Conspiracy

“Rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated,” said McSweeney, echoing Mark Twain’s famous comment.

“No, something more serious,” said Jimmy Fingers, always thinking of the political ramifications. “A potential slogan. ‘My work won’t be stopped by a madman.’ If you were in the lead, then you could joke. No, it has to be just right.

We’ll work it out when I get there. I’m a few minutes away.” McSweeney felt a twinge of resentment at Jimmy Fingers’

tone, even as he knew from experience that Fingers’ advice would prove correct.

“I’m glad you’re OK, Senator,” added the aide. “This will help us. You’ll see.”

“Help us?”

“No one tries to assassinate a loser.”

11

There was a knock on the office door. Rubens reached for the silver security blanket and covered the desktop. It didn’t matter that the desk was bare at the moment. Even that might mean something.

“Come in, Mr. Gallo,” said Rubens.

“Johnny Bib sent me up,” said Robert Gallo. One of the computer experts assigned to Desk Three’s Analysis and Research section, Gallo defied the normal definition of “geek.” He stood just over six feet and, while no muscle builder, certainly looked as if he could hold his own in a fight. “It’s, uh, that Secret Service stuff.”

“Have a seat, Robert. Tell me.”

“Well, like, OK, the thing is, these e-mails really were sent from Vietnam,” said Gallo, handing paper copies of the e-mails to Rubens. “That wasn’t an alias or some sort of spoof like the Secret Service guys thought. I mean like, duh.” One of the unfortunate downsides of choosing the best people in the business, thought Rubens, was that they tended to know that they were the best, and thus came across as a little too arrogant for their own good. He liked Gallo; he would have to talk to him about this.

“See, everybody was probably thinking, Fake-oh, because when you look at the port information—”

“If you could move ahead to the point.”

“So, OK, like, I check the phone records to see who like called. I hack into the Vietnamese phone company —”

“What exactly did you find?” asked Rubens.

“See, there were three people who had connections around the time the messages were sent. The e-mails are a couple of days apart. But I have three people. So I checked them, like, and—”

Clearly, thought Rubens, Gallo was being influenced far too much by his boss, John “Johnny Bib” Bibleria, who always followed the most circuitous route to the point.

“The thing is, all of them are on one of the CIA watch lists, right?” said Gallo. “What are the odds, huh?” Actually, they would be very good, since only a limited number of people in Vietnam were allowed computer access, and for a variety of reasons — the fact that they were government officials, possibly dissident students, et cetera — the CIA would be interested in them. But Rubens didn’t interrupt.

“So I figure let me go and check that, and I find out, like by accident, that the server, OK? We’ve been watching the server and, you know, traffic on it, files stored, everything, because of some CIA request three or four years ago.” Mildly interesting, thought Rubens. “What was the request about?”

“That’s just it.” Gallo held out his hands. That was definitely a Johnny Bib gesture; surely the young man had to be saved somehow. “I’m like, my clearance isn’t high enough to get the info. And neither was Johnny Bib’s.” Finally, the point.

“Johnny’s clearance was not high enough?” asked Rubens.

“Yeah. Blew me away, too.”

Rubens picked up the phone. “What was the name of the program?”

“Infinite Burn.”

* * *

The name didn’t register with the CIA’s deputy director of operations.

“It’s not current,” Debra Collins told Rubens.

“It may be three or four years old,” said Rubens.

“Hang on then.”

It took Collins so long to get back to Rubens that he thought he had lost the connection.

“Bill, are you still there?” she asked when she finally got back on the line.

“Yes.”

“Infinite Burn had to do with Vietnam.”

“Interesting,” said Rubens, though of course he already knew this. “One of my staff on Desk Three came across it earlier. He would like access to the files and it’s rather urgent. It has to do with a Secret Service agent who was looking into a death threat against Senator McSweeney.”

“The senator who was shot at today?”

“Yes.”

Collins didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Look, I have to go into a meeting,” she told him finally, “but could you and I meet later to discuss this? In person?”

“Is it really necessary?”

“Infinite Burn was our code name for a plot by the Vietnamese to assassinate American leaders in revenge for the war.”

12

Charlie Dean took a slow breath, pushing the air through his teeth as quietly as possible. He scanned both sides of the stream, then moved his eyes slowly across the canyon in front of them, looking for their prey.

“Tracks are less than an hour old,” said his guide, Red Sleeth. Red pointed at the outer rim of the impression, still moist. “Dogs are real close now. You hear how they bark?

It’ll pick up even louder and faster as they close in. Ready?” Dean nodded.

Sleeth rose and started following along the double track of footprints left by his two hounds. They’d been tracking this mountain lion through the Montana wilderness since early morning, after discovering a three-or four- day-old kill hidden in the brush below.

Sleeth splashed through the water to the other side of the creek, moving up the embankment into a copse of juniper.

Dean followed, pushing through the calf-high grass and scrub to a small rock outcropping. A trail cut across the terrain to his left, intersecting the gray and green side of the canyon. It would be dark soon; they didn’t have much time left to catch the lion today.

“This way,” said Sleeth, pointing to a cut that angled downward to the left.

Dean followed, picking his way through the rocks as the guide crossed back to the north. The ground leveled out, then angled upward sharply. Dean slung his rifle over his shoulder, snugging the strap as he began climbing. He couldn’t see the dogs, but from their barks it seemed that they were moving to the northeast.

“You kept up pretty well for an old guy,” said Sleeth when they reached the rim of the canyon.

“You think I’m old?”

“Didn’t mean to insult you.” Sleeth gave him a yellow-toothed smile and pointed across the ridge. “The dogs are running that way. I think if we can swing straight across the side of that ridge, we may cut him off.” Ten