

Make him talk.Screw the Geneva Convention—there was a live nuke out there. They would do what it takes.

Gasping but still pushing, they topped out on the ridge, Fordyce in the lead. The trail went right, and Fordyce jogged along it, keeping low and using the cover of the trees to good effect. The others surged behind.

He saw the glint of something ahead in the light, heard a flurry of movement, a shape moving in the trees. He threw himself behind a trunk, crouching, waiting—and a horse came into view, stamping and eyeing them nervously. The woman’s paint horse.

Riderless.

The men fanned out, surrounding the nervous animal, which pranced about, flaring its nostrils and backing up.

Fordyce realized what had happened. A fury seized him for the moment before he got his breathing back under control. He rose, holstered his pistol.

“Lower the lights,” he said evenly. “You’re spooking it.”

He approached the horse, hand out, and the horse came closer, nickering. He took the halter. The horse was missing its saddlebags, and the bridle had been tied to the saddlehorn. This was a horse that had been deliberately turned loose.

Once again, he had difficulty breathing and had to make an effort to hide his rage. It wouldn’t do to show weakness in front of the men. As the men and dogs came up, he turned to them. “We’ve been following the wrong trail.”

This was followed by a stunned silence.

“At some point back there, probably way back, they turned the horse loose and continued on foot. We’ve been following the horse. We’ll have to backtrack and find where they turned off.”

He looked around. His team consisted of NEST officers, some in bad physical shape, soaked with sweat. There were FBI agents detailed to NEST, the dog handler, and some local law enforcement that somehow managed to tag along. The group was too big.

“You—” He pointed to the least-fit local lawman—“and you, and you, take the horse back down. It’s evidence, so keep chain of custody and turn it over to the forensic team.”

He looked around. “We’re going to have to move a lotfaster. There are too many of us.” He ruthlessly cut out some more deadwood, sending them back with the horse, waving away murmurs of protest.

Kneeling, he spread out the USGS topo maps, then took out the sat phone and dialed Dart. God, how he hated to make the call. As it rang, he looked around at the group he’d just dismissed, still standing around like cows. “What the hell are you waiting for? Get going!”

“Status.” Dart’s thin voice spoke, no preliminaries.

“We don’t have him yet. They decoyed us away with the horse. We’re going to have to backtrack.”

A sharp exhale of displeasure. “So our choppers are in the wrong area?”

“Yes.” Fordyce glanced at the map he’d spread out. “They should be redeployed deeper in the mountains. My guess would be an area called the Bearhead.”

He heard a rustle of paper. Dart was looking at the same maps.

“We’ll shift our aerial teams over there.” A pause, then Dart asked: “What’s his plan?”

“I’d guess he’s just running. Simple as that.”

“We need him. And there’s something else. I’ve gotten reports of your people firing indiscriminately at them. This is totally unacceptable. We need them alive, damn it. We need to question them.”

“Yes, sir. But they may be—probably are—armed. They’re terrorists. The FBI rules of engagement are crystal clear that deadly force may be used in the case of preservation of life under the doctrine of self-defense.”

“First of all, there’s no proof that she’sa terrorist. She may be…temporarily under his influence. And as for the rules of engagement, you deliver me two dead bodies and I will be very, very unhappy. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Fordyce, swallowing.

“Agent Fordyce, the only reason you’re where you are right now is because I don’t have anyone else on scene. Just you and twelve other special agents who were unable to make a simple collar. And who can’t find him despite overwhelming advantages in manpower and equipment. So I ask you: are you going to get him or not?”

Fordyce stared hotly into the darkness of the mountains. “We’re going to get him, sir.”

36

A pale light appeared in the mouth of the cave. Gideon raised his head. His mouth felt like damp chalk, his lips dry and cracking, and his bare back ached from sunburn. Propping himself on his elbow, he looked at Alida, still sleeping, her blond hair spread across the sand. As he gazed at her, she opened her eyes.

“We’d better get going,” he said.

“No.” Her voice was husky from disuse.

Gideon stared at her.

“Not until you take off these cuffs.”

“I told you, I don’t have a key.”

“Then lay the links on a rock and pound them off. If we’re going to find water, we’ve got to split up.”

“I can’t risk you running off.”

“Where am I going to run to? Anyway, in case you hadn’t noticed, I believe you. Look at you. You’re no terrorist.”

He glanced back at her. “What changed your mind?”

“If you were a terrorist,” she went on, “you would have tried to use that fake six-gun on me as soon as I’d served my purpose. No—you’re just some schmuck who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. So can we pleasetake these damn cuffs off?”

Gideon grunted. He certainly wanted to trust her. “I’ll need a piece of stiff wire and a knife.”

She plucked a small knife and a thin key ring from a pant pocket, the latter of which he quickly straightened out. Then, using the key ring as a pick and the tip of the penknife as a tension wrench, he sprang the simple lock in a matter of thirty seconds or so.

“You lied to me. You could’ve picked that lock anytime.”

“I had to trust you first.” He looked around, picked up two empty beer cans—no doubt left by hunters—and stuffed them into his pockets. The cans would come in handy when and if they found water.

“Anything more of value in those saddlebags?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not carrying them any farther.”

She dug out a lighter and a few candy bars and slipped them into her pockets. Then they exited the mine and started walking south, staying to the wooded ravines and valleys as much as possible, moving apart but keeping each other in sight. They looked for water but found no sign. It was June, before the summer rains: the driest time in New Mexico.

The dry washes eventually came together into a deep ravine with sheer granite walls. As they climbed down it, Gideon heard the sound of an approaching chopper; moments later a fast-moving Black Hawk passed less than two hundred feet above them, doors open, M143 guns mounted left and right. It swept away and vanished beyond the walls of the ravine.

“Jesus, did you see those guns?” Alida said. “You think they’d shoot us?”

“They’ve already tried.”

At noon, they finally found water: a small puddle at the bottom of a pour-off. They threw themselves down and lapped up the muddy fluid. Then they lay back in the shade of the overhang. As the water settled their thirst, a raging hunger took hold.

After a few minutes, Gideon roused himself and gobbled down the rest of the granola bar. “What about those candy bars?”

She pulled out two Snickers bars, which had melted in the heat. He tore the wrapper off one end of his and pressed the bar into his mouth, like toothpaste, swallowing as fast as he could.

“More?” he asked, his mouth still half full.

“That’s all.” Her own face was smeared with chocolate and mud.

“You look like a two-year-old the morning after Halloween.”

“Yeah, and you look like her snot-nosed baby brother.”

They filled the old beer cans with water and continued on, exiting the far end of the ravine and climbing another ridge.

As the day wore on, the chopper traffic increased, along with occasional fixed-wing aircraft flying in patterns. He had no doubt their pursuers were using infrared and Doppler radar, but the intense heat of the day—and the heavy tree cover—kept them safe. By late afternoon they were approaching the southern end of the Bearhead, an area that Gideon started to recognize.

At sunset, they finally reached the end of the mountains. They crept up to the top of the last ridge and—falling to their bellies and peering through the cover of a thicket of brush oaks—looked down on the town of Los Alamos, home of J. Robert Oppenheimer, the Manhattan Project, and the atomic bomb.

Despite its remarkable past—at one time its very existence had been top secret—Los Alamos looked like any other government town, ugly and generic, with fast-food joints, prefab apartment complexes, and nondescript office buildings. What made it different was its spectacular setting: the town and labs spread out on a series of isolated mesas projecting from the flanks of the Jemez Mountains. At over seven thousand feet, it was one of the highest-altitude cities in the United States. Originally chosen for its inaccessibility and remoteness, it was surrounded by sheer thousand-foot cliffs on one side and cut off by lofty mountains on the other. Gideon could just see, beyond the town, the immense crack in the earth known as White Rock Canyon, at the bottom of which, flowing unseen, the Rio Grande roared through a series of rapids and cataracts.

To the south of town Gideon could make out the major Tech Areas, heavily fenced areas dotted with huge, warehouse-like buildings. The look of the place caused him to shiver. Was it really the sanest idea to break in there? But he could see no alternative. Someone had framed him. He had to find out who.

He rolled on his side and took a long drink from the dirty beer can. He handed it to Alida. “As I hoped, the air search seems to be sticking mostly to the north.”

“So what now? Cut the fence?”

He shook his head. “That’s no normal fence. It’s loaded with infrared sensors, motion sensors, pressures, alarm circuits—and there are video cameras hidden along its length. Even if we did get through, there are other, invisible rings of security I know nothing about.”

“Cute. So we find a gap, go around?”

“There are no gaps. The security in the Tech Areas is pretty much fail-safe.”

“Seems you’re shit out of luck, Osama.”

“We don’t have to evade security. We’ll go right in through the front gate.”

“Yeah, right, with you at the top of the FBI’s most wanted list.”

He smiled. “I don’t think I am. At least not yet. They have every reason to keep their pursuit of me secret. They think I belong to a terrorist cell—why broadcast to the cell that I’ve been identified, that I’m on the loose?”

Alida frowned. “I still think it’s insanely risky.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” And he rose to his feet.

37

There were no floor buttons in the elevator, just a key, and an armed marine to operate it. Dart entered the elevator; the marine, who knew him well, still carefully checked his ID—knowing Dart would reprimand him if he didn’t—then grasped the key and gave it a single turn.

The elevator descended for what seemed forever. As it did, Dr. Myron Dart took a moment to collect his thoughts and take stock.

As N-Day approached, entire sections of Washington had been evacuated and secured by large numbers of troops. Every square inch had been searched and re-searched with dogs, radiation monitors, and by hand. Meanwhile, the country held its collective breath, speculating endlessly on just where in Washington Ground Zero might be.

Many across the country were fearful that the massive response in DC would force the terrorists to pick another target. As a result, other large American cities, from LA to Chicago to Atlanta, were in a panic, with residents fleeing, tall buildings emptying out. There had been riots in Chicago, and citizens had pretty much evacuated themselves from anywhere near Millennium Park and the Sears Tower. New York City was a mess, with entire swaths of the city abandoned. The stock market had lost fifty percent of its value and Wall Street had shifted most of its trading operations to New Jersey. A long list of American landmarks had become shunned, with nearby residents fleeing—from the Golden Gate Bridge to the Liberty Bell. Even the Gateway Arch in St. Louis was generating panic. It had become a theater of the absurd.

Along with the speculation and panic came the inevitable recriminations over the stalled investigation. NEST had come under a tidal wave of criticism, second-guessing, and public furor. They said it was incompetent, chaotic, disorganized, choking in bureaucracy.

Much of the criticism, Dart had to admit, was valid. The investigation had taken on a life of its own, a Frankenstein, a lusus naturaenot subject to central control. He was not surprised. It was, indeed, inevitable.

The marine glanced at him. “Excuse me, sir?”

Dart suddenly realized he had murmured out loud. God, he was tired. He shook his head. “Nothing.”

The elevator doors whisked open onto a passageway carpeted in blue and gold. A wall clock announced eleven PM, but this deep underground, under these circumstances, time of day had become essentially meaningless. As Dart stepped out, two more marines appeared, flanking him and leading him down the corridor. They passed a room full of people sitting at a monstrous wall of computer screens, all talking simultaneously into headsets; another room that contained a podium with the presidential seal, television cameras, and a bluescreen. There were conference rooms, a small cafeteria, temporary military barracks. Finally, they reached a closed door with a desk placed before it. A man behind the desk smiled as they drew near.

“Dr. Dart?” he asked.

Dart nodded.

“Go right in. He’s expecting you.” The man reached into a drawer and pressed something; there was a buzz and the door behind him sprang ajar.

Dart stepped through the door. The president of the United States sat behind a vast, unadorned desk. Two miniature American flags stood at opposite ends of it. Between them was a row of phones in various bright colors, like something you might see in a playroom. On a side wall were half a dozen monitors, each tuned to a different station, their audio output muted. The president’s chief of staff stood silently to one side, hands folded in front. Dart exchanged nods with the chief, who was famously taciturn, and then turned his attention to the man behind the desk.

Beneath the renowned thatch of jet-black hair and the bushy eyebrows, the president’s eyes looked sunken, almost bruised. “Dr. Dart,” he said.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” Dart replied.

The president swept one hand toward a pair of sofas that faced his desk. “Please sit down. I’ll take your report now.”

The door to the room was quietly shut from the outside. Dart took a seat, cleared his throat. He had brought no folder, no set of notes. Everything was burned into his mind.

“We have only three more days until the anticipated attack,” he began. “Washington is as secure as is humanly possible. All resources, agencies, and personnel have been mobilized in this effort. Army checkpoints have been set up on all roads leading in or out of the city. The writ of habeas corpus has, as you know, been temporarily suspended, allowing us to take into custody anyone for almost any reason. A holding and processing facility for detained persons has been erected, on the Potomac just up from the Pentagon.”

“And the evacuation of the civilian population?” the president asked.

“Complete. Those who wouldn’t go have been taken into custody. We’ve had to keep the regional hospitals open, with skeleton staffs, for those patients who simply cannot be moved. But those are few.”

“And the status of the investigation?”

Dart hesitated a moment before replying. This was going to be rough. “Nothing new of importance since my last briefing. Very little progress has been made on identifying the group or where the nuclear device is located. We have not been able to narrow down the actual target—that is, beyond the several already noted.”

“What about the possible threat to other cities? Of the terrorists shifting their target?”

“Again, we have no useful information on other targets, sir.”

The president erupted to his feet, started pacing. “By God, this is unacceptable. What about this terrorist still on the loose? Crew?”

“Unfortunately, Crew continues to evade our men. He escaped into the mountains and my men now have him trapped in a vast wilderness area where at least he can do no harm, where there’s no cell coverage, no roads, no way for him to make contact with the outside world.”

“Yes, but we need him! He could name names, he could name targets! Damn it, man, you people have to find him!”

“We’re deploying massive assets into the search. We’ll find him, Mr. President.”

The president’s slender figure swept from one side of the room to the next, turning briskly as he paced. “Tell me about the nuke itself. What more do we know?”

“The Device Working Group continues to disagree about how to interpret the patterns of radiation, the isotope ratios, the fission products they’ve detected. There are anomalies, it seems.”

“Explain.”

“The terrorists had access to the highest level of engineering expertise—Crew and Chalker were two of Los Alamos’s most knowledgeable experts on nuclear weapons design. The question is how good their fabricationof the supposed weapon was. The actual machining of the bomb parts, the assembly, the electronics, is a very, very exacting business. Neither Chalker nor Crew had that kind of engineering expertise. Some in the Device Working Group feel the bomb they made might be so big, it could only be carried around in a car or a van.”

“And you? What do youthink?”

“I personally believe it’s a suitcase bomb. I believe we have to assume they had engineering expertise beyond Chalker and Crew.”

The president shook his head. “What more can you tell me about it?”

“The two sections of the charge have been well separated and shielded since the accident, as we can’t find any trace of radiation anywhere. Washington is a sprawling city, spread out over a large area. We’re dealing with the proverbial needle in a haystack. The very best assets from local, state, federal, and military resources have been tapped, and we’ve drawn heavily from all the many military bases near Washington. The city, quite literally, is crawling with troops, forming a massive dragnet.”

“I see,” the president said. He thought for a moment. “And what about the idea that all your effort might just cause the terrorists to divert the weapon to a less hardened target? The whole country’s in a state of panic—and rightfully so.”

“Our people have discussed that question at length,” Dart replied. “It’s true that there are many other targets that might prove attractive. But the fact is, all the indications we have are that the terrorists are fixated on Washington. Our experts on the psychology of jihadism tell us the symbolic value of the attack is far more important than numbers of people killed. And that means an attack on America’s capital. I continue to believe myself, quite strongly, that Washington remains their target. Of course, we’re assuming nothing, and assets in every major American city have been activated. But I think it would be a serious, seriousmistake to draw additional assets from Washington to counter some purely hypothetical risk in another city.”

The president nodded again, more slowly. “Understood. However, I want your people to identify a specific list of iconic targets in other cities and form a plan of protection for each one. Look, the American people have already voted on a list of targets with their feet—so get to work. Show them we mean to protect everything. Not just DC.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“You think with all this, they’ll change the date?” the president asked.

“Anything’s possible. In our favor is the fact that the terrorists don’t know we’ve figured out the date. We’ve managed to keep that secret from the press and the public.”

“And it had better stay secret,” the president said. “Now, is there anything else I should know at the present time?”

“I can’t think of anything, sir.” He glanced at the chief of staff, who remained in the background, imperturbable.

The president stopped pacing and fixed Dart with a tired look. “I’m well aware of the torrent of criticism falling on you and the investigation. They’re beating the hell out of me, too. And in many ways the investigation ismassive and unwieldy and duplicative. But you and I both know this is the way it has to be; this is the way Washington works, and we can’t change horses in the middle of a race. So carry on. And Dr. Dart, before our next briefing—in fact, as soon as possible—I’d like to hear that you’ve captured Gideon Crew. It seems to me this individual is the key to breaking the investigation.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

By way of dismissal, the president offered Dart a smile—a tense, exhausted smile with neither warmth nor humor in it.