“Just how high is the highest resolution?”
“Again, I can’t talk about specifics. Generally, from orbit, we can see something on the ground as small as fifty centimeters. And with our SHARAD radar we can look as much as a hundred meters under the surface, too.”
Ford whistled. “Seen anything unusual?”
Chaudry smiled, showing very white teeth. “Just about everything we see is unusual. We’re like Columbus setting foot in America.”
“Anything . . . not strictly natural?”
The smile faded. “And what do you mean by that?” he asked coolly.
“Let’s say you were to see something on the surface that wasn’t natural—say, an alien spaceship.” Ford chuckled lightly. “What would you do then?”
Now the smile was completely gone. “Mr. Ford, please don’t even joke about that. We get a lot—and I mean a lot—of nuts in here pushing crazy theories. We’ve actually had demonstrations in front of the buildings by groups demanding we release pictures of the alien civilizations we’ve discovered.” He paused, and then added: “You are joking, Mr. Ford? Or do you have some specific reason for asking the question?”
“Yes,” said Ford. “I was joking.”
Abbey spoke. “You’re right, Dr. Chaudry. I read somewhere that almost forty percent of Americans believe in the existence of intelligent life somewhere else in the universe. Imagine being that dumb!”
Chaudry shifted uncomfortably.
“Well,” said Ford briskly, casting a sharp eye on Abbey. “You’ve been most helpful, Dr. Chaudry.”
Chaudry rose with evident relief. “Mr. Ford, we’d be glad to cooperate with your book. All the pictures are online at our Web site. Just pick out the ones you want and my press office will be glad to get you a DVD of the images at the highest legal resolution.” He gave a rather forced smile and eased them out of the office with a practiced hand.
“That was a waste of time,” muttered Abbey, as they walked down the long halls.
Ford rubbed his chin and looked about, then turned a corner and headed down a wrong hall.
“Yo, Einstein,” Abbey said. “You’re going the wrong way.”
A smile crept onto Ford’s face. “Darn. This is such a big, confusing place. Easy to get lost.” He continued on, turning another corner, going down another hallway.
Abbey tried to keep up with his long strides.
“Just follow my lead,” said Ford. He turned another corner and Abbey realized he already seemed to know the layout of the place. They came to an office door, which was shut. Ford knocked and a rather irritated voice sounded within, “Come in.”
Ford opened and door and entered. Abbey saw a large man with an unpleasantly fleshy face, wearing a short-sleeved shirt with hammy arms. It was hot and the place smelled of sweat.
“Dr. Winston Derkweiler?” Ford rapped out.
“Yes?”
“I’m with the Agency,” Ford said, then nodded toward Abbey. “My assistant.”
Derkweiler looked at her, then back at him. “Agency? Which agency?”
“About a month ago,” Ford continued as if he hadn’t heard, “one of your scientists was murdered.”
Abbey was surprised. This was all new to her. Ford played his cards close.
“That’s right,” said Derkweiler, “but I understood the case was closed.”
Ford turned to Abbey. “Ms. Straw, would you please shut the door?”
“Yes, sir.” Abbey shut the door, and then turned the lock for good measure.
“The case may be closed, but the security breach is still under investigation.”
Derkweiler nodded. “Security breach? I’m not sure I understand.”
“Let us just say Dr. Freeman was indiscreet.”
“It doesn’t surprise me.”
“I’m glad you understand the problem, Dr. Derkweiler.”
“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 t
hese 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.
“You don’t get it, shithead. I’m not a cop. I want the hard drive. Give it to me or I’ll kill you.”
Corso’s mind reeled. Not a cop? Had Chaudry sent a hit man? This was crazy. “The drive?” he stammered. “All right, yes, yes. I’ll tell you exactly where it is—I’ll take you there—no problem. . . .”
The door to the parlor burst open. “What in the world?” shrilled his mother, standing there in her apron, dishrag in her hands, her eyes widening as she saw the gun. “Aiiii!” she shrieked, taking a step backward. “A gun! Help! Police! Police!”
The man pivoted and Corso leapt up to protect his mother but it was too late. The gun went off with a muffled sound and he saw, with utter disbelief and horror, his mother punched back by the round, blood spraying on the wall behind her. Eyes wide open, she stumbled back into the wall, losing one of her shoes, and toppled awkwardly to the ground.
With an inarticulate cry of existential rage Corso swept up the first weapon that came to hand, a lamp from the table, and swung it at the man. He ducked, the lamp shattering against his shoulder. The man staggered back, gun raised.
“No!” he cried. “Just tell me where the drive—”
Roaring like a bear Corso rushed him, seizing his neck in his hands and trying to crush the life out. He felt the gun shoved into his gut; there was a sudden raw punch, once, twice, which drove him back into the wall and then he was somehow on the floor curled up with his mother and all became peace.
50
When she was going to Prince ton, Abbey had made several trips to New York City with her friends, but they had never strayed from Manhattan. As she stood at the edge of Monsignor McGolrick Park in Brooklyn, rain dripping from the rim of her umbrella, she realized this was a New York she had never seen, a real working-class neighborhood of modest apartment buildings, vinyl-sided row houses, keys-made-here shops, dry cleaners, and neighborhood eateries.
“Number eighty-seven Driggs Avenue,” Abbey said, consulting a damp street map. “Must be that street across the park.”
“Let’s go.”
Two days before, Abbey’s calls to ex-NPF employees had hit paydirt with a technician named Mark Corso. Posing as a journalist doing an exposé on unfair personnel practices at NPF, she had really gotten him going. Not only was he pissed off about being fired, but he was eager to spill NPF’s darkest secrets—or so he claimed. And he hinted at having some really hot information that would “blow NPF out of the water.”
They headed across the park and crossed the street toward one house in an identical row, streaked with damp, curtains drawn. They walked up the steps and Ford rang the doorbell. Abbey could hear it ringing forlornly within. A long wait. He rang again.
“You sure he said four o’clock?”
“Positive,” said Abbey.
“He might have had second thoughts.”
Abbey dipped in her pocket for the cell phone Ford had given her, and dialed Corso’s cell.
“You hear that?” She could hear at the edge of audibility a sound of music inside the house.
Ford leaned toward the door. “Hang up and call again,” he said.
She did so.
The music stopped, then a moment later it started again.
“It’s got to be his,” said Abbey. “Only a NASA engineer would have the theme of Serenity as his ringtone.”
There was no way to see in; the drapes were firmly pulled—even the ones on the second floor. The house looked shut up tight. The door had three little windows, arranged diagonally, but they were of rippled, opaque colored glass.
Ford knelt and examined the doorjamb and lock. “No sign of a break-in.”
“What do we do?”
“Call the police anonymously,” he said, “and watch.”
They cut across the park to an old phone booth sitting on the corner. Ford lifted the receiver with a handkerchief and dialed 911. “Eighty-seven Driggs Avenue,” he said, in a rough voice. “Emergency. Go there. Now.” He hung up. As he came out, Abbey was alarmed by the grim look on Ford’s craggy face. She had been going to say something funny but decided against it.
Ford drifted back into the park, hands shoved into his pockets, Abbey at his side. They took shelter from the drizzle in a pseudo-classical outdoor pavilion and waited for the police to arrive. Within a few minutes two cop cars came cruising down Driggs Avenue, lights flashing but sirens off. They stopped. A pair of officers from the first vehicle went up the stairs and knocked on the front door. No answer.
“Let’s get a little closer,” Ford said, drifting over. Three police officers were now at the door, knocking persistently, while a fourth remained in the squad car, talking into the radio. One of the cops fetched a wrecking bar out of his car and poked it through a door window. He picked out the glass, reached in, and unlatched the door.
The two cops disappeared into the house, one with a handheld radio.
Ford quickly crossed the street and leaned in the window of the second squad car. “There a problem?”
“Routine check,” said the cop, waving them along.
All of a sudden his radio burst to life. “We have a ten–twenty-nine double homicide at Eighty-seven Driggs; two squad cars on scene, sealing the premises.” Then another burst, “Two ambulances and CS team dispatched and en route; ten-thirteen homicide division . . .” The radio went on in this fashion and almost immediately sirens could be heard approaching. From her vantage point across the street Abbey could just see through the door into the interior of the parlor: a wall, with a starburst of blood on it, and below a woman’s bare foot.
51
It amazed Abbey how quickly the deserted, rain-drenched park filled with people. They came out of the town houses and apartments, white-haired ladies speaking Polish, middle-aged men with bratwurst guts, young professionals, hip-hop kids, junkies, drunks, shopkeepers, and yuppies, forming a loose crowd in front of the small three-story row house. Ford and Abbey mingled with the crowd while the police pushed everyone back, set up barricades, and blocked off the street. Two ambulances arrived, followed by unmarked cars packed with homicide detectives in brown suits, ambulances, a crime-scene van, and finally the local news vans.
Abbey crowded forward with the others, listening to the babble of voices. Somehow, as if by osmosis, the crowd knew everything: two bodies found in the front hall, shot at point-blank range, house tossed. No one had heard anything, no one had noticed strange people, no one had seen cars parked in front.
As the cops bawled at the growing crowd, Ford nodded to Abbey and they pushed toward a gaggle of local women.
“Excuse me,” said Ford, “but I’m new to the neighborhood. What happened?”
They turned to him eagerly, all speaking at once, interrupting each other, while Ford encouraged them with wide-eyed interest, adding interjections and expostulations. Once again she was amazed at Ford’s chameleon-like ability to play a part and extract information.
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