Blasphemy

knows how to love, which is more than I can say for the rest of you moronic human beings.”

The smartest man in the world had dissed everyone else as morons. The uproar was enormous. The Post ran a classic headline:

HAZELIUS TO WORLD:

YOU’RE ALL MORONS

The talk-radio mobocrats and their fellow travelers worked themselves into a self-righteous fury. Hazelius was condemned from every pulpit and soapbox in America, pilloried as anti-American, antireligious, unpatriotic, a misanthrope, and a member of that most despicable of species—a sherry-sipping, ivory-tower Eastern establishment elitist.

Ford laid the papers aside and poured another cup of coffee. So far the dossier didn’t fit the Hazelius he was getting to know, who weighed his every word and acted as peacemaker, diplomat, and team leader. He had yet to hear a single political opinion from the man.

Some years ago, Hazelius had experienced a tragedy. Perhaps that had changed him. Ford skipped ahead in the file until he found it.

Ten years ago, when Hazelius was thirty-six, Astrid had dropped dead of a cerebral hemorrhage. The death devastated him. For several years he had retreated from the world into a Howard Hughes–like seclusion. Then, quite suddenly, he emerged with the plan for Isabella. He was indeed a changed man: no more talk shows, offensive statements, utopian schemes, or lost causes. He shed his society connections and dropped the ugly suits. Gregory North Hazelius had grown up.

With extraordinary skill, patience, and tact, Hazelius had pushed the Isabella project forward, enlisting allies in the science community, wooing big foundations, and courting those in power. He never missed an opportunity to remind Americans that the United States had fallen seriously behind the Europeans in nuclear physics research. He maintained that Isabella might lead to cheap solutions to the world’s energy needs—with all the patents and the know-how in American hands. With that, he had accomplished the impossible: cajoling forty billion dollars out of Congress during a time of budget deficits.

He was a consummate master at persuasion, it seemed, working quietly behind the scenes, a cautious visionary, yet willing to take a bold, calculated risk. This was the Hazelius that Ford was getting to know.

Isabella was Hazelius’s brainchild, his baby. He had traveled the country and handpicked a team from the elite ranks of physicists, engineers, and programmers. Everything had proceeded smoothly. Until now.

Ford closed the file and ruminated. He still felt he had not yet peeled back the inner layers to reveal the core human being. Genius, showman, musician, utopian dreamer, devoted husband, arrogant elitist, brilliant physicist, patient lobbyist. Which was the real man? Or was there a shadowy figure behind them all, manipulating the masks?

Parts of Hazelius’s life weren’t so different from his own. They had both lost their wives in horrifying ways. When Ford’s wife had died, the world as he knew it had blown up with her, leaving him wandering in the ruins. But Hazelius had reacted in the opposite way: his wife’s death seemed to have focused him. Ford had lost the meaning in his life; Hazelius found his.

He wondered how his own dossier would read. He had no doubt it existed—and that Lockwood had read it, just as he was reading theirs. How would it look? Child of privilege, Choate, Harvard, MIT, CIA, marriage. And then: Bomb.

After Bomb, what then? Monastery. And finally, Advanced Security and Intelligence, Inc., the name of his new investigation company. It suddenly seemed pretentious. Who was he kidding? He’d hung out his shingle four months ago and he’d gotten one assignment. Admittedly, it was a plum job, but then there were special reasons why he’d been chosen. And he couldn’t put it on his resume.

He glanced at the clock: he was late for breakfast, and he was wasting time with self-pitying musings.

Shoving the dossier in the briefcase, he locked it and headed out toward the dining hall. The sun had just risen over the red bluffs, and the light was shooting through the leaves of the cottonwoods, setting them aglow like shards of green and yellow glass.

The dining hall was rich with the smell of cinnamon buns and bacon. Hazelius was seated in his accustomed place at the head of the table, deep in conversation with Innes. Kate sat at the other end, near Wardlaw, pouring herself coffee.

At the sight of her, Ford felt a twist in his gut.

He took the last empty seat next to Hazelius and helped himself to scrambled eggs and bacon off the platter.

“Morning,” said Hazelius. “Sleep well?”

“Never better.”

Everyone was there except Volkonsky.

“Say, where’s Peter?” Ford ventured. “I didn’t see his car in the driveway.”

Conversation trickled into silence.

“Dr. Volkonsky seems to have left us,” said Wardlaw.

“Left? Why?”

At first, no one spoke. Then, in an unnaturally loud voice, Innes said, “As the team psychologist, I can perhaps shed light on that question. Without violating any professional confidences, I think I can say without contradiction that Peter was never happy here. He had a hard time adjusting to the isolation and stressful schedule. He missed his wife and child back at Brookhaven. It’s no surprise he decided to go.”

“You said he seems to have left?”

Hazelius answered smoothly. “His car’s gone, his suitcase and most of his clothes are missing—that was our assumption.”

“He didn’t say anything to anyone?”

“You seem alarmed, Wyman,” said Hazelius, peering at him rather markedly.

Ford stopped. He was getting ahead of himself, and a man as observant as Hazelius wasn’t likely to miss it.

“Not alarmed,” said Ford. “Just surprised.”

“I could see this coming for some time, I’m afraid,” said Hazelius. “Peter wasn’t cut out for this kind of life. I’m sure we’ll hear from him when he gets home. Now Wyman, tell us how your visit went with Begay yesterday.”

Everyone turned to listen.

“Begay’s angry. He has a list of complaints against the Isabella project.”

“Such as?”

“Let’s just say that a lot of promises were made that weren’t kept.”

“We made no promises to anybody,” said Hazelius.

“It appears the DOE promised all kinds of jobs and economic benefits.”

Hazelius shook his head disgustedly. “I don’t control the DOE. Did you at least manage to talk him out of this protest ride?”

“No.”

Hazelius frowned. “I hope you can do something to head this off.”

“It may be better to let it happen.”

“Wyman, the slightest whiff of trouble could make national news,” said Hazelius. “We can’t afford bad publicity.”

Ford gazed steadily at Hazelius. “You’ve been holed up here on the mesa, engaged in a secret government project, avoiding all contact with the locals—naturally there would be rumors and suspicion. What in the world did you expect?” It came out a little sharper than he intended.

Everyone stared at him, as if he had just cursed the priest. But they relaxed as Hazelius slowly relaxed. “All right, I’d say I deserved that rebuke. Fair enough. Perhaps we haven’t handled this as well as we could have. So . . . what’s the next step?”

“I’m going to pay a friendly visit to the local Navajo chapter president at Blue Gap, see if I can set up a sort of town meeting with the locals. Which you will attend.”

“If I can spare the time.”