Impact

'Thank you.'

Ford smiled. 'I was told I could count on you for help. Now then, I'd like a list of the staff in your department.'

Derkweiler hesitated. 'Well, speaking of security, I . . . I'd need to see your pass or ID or something.'

'Naturally! My apologies.' Ford removed a well-worn badge, on which Abbey could see a blue, white, and gold seal with the legend, Central Intelligence Agency.

'Oh, that agency,' said Derkweiler.

The badge swiftly disappeared back into Ford's suit. 'This is just between us--understood?'

'Absolutely.' Derkweiler delved into his files and removed a piece of paper, handing it to Ford. 'There it is: personnel in my department--names, titles, contact info.'

'And ex-personnel?'

Derkweiler frowned, rummaged through some files. 'Here's a list as of last quarter. If you want to go further back, I'd suggest checking with the personnel office directly.'

They were out of the building in five minutes, in the vast parking lot to the side of the building. It was brutally hot in their rental car, the seat like a skillet. Abbey had never been to Southern California before and she hoped never to return. How could people stand the weather? Give her Maine in January.

Ford started the car and the AC came on in a blast of hot air. Abbey looked at him with narrowed eyes. 'Good job, Special Agent Ford.'

'Thank you.' Ford slipped the lists Derkweiler had given him out of his pocket and handed them to her. 'Find me a disgruntled former employee, preferably someone who was fired.'

'You think they're covering something up?'

'A place like that is always covering something up. That's the nature of the beast. All large bureaucracies, no matter what they do, are dedicated to controlling information, expanding their budgets, and self-perpetuation. If they've found anything unusual about Mars, you can bet it's been hidden. God bless the disgruntled employee--no one does more to bring openness to government.'

49

Mark Corso let himself into the dingy brownstone, riffled through the stack of mail on the side table, tossed it back in disgust, and went into the parlor. He flopped down on the sofa and fired up the Xbox running Resident Evil 5. He had to go to work at Moto's in another hour and he wanted to kill some time.

As the game started, the small parlor shook with the sounds of weapons fire, explosions, and ripping meat. He played for ten minutes but it wasn't any good. He paused the game and set the console aside, silence descending. It just wasn't fun anymore, he couldn't get back in the groove. Not with this discovery still up in the air, waiting for Marjory to call, waiting, waiting, waiting. He was taking the drive to the Times first thing tomorrow morning.

It had been only two days since his call to Marjory but she was still cautioning him to keep quiet about it. Maybe she was buying time while looking for the machine herself. Good luck--she'd never find it on the surface of Mars.

He thought back to the journalist who'd called him that morning. He'd been cautious, circumspect, but he gave her enough information, he hoped, to light a fire under Chaudry's ass. Give him a scare when the piece came out. Although, in thinking back over the conversation, he felt a little uneasy, wondering if he should have been a little less forthcoming. But she had assured him it was off the record, background only--his name would never come up.

Passing by the side table, he went through the mail again irritably, pointlessly. No job offers, nothing. He swelled with anger at the idea that they had cheated him out of eight thousand dollars and he recalled Chaudry's cool contempt as he repulsed his offer and threatened him back.

Feeling all nerves, he went into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, toweling it dry. The cold water did nothing to help. He couldn't wait to get to Moto's, to be distracted, calm down with a stiff drink. Moping about the house all day long was killing him.

He would definitely talk to the Times. The government wouldn't dare arrest him after that. He'd be a hero. A Daniel Ellsberg.

In the middle of these ruminations, the deep electronic gong of the doorbell rang.

'Mark?' He heard his mother's timid voice from the kitchen. 'Would you get that?'

Corso went to the door and looked through the peephole. A man in a tweed jacket stood there, looking uncomfortably hot in the gray, muggy morning air.

'Yes?' Corso asked through the door.

The man didn't respond, instead holding up a battered leather wallet which fell open, displaying a police badge. 'Lieutenant Moore.'

Oh shit. Corso peered intently through the peephole. The officer continued to hold up the badge, almost as a challenge. The photo seemed right. But it was the Washington, D.C. Police. What did that mean? Corso felt an overwhelming panic. Chaudry had turned him in.

'What's it about?' Corso tried to say, almost choking on the words.

'May I come in, please?'

Corso swallowed. Did he have a right to refuse entry? Did the man have to show a warrant? Maybe it was better not to piss him off. He un-shot the bolt, unhooked the chain, turned the lock, and opened the door.

Officer Moore slipped inside and Corso quickly shut the door behind him. 'What's it about?' Corso said, standing in the hall.

The man smiled. 'Nothing serious. Now--is there anyone else in the house?'

He did not want his mother hearing any of this. 'Uh, no. Nobody.' He'd better get the cop out of sight, quick. 'In here,' he said, gesturing to the parlor. They went in, Corso quietly shutting the door. Maybe he should be calling a lawyer. That's what everyone said you should do. Never talk to the cops without one. 'Please sit down,' he said, trying to keep his voice relaxed, as he took a seat on the sofa.

The cop, however, remained standing.

'I think I need to talk to a lawyer,' Corso said, 'as a matter of course. Whatever this might be about.'

The man reached into his jacket and removed a large black handgun. Corso stared at it. 'Look, officer, you don't need that.'

'I think I do.' He removed a long cylinder and affixed it to the end of the gun. And now Corso noticed he was wearing black gloves.

'What are you doing?' Corso asked. This wasn't normal. His mind was boiling with confusion and conjecture.

'Don't lose it. No screaming, no weeping, stay in control. Everything's going to work out if you do what I say.'

Corso fell silent. The man's soothing voice reassured him but nothing else made any sense. His mind was racing.

The man reached over and picked up the Xbox. The image was still frozen on the screen. 'You play, Mark?'

Corso tried to answer, but it came out a gurgle.

The man flicked the switch and the game resumed. He turned up the sound until it was just about deafening.

'Now, Mark,' said the man, speaking over the noise and pointing the gun at him. 'I'm looking for a hard drive you took from NPF. That's all I want and when I get it I'll leave. Where is it?'

'I said I want a lawyer.' Corso choked on his own words, swallowed, trying to recover his breath.