Текст книги "Gideon's Corpse"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

53

Gideon had pulled the Jeep off the dirt road ten miles from the Paiute Creek Ranch. He had to calm himself down, organize his thoughts. He felt awful about what he’d just done to Willis. He had terrified the man, brutalized him, humiliated him. The man was far from being the nicest person in the world, but no innocent person deserved that kind of treatment. And he was clearly innocent. Could someone else at the cult be behind it? Impossible, not without Willis knowing.

Gideon had made a hideous mistake.

On top of that, it was one o’clock in the morning, the day before N-Day. One day.And he had no more idea who was behind the plot than when he arrived in Santa Fe, eight days ago…

He grasped the wheel, realizing that he was hyperventilating worse than ever. He had to get a grip on himself, clear his head, and think this through.

He turned off the engine, threw the door open, and stumbled out of the vehicle. The night was cool, a slow sigh of air moving through the branches of the pines, the stars twinkling above. He steadied himself, tried to regulate his breathing, and started walking.

The Paiute Creek Ranch had nothing to do with the terrorist plot. That much was clear. So he was back to Joseph Carini and the Al-Dahab Mosque. They had of course been the obvious perpetrators all along, and now it was confirmed. He had been too clever by far. The obvious answer, the simplest answer, was almost always the true answer. It was one of the fundamental principles of scientific inquiry—and criminal investigations.

But wasit so obvious? Why would the Muslims frame him as a fellow Muslim, when such a move would only increase suspicion, focus more attention on them? After all, the investigation had already come down on them like a ton of bricks. There were hundreds of investigators crawling all around the mosque, going through their most private documents, questioning their members, digging out all their secrets. He and Fordyce had been two investigators out of hundreds. They hadn’t learned anything of value, anything out of the ordinary, at least that he could see. And yet, whoever had attempted to frame him had taken huge risks, breaking into a highly classified computer system. It was someone who believed he had learned something so incriminating, so dangerous, that extraordinary measures had to be taken—

Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. Frame him. There was something he had been overlooking, blindingly obvious only now, after it had occurred to him. These actions were being taken against him, and him alone. After all, they hadn’t framed Fordyce, too. In fact, Fordyce was hot on his ass.

After the plane wreck, after learning about the sabotage, Gideon had always assumed whoever was doing this was trying to kill them both, to stop their line of inquiry. But the fact was, they were only trying to stop him.

What had he done—what had he investigated, who had he talked to—on his own, without Fordyce?

As quickly as he had posed the question, the answer came.

He stared up at the dark sky, at the hard uncompromising points of starlight. Could it be possible? It seemed so incredibly improbable. But he’d proved it wasn’t Willis, and he felt certain it wasn’t the Muslims. As he turned around and began heading back to the Jeep, he couldn’t help but remember the oft-repeated Sherlock Holmes dictum: When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

54

Sitting in his cubicle in the 12th Street Command Center, Dart slowly replaced the telephone in its cradle. He glanced out the tiny, makeshift window. A black rectangle of night stared back at him. Then he picked up the telephone again and dialed. His hands shook slightly with a combination of exhaustion and rage. It was four o’clock in the morning but that made no difference.

The phone was answered on the first ring. “Special Agent in Charge Millard.”

“Millard? It’s Dart.”

“Dr. Dart.” Millard’s voice tightened audibly.

“What’s the status of the hunt for Crew?”

“Well, sir, while we’ve got a full complement of personnel still combing the area, we’re nevertheless growing increasingly confident he and his accomplice drowned in—”

Dart found anger overmastering his habitual control. “Of course you’re confident he drowned. Naturally. It’s what he wants you to think. Not only haven’t you caught him, but you let him waltz through the security perimeter of Los Alamos, run amok, and then waltz right out again.”

“Sir, that isn’t exactly the way it happened, and at the time I wasn’t—”

“Do you want to know what I equate that to, Agent Millard? I equate that to a wanted felon walking into police headquarters, helping himself to weapons and ammunition, flipping the police chief the bird, and then walking out again.”

This time, there was silence on the other end of the line. Dart realized he was already beyond the edge of control, but he didn’t care.

In the silence, Miles Cunningham, Dart’s personal assistant, stepped into the cubicle, placed a cup of coffee on the desk—hot, black—and stepped back out again. Dart had instructed him to cease his appeals for rest, instead ordering the man to bring him a fresh cup of coffee, every hour on the hour.

Despite the scalding temperature of the coffee, Dart took a huge swig, swallowed, cleared his throat. “Understand, Agent Millard,” he continued. “I’m not holding you fully responsible. As you started to imply, your command of the New Mexico operations is new. But I am holding you responsible for everything that happens, going forward.”

“Yes, sir.”

“N-Day is tomorrow. Every hour, every minute, the terrorist Gideon Crew continues to remain at large increases the threat to us all. I very much doubt he drowned in the Rio Grande. He’s still in the mountains somewhere. I want those mountains searched. End to end.”

“That search is ongoing, sir, and our people are doing their best. But the area in question covers more than ten thousand square miles of wilderness, and it’s extremely rugged.”

“Gideon Crew is on his own, without food or water. You’ve got hundreds of men and millions of dollars of high-tech equipment. I’m not interested in excuses, I’m interested in results.”

“Yes, sir. We’re going all out. In addition to the dogs and ground search teams, we’ve deployed a large arsenal of remote sensing and monitoring equipment. Choppers with infrared and pattern-recognition computer systems. Predator drones, equipped with the latest synthetic aperture foliage-penetrating radar. But at the risk of offending, I have to report they’ve found nothing, and the evidence really does suggest that Crew and the woman drowned in the river.”

“Have you found the bodies, Agent Millard?”

“No, sir.”

“Until you do, I don’t want to hear another word about drownings.”

“No, sir.”

Dart took another gulp of coffee. “Now, there’s another problem I want to talk to you about. Agent Fordyce. The man has demonstrated incompetence, an inability to follow orders, and a tendency to freelance. It’s come to my attention that he questioned the top Los Alamos security officer on his own, with no authorization and no required partner. He didn’t even record the interview. Do you know what that means?”

“I think so, sir.”

“It means that whatever he learned is rendered useless in court and unreliable for investigative purposes. If Novak was involved in some way, this totally undermines our chances of prosecuting him.”

“I’ve already taken Fordyce off active field duty and reassigned him to R and A.”

“I want him relieved of duty. Off this investigation. It’s clear to me the man is having some kind of breakdown.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to do it in a way that doesn’t get FBI internal affairs up in arms. We’re having enough conflict with the FBI as it is. Put him on leave—paid, of course. Call it a vacation, no return date specified.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Find Crew. And the woman. And for God’s sake—bring them to me alive.” Dart hung up, took another gulp of coffee, and stared back into the darkened window.

55

Gideon arrived back at the ranch about two o’clock in the morning, having pounded the Jeep along bad forest service roads the entire way. He found Alida still up, sprawled on a big sofa in the rustic living room before a fire, her blond hair spread across the leather.

She jumped up when he walked in, came over and embraced him. “I was so worried about you. My God, you look destroyed.”

Gideon felt destroyed.

She led him to the sofa. “Drink?”

He nodded.

She kissed him gently, then went to the wet bar and began to mix a pitcher of martinis. From the sofa, he watched her pour gin and vermouth into a large shaker, scoop in ice, and shake the mixture vigorously, wondering the whole time just how the hell he was going to manage this. She seemed so happy, so beautiful, she practically glowed.

“Did you find Willis?” she asked, squeezing the zest of a lemon into a pair of glasses. “Did you confront him?”

“He…he wasn’t around,” Gideon lied. An awful feeling, a horrible feeling, settled over him. He was going to have to act with Alida. He was going to have to misdirect, pretend, lie… A flickering recollection of their magical night in the cave only made it worse.

“Do you still think it’s Willis?”

Gideon nodded. “Say, where’s your father?”

“He drove back to our house in Santa Fe. He’s got to get up early tomorrow—has to catch a plane.” She brought over the martinis and he took his. Exactly the way he liked it: straight up, with a twist, little chips of ice swirling around. Gideon took a sip, felt the liquid burn his throat.

She eased herself down next to him, leaned against him, nuzzled his face. “I’m so glad you’re back. You know, I’ve been thinking, Gideon. Thinking about us.”

He took another sip. “Your father’s going on a trip? Where?”

“Maryland, I think.” Her lips brushed his neck and she murmured, “I’m having a hard time keeping my wits about me, with you here. That was some evening we had in the cave—I can’t get it out of my head. Maybe this isn’t a good time to talk, but, as I said, I’ve been thinking…”

“Right,” said Gideon, taking refuge again in his drink. “What’s he doing in Maryland?”

“Research, I think. For his next novel.” Another nuzzle. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, I’m fine. Just tired. And I’m still dirty, with all that charcoal.” He waved vaguely at his black-smeared face.

“I like it. Sexy.”

“Do you know what the novel’s about?”

“Something to do with viruses, I think.”

“Does your father ever teach writers’ workshops?”

“Sure. He enjoys that. Can we talk about something else right now?”

Gideon swallowed. “In a moment. There’s a workshop in Santa Cruz I’ve heard about, called Writing Your Life.”

“My father teaches at that one every year. He adores Santa Cruz.”

Gideon had to cover his expression with a hefty slug of the drink. He was already feeling the effects of the alcohol.

“So he likes teaching?” he said.

“He loves it. After his disappointment over the Nobel, I think he finds it consoling.”

“You mentioned the Nobel before. What happened, exactly?”

Alida sipped her own drink. “He was on the short list a few times, but didn’t get it. And then he learned through the grapevine why they’d never give it to him—because his politics were wrong.”

“Politics? How so?”

“He used to be a British citizen. And when he was a young man, he was in MI6—that’s the British intelligence service. Sort of like the CIA.”

“I know what it is.” Gideon was stunned. “I had no idea.”

“He never, ever talks about it, even to me. Anyway, I don’t know about the Nobel for a fact myself. It’s just what people say. The Nobel Committee refused Graham Greene for the same reason—he worked in British intelligence. Those damn Swedes just don’t like the idea of a writer being involved in espionage and counter-intelligence. John le Carré won’t get one, either!” She snorted.

“Was your father upset?”

“He doesn’t admit it, but I know he was. I mean, he was only doing his patriotic duty to his country. It’s humiliating.” Her voice had climbed slightly. “Look at all the great writers passed over—James Joyce, Vladimir Nabokov, Evelyn Waugh, Philip Roth. The list goes on and on. And who do they give it to instead? Writers like Dario Fo and Eyvind Johnson!” She sat back with a thump.

Gideon was so taken aback by her sudden passion he had temporarily forgotten how guilty this whole act of dissembling made him feel. “Aren’t you…well, worried about your father going to Maryland right now? I mean, that’s close to DC.”

“He’s not going anywhere near the evacuation zone. Anyway, I’m sick of talking about my father. I really want to talk to you about us. Please.”

She grasped his shoulder and looked into his face, her dark brown eyes glistening. With tears? Certainly with love. And Gideon couldn’t stop feeling the same unbearable tug at his own heart. “I just…” he started, stumbled. “I’m just concerned about your father, given this terrorist situation. I’d like to know where he’s going in Maryland.”

She looked at him with a small flash of impatience. “I can’t remember. Some army base. Fort Detrick, I think. Why is this so important?”

Gideon knew that Fort Detrick was hardly more than a stone’s throw from Washington. Was Simon Blaine planning to mobilize his people there for the final push? Why an army base? It was surely no coincidence that Blaine was traveling back east to an army base, thirty hours before N-Day. His head reeled at the possibilities. “Your father must know a lot of people in the intelligence community.”

“He does. When he was in MI6, I believe one of the things he did was act as a liaison with the CIA. At least, I once saw a citation they gave him. Classified. It was the one time he left his safe open.”

“And he’s flying out tomorrow morning?”

She laid a hand on his arm, the impatience breaking out again. “That would be thismorning, since it’s two AM already. Gideon, what’s this interest in my father? I want to talk about us, ourrelationship, ourfuture. I know it’s sudden, I know guys don’t like to be ambushed like this, but, damn it, I know you feel the same way I do. And you of all people know we may not have a lot of time.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to avoid the subject.” He tried to cover up his runaway interest by adopting a slightly accusatory tone. “It’s just that I thought your father was going to help us. Now he’s running away.”

“He hashelped us! He’s not running away, either. Look, we’re safe here, we can use this as a base to find out who framed you. All we have to do is track down that man Willis. It makes sense that he and his crazy cult are behind this. He’ll be caught, the hunt will be over, and you and I will be cleared.”

Gideon nodded, feeling awful all over again. “Yes. I’m sure that will happen.” He gulped the rest of his drink.

She sat back. “Gideon, are you ready to talk? Or are you just trying to forestall it with all these questions about my father? I don’t want to force myself on you.”

He nodded dumbly, attempted a smile. He was already wishing for a second drink. “Sure.”

“I hesitate to bring up a painful subject, but… Well, you know I’m direct. I say what I think, even if I put my foot in my mouth. I hope you know that about me by now.”

“I do,” he croaked.

She drew closer. “I know you may have a fatal condition. That doesn’t frighten me off. I’m ready to make a commitment to you. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. That’s what I’ve wanted to tell you. I haven’t felt this way about a guy…well, ever.”

Gideon could hardly manage to look at her.

She took his hands in hers. “Life is short. Even if it’s true, and you only have a year—well, let’s make that year count. Together. You and me. Will you do that? We’ll roll up a lifetime of love into one year.”

56

Fordyce followed Millard through the sea of desks and cubicles that formed the new command and control center. A glorious dawn was breaking outside, but in the converted warehouse, the air was dead and close and the lighting fluorescent.

Millard was a true company man, thought Fordyce; always pleasant, never sarcastic, tone of voice mild—and yet, underneath it all, a raging asshole. What was the word the Germans used? Schadenfreude.Taking pleasure in the misfortune of others. That described Millard’s attitude perfectly. The moment Millard had phoned asking for a meeting, Fordyce had been able to guess what it was about.

“How are you feeling, Agent Fordyce?” Millard asked, his voice laden with false empathy.

“Very good, sir,” Fordyce replied.

Millard shook his head. “I don’t know. You look tired to me. Very tired, in fact.” He squinted at Fordyce as if he were an object behind museum glass. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You’ve been working yourself too hard.”

“I don’t think so. I’m really feeling fine.”

Millard shook his head again. “No. No, you look exhausted. I appreciate your team spirit, but I simply can’t allow you to go on working yourself like this.” He paused, as if gathering himself for the kill. “You need to take a vacation.”

“You already told me to take a few days off.”

“This is not a—how should I say it?—a quick break. I want you to take some serioustime off from the job, Agent Fordyce.”

That was it—the line he’d been waiting to hear. “Time off? Why?”

“To recharge your batteries. Regain an objective outlook.”

“How long are we talking about, exactly?”

Millard shrugged. “That’s a little hard to say at present.”

An indefinite leave of absence. That’s what they called it. Fordyce realized that, once he was out the door, that would be it. If he was going to do something, he had to do it now—right now. They only had one day.

“Novak is dirty,” he said.

This was such a non sequitur that Millard stopped short. “Novak?”

“Novak. Chief of security for Tech Area Thirty-three. He’s dirty. Take him in, sweat him, do what it takes.”

A long silence. “Perhaps you’d better explain.”

“Novak’s living a lifestyle way beyond his means. Luxury cars, a big house, Persian rugs, all on a hundred and ten thousand a year. His wife doesn’t work, and there’s no family money.”

Millard looked at him sideways. “And why is this significant?”

“Because there’s only one person who could’ve planted those emails in Crew’s account, and it’s Novak.”

“And how do you know all this?”

Fordyce took a breath. He had to say it. “I interviewed him.”

Millard stared at him. “I’m aware of that.”

“How?”

“Novak complained. You barged into his house after midnight, no authorization, didn’t follow any interview protocols—what did you expect?”

“I had no choice. We’re out of time. The fact is, the guy lied to investigators, told them it was impossible to plant those emails. He forgot to mention he’sthe only one who could have done it.”

Millard stared at him long and hard, his lips compressed. “Are you saying Novak framed Crew? For money?”

“All I’m saying is, the guy’s dirty. Take him in now, sweat the bastard—”

Millard’s lips became almost invisible. The man’s skin seemed to tighten across his face, as if he were drying out. “You are out of line, mister. Your behavior is unacceptable, and these demands are improper and, frankly, outrageous.”

Fordyce couldn’t take it anymore. “Improper? Millard, N-Day is tomorrow. Tomorrow!And you want me to—”

A loud commotion erupted at the main door. A man was shouting, his shrill manic voice echoing in the warehouse space, rising above the hubbub of voices swirling around him. He had apparently just been brought in, and as his outrage rang out, Fordyce heard disjointed accusations of police brutality and government conspiracies. Clearly a nut case.

And then Fordyce heard Gideon’s shouted name mingling with the incoherent mix.

“What the hell?” Millard flashed him another look. “Don’t you go anywhere. I’ll get back to you in a moment.”

Fordyce followed Millard to the front, where the man was haranguing a large group of agents. He was shocked to see it was Willis Lockhart, the cult leader. He hadn’t been brought in, it seemed—he had come in on his own. But what a change: he was wild, his face haggard, spittle on his lips. From the outraged, furious rant, Fordyce gathered that Gideon Crew had showed up at the ranch the previous night, kidnapped Willis at gunpoint, brought him to a grave he’d dug in the woods, brutalized him, tortured him, threatened to kill him, all the while demanding answers to questions about nukes and terrorism and God knows what else.

So Gideon was still alive.

Willis screeched about how it was all a plan, a plot, a conspiracy, before his rantings dissolved into incoherency.

At that moment, Fordyce was suddenly and utterly convinced: Gideon Crew was innocent. There was no other explanation—none—for why he would have gone to the Paiute Creek Ranch and done what he did to Willis. He had been framed. Those emails had been planted. And just as clearly, it meant that Novak was in on the terrorist plot. Even though he already half believed it, now the conclusion was inescapable.

“Hey! Hey, you!”

Lockhart’s scream interrupted this epiphany. Fordyce looked up to see the cult leader staring at him, extending a shaking finger. “It’s him! There he is! It’s the other guy who came up to the ranch last week! They started a fight, trashed the place, left my people hurt! You son of a bitch!”

Fordyce glanced left and right. Everyone was staring at him, Millard included.

“Fordyce,” Millard said in a strange voice, “is this another man you interviewed?”

“Interviewed?” Lockhart shouted. “You mean brutalized! He attacked half a dozen of my people with a chain saw! He’s a maniac! Arrest him! Or are all of you part of it as well?”

Fordyce glanced at Millard, glanced at the exit. “The man’s crazy,” he said in a calm voice. “Look at him.”

He saw on everyone’s faces a certain relaxation, a certain relief that these accusations were as crazy as all the others. Everyone’s face, that is, except Millard’s.

Suddenly Lockhart lunged at Fordyce, and there was an eruption of chaos as a dozen agents rushed in to intervene.

“Let me at him!” Willis yelled, clawing at the air. “He’s the devil! He and that man Gideon Crew!” He swung a powerful forearm, connecting with an agent, slammed into another. In the resulting confusion, the pushing and hollering and shoving, Fordyce managed to duck down, dart through the crowd, and slip out the door. He headed straight for his car, got in, started the engine, and took off.