Gideon's Corpse

“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 fabrication of 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 you think?”

“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, serious mistake 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 is massive 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.

38

The wilderness ended and Los Alamos began as if someone had drawn a line, the trees suddenly giving way to a typical suburban neighborhood with ranch houses, postage-stamp lawns, play sets and kiddie pools, blacktopped driveways sporting station wagons and mini vans.

From the cover of the fringe of trees, Gideon stared across a dark lawn at one mini van in particular, an old 2000-model Astro. It was eleven o’clock at night, but the house was still dark. Nobody was home. In fact, as he looked around, he noted that almost all the houses were dark; an air of desertion, even desuetude, hung over the place.

“This is making me nervous,” said Alida.

“There’s nobody here. Looks like they’ve all left.”

He walked boldly across the lawn, Alida following a few steps behind. They gained the side of the house and he turned back to her. “Wait here a moment.”

There was no sign of a burglar alarm, and it was the work of two minutes—and long experience—to slip inside and assure himself the house was empty. Finding the master bedroom, he helped himself to a crisp new shirt that almost fit. He combed his hair in the bathroom, then grabbed some fruit and some sodas from the kitchen and went back to where Alida was waiting.

“I hope you’re not too nervous to eat,” he said, handing her an apple and a Coke. She bit ravenously into the apple.

Rising from a crouch, Gideon walked to the breezeway and got into the car. The keys were not in the ignition or the center console. He got out, opened the hood.

“What are you doing?” Alida mumbled through the apple.

“Hot-wiring it.”

“Jesus. Is this another one of your little ‘skills’?”

He closed the hood, got back in the driver’s seat, started dismantling the steering column with a screwdriver he’d found in the glove compartment. A few moments later everything was ready, and with a cough the car started up.

“This is crazy. They’re going to shoot us on sight.”

“Get down on the floor and cover yourself with that blanket.”

Alida got into the backseat and lowered herself out of sight. Without another word, Gideon backed out of the driveway and drove down the street. He soon found himself on Oppenheimer Drive, heading past Trinity, on his way to the Tech Area main gate. The town was deserted, but even this late in the evening, with a nuclear threat hanging over the country, work proceeded at Los Alamos. As they approached the gate, Gideon made out the brilliant sodium lights, the two armed guards in their pillboxes, the cement barriers, the always-friendly security officer.

There was a car ahead of them being checked through. Gideon slowed, stopped, waited. He hoped the guard wouldn’t look at him too closely—his shirt was clean, of course, but his pants were a muddy mess. His heart was pounding like mad in his chest. He told himself that there was no reason for the FBI to publicize his name; no reason to notify Los Alamos security, considering that was the last place he’d go; and every reason to keep his identity secret while they hunted him down.

Then again, what if Alida was right? What if they had put out an APB on him? As soon as he reached the gate they’d nail him. This was crazy. He had a car—he should just turn around and get the hell out of there. He began to panic and threw the car into reverse, getting ready to stomp on the accelerator.

The car ahead went through.