A pause as Dart carefully turned a piece of paper over.
“His apartment contained additional religious tracts, DVDs, and documents, as well as a copy of the Qur’an in English, which certain passages marked involving fire, war, and Armageddon.”
Another turn of paper.
“There was a calendar on Chalker’s refrigerator. It was full of appointments he seems to have made. They were all cryptic, just shorthand letters. The key point is this: the appointments abruptly end on the twenty-first of this month. After that, the calendar is blank.”
He paused, his eyes slowly moving around the table, making sure everyone understood the significance. “Analysis indicates that Chalker was exposed at the Long Island City location where the bomb appears to have been assembled. However, the evidence is clear that the bomb was successfully completed. Although the lab had been emptied and burned, the remains of a map of Washington was found, again with those same five sites circled.”
He closed the folder and leaned forward, his face growing dark. “The conclusion we’ve reached is this: the target is Washington, DC, not New York. And the probable date of the attack is the twenty-first of this month. We have very little time.”
An attendee raised a hand. Dart acknowledged him with a flicker of his eyes.
“Why assemble a bomb destined for DC in New York?”
“An excellent question. Our belief is that New York is much better suited for this sort of clandestine activity—a huge, sprawling, anonymous, multi-ethnic city where people mind their own business. It also has a large, sympathetic population of radical Islamists. DC, on the other hand, is a more tightly controlled environment, with higher security overall and a very small Islamic population. We believe that’s the reason they chose to make the bomb in New York and transport it to DC.”
Another silence.
“Accordingly, we will immediately be shifting our base of operations to DC. I want you all to get ready to move—now. The formal orders are in prep.”
Dart stood up and began to pace behind his chair. “The computer contained no smoking guns, and the other evidence we have isn’t specific enough. Despite their missteps, these terrorists have been careful. And yet we’ve obtained the two most vital pieces of information: where, and possibly when. By tomorrow morning, I expect each and every one of you to be in Washington, in the new operations center. Your folders contain the details and security protocols. We will of course be drawing in all available assets from the FBI, local law enforcement, and the armed forces.”
He stopped pacing. “As we speak, the president and the vice president are moving to the Presidential Emergency Operations Center. In the coming twenty-four hours, Congress and the cabinet, as well as other critical government officials, will be shifted to the Congressional Bunker and certain undisclosed locations. The National Guard is being mobilized to handle the orderly evacuation of civilians.”
Once again, his gaze riveted the group. “It is our firm hope that—knowing what we now know—we’ll be able to thwart this attack. However, we must be extremely cautious in the way we handle the general public. You have all seen the panic that has gripped New York, the disorderly exodus, the gyrations in the financial markets. We have to expect that an even worse panic will grip Washington, especially when we start evacuating. The key to managing the panic is to manage the press. People need information. It’ll be a disaster if they suspect us of holding back. We obviously can’t hide the probable location of the attack. But it is of the utmost importance that the possible date of the attack not become known. That information is both uncertain and highly inflammatory. Any leak of that date will be tracked down and treated as nothing short of treason. Are we understood?”
Affirmations from around the table.
“Are there any questions?”
“Do we have any information on where the terrorists got the nuclear material?” someone asked.
“So far, we haven’t identified any missing nuclear material from our own arsenal, although our records in some instances are incomplete or missing. We’re looking into all the possibilities—including Pakistan, Russia, and North Korea.”
When there were no more questions, Dart ended the meeting. “I expect you to hit the ground running in DC tomorrow morning. It’s going to be a long night for all of us. We’ll have another briefing at noon in the Twelfth Street Command Center. And now, good evening.”
The conference room emptied as quickly as it had filled. As Dart picked up the black folder and rapped it smartly against the table, Cunningham, his assistant, approached. “Any orders, sir?”
“I want you to get in touch with that FBI agent, Fordyce. See if he and Crew have made any progress in Santa Fe. This whole investigation is a lumbering monster, but those two are just nimble enough to come up with something fresh. I want to keep an eye on them.”
18
SAN ILDEFONSO PUEBLO lay alongside the Rio Grande in a long grove of cottonwood trees. It was situated at the base of the Jemez Mountains, at the point where the road to Los Alamos began the climb into the foothills. Gideon had been to many Indian dances at San Ildefonso, particularly the famous Buffalo Deer Dance—it was a popular pastime among people who worked at the lab. But today the pueblo was almost deserted as they drove through it, past the dirt plaza and old adobe buildings.
As they approached, an overloaded pickup truck lumbered past, coating their car with dust.
Even the Indians are leaving, he thought.
In the plaza, they saw a group of Indian men, wrapped in Mexican blankets, sitting on wooden stools along one side, in the shade of an adobe wall. At least they didn’t look panicked, drinking their morning coffee before a row of wooden drums.
“Wait,” said Fordyce. “I want to talk to them.” He slowed the car and stopped under an old cottonwood tree.
“What for?”
“Ask directions, maybe.”
“But I know where the school is—”
Fordyce threw the car into park and was already getting out. Gideon followed, irritated.
“Hi, there,” Fordyce greeted them.
The men watched them approach with stolid faces. It was evident to Gideon they were involved in some sort of drum practice, perhaps getting ready for a dance, and did not welcome the interruption.
“Any dances today?” Fordyce asked.
A silence, and then one said: “Dances have been canceled.”
“Don’t forget to put that in your notebook,” Gideon muttered.
Fordyce removed his FBI shield. “Stone Fordyce. FBI. Sorry to interrupt you.”
This was met by dead silence. Gideon wondered what the hell Fordyce was up to.
He put away the badge and gave them a disarmingly friendly smile. “Maybe you read about what’s going on in New York City?”
“Who hasn’t?” came the laconic reply.
“We’re investigators on the case.”
This got a reaction. “No shit,” one of the men said. “What’s going on? You got a lead on the terrorists?”
Fordyce held up his hands. “Sorry, guys, I can’t tell you anything. But I was hoping you might help me with a few questions.”
“You bet,” said one man, evidently the leader. He was short and solid, with a square, serious face, a bandanna tied tightly around his head. They had all risen.
“This fellow who died of radiation exposure in New York, Reed Chalker, gave his book collection to San Ildefonso. Did you know that?”
The look of astonishment on their faces indicated they did not.
“I understand he was a fan of the dances.”
“We get a lot of people coming down from Los Alamos to see the dances,” said the leader. “A lot of our people work up there, too.”
“Is that right? Your people work up there?”
“Los Alamos is the pueblo’s biggest employer.”
“Interesting. Anybody know Chalker?”
Shrugs all around. “It’s possible. We could ask around.
”
Fordyce produced his cards and handed them out to everyone. “That’s a great idea. Ask around. You learn of anyone here who knew Chalker, even slightly, get in touch. Okay? There must have been a reason why he gave his book collection to the school, and I’d sure like to know that reason. You all could really help the investigation. I mean it. Now we’re heading over to the school—is it this way?”
“Just go straight, take a left, you’ll see it. There may not be anyone around. School’s canceled. A lot of our people are leaving.”
“I understand.” Fordyce shook hands warmly all around and left the men in a group, talking animatedly.
“That was good,” said Gideon, impressed despite himself.
Fordyce grinned. “It’s like fishing.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a fisherman, too.”
“Love it—when I get the chance.”
“Fly?”
“Bait.”
Gideon scoffed. “That’s not fishing. And here for a minute I thought we had something else in common.”
He caught a glimpse of the Rio Grande through the trees, the sunlight glinting off the river as it ran over a bed of stones, and he had a momentary flashback to a trout stream far away and many years ago, fishing with his father during the good time, his father explaining that success in fishing, as in life, depended mostly on how long you kept your fly on the water. “Luck,” he used to say, “is where preparation meets opportunity. The fly is the opportunity, the preparation is the cast. And the fish? That’s the luck.”
He quickly pushed that particular memory aside, as he habitually did whenever thoughts of his father arose. It was disturbing to find even here, at this remote Indian pueblo, that people were leaving. Then again, they were in the very shadow of Los Alamos.
The school lay beside the ancient cottonwood groves along the river, flanked by dusty baseball diamonds and tennis courts. It was a weekday morning but the school, as the men had indicated, was mostly empty. An eerie silence hung over the campus.
They checked in with the office and, after filling out a visitors’ book, were escorted to the small school library, a room looking out over the soccer field.
The school librarian was still there, arranging books, a stout lady with long black braids and thick glasses. She got interested when Fordyce showed his ID and they mentioned Chalker’s book collection. Again, Gideon was surprised at how eager she was to help.
“Oh yes.” She shuddered. “I knew him. I did. And I can’t believe he became a terrorist. I just can’t believe it. Do they really have a bomb?” Her eyes widened.
“I’m not allowed to discuss the details,” said Fordyce kindly. “I’m sorry.”
“And to think he gave us his book collection. I have to tell you, everyone here is very worried. Did you know they let school out early for the summer? That’s why we’re so deserted around here. I’m leaving myself, tomorrow.”
“Do you remember Chalker?” Fordyce interrupted patiently.
“Oh yes. It was about two years ago.” She was almost out of breath at the recollection. “He called and asked if we needed books, and I said we’d love to have them. He brought them in that afternoon. There were two, maybe three hundred. He was actually a nice fellow, very nice! I just can’t believe it…”
“Did he say why he was giving them away?” Fordyce asked.
“I don’t recollect. I’m sorry.”
“But why to the pueblo? Why not to the Los Alamos public library or some other place? Did he have a friend here?”
“He really didn’t say.”
“Where are the books now?”
She gestured. “They’re all mixed up. We shelved them with the others.”
Gideon looked about. There were several thousand books in the library. This was going to be more of a chore than he’d anticipated.
“Do you remember any titles in particular?” Fordyce asked, jotting notes.
She shrugged. “They were all hardbacks, mostly mystery novels and thrillers. Quite a few signed first editions—he’d been a collector, apparently. But that didn’t matter to us—to us, a book is meant to be read. We just shelved them where they belonged.”
While Fordyce talked, Gideon drifted away and began to peruse the fiction section, pulling down books at random and flipping through them. He didn’t want to admit it to Fordyce, but he feared his idea might turn out to be a waste of time. Unless by sheer chance he came across one of Chalker’s books with a significant piece of paper stuck into it, or some telling note in the margins. But that seemed unlikely—and book collectors did not normally annotate their books, especially autographed editions.
He drifted along the aisle of fiction, starting with Z and going on down the shelves in reverse alphabetical order, plucking out a book here and there, Vincent Zandri, Stuart Woods, James Rollins… He riffled through books at random, looking for notes or papers, or—he smiled to himself—rough sketches of atomic weapons perhaps, but finding nothing. In the background, he could hear Fordyce questioning the librarian with a gentle but persistent thoroughness. Gideon couldn’t help but be struck by the man’s competence. Fordyce was a strange combination of methodical, by-the-book determination and impatience with rules and red tape.
Anne Rice, Tom Piccirilli… He pawed through book after book with a rising irritation.
And then he paused. Here was a signed book, a copy of a David Morrell novel, The Shimmer, with the author’s signature under a scribbled Best wishes.
Nothing telling there. He flipped through the pages but there was nothing else. He shoved it back. A little farther on, he encountered another signed book, this one by Tess Gerritsen, titled The Bone Garden. Another generic dedication: To Reed, Best Regards. And another, Killing Floor, signed by Lee Child, To Reed, My Best. Chalker had good taste, at least.
Fordyce droned on in the background, extracting every last drop of information from the librarian.
Gideon worked his way down to the B’s. The Abbey in the Oakwood by Simon Blaine was personalized: To Reed, with affectionate regards. And it was signed Simon.
He paused before putting it back on the shelf. Did Simon Blaine sign all his books just Simon? There was another Blaine novel next to it, The Sea of Ice. To Reed, with my best, Simon B.
Fordyce appeared at his side. “Dead end,” he murmured.
“Maybe not.” Gideon showed the two books to Fordyce.
Fordyce took them, flipped through them. “I don’t get it.”
“With affectionate regards? And signed by first name only? Sounds like Blaine knew him.”
“I doubt it.”
Gideon thought for a moment, then turned to the librarian. “I’d like to ask you a question.”
“Yes?” She hurried over, glad to have a chance to talk again.
“You seem to have a lot of books by Simon Blaine.”
“We have all of his books. And come to think of it, most of them came from Mr. Chalker.”
“Ah,” said Fordyce. “You didn’t tell me that.”
She gave an embarrassed smile. “I just now thought of it.”
“Did Chalker know Blaine?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps. After all, Blaine lives in Santa Fe.”
Bingo, thought Gideon. He cast a triumphant eye on Fordyce. “There you have it. They did know each other.”
Fordyce frowned. “A man like Blaine, a bestselling author—National Book Award winner, it says here—isn’t likely to have had much of a friendship with a geek from Los Alamos.”
“I resemble that remark,” said Gideon, in his best Groucho Marx imitation.
Fordyce rolled his eyes. “Did you see the date on that book? It was published two years before Chalker converted. And the fact that he gave away Blaine’s books along with the others does not exactly indicate a deep friendship. Frankly, I don’t see a lead here.” He paused. “In fact, I’m starting to wonder whether or not this whole trip west has done nothing but cost us crucial time.”
Fordyce shook his head. “Waste of time.”
“You never know.”
Fordyce laid a hand on his shoulder. “That’s true—in this business sometimes the craziest idea pans out. I don’t mean to dismiss it out of hand. But you’ll have to do this one alone—you’re forgetting I’ve got a meeting in Albuquerque later today.”
“Oh yeah. Do I need to be there?”
“Better if you’re not. I plan to kick ass. I want access to the house, to the mosque, to the lab, to his colleagues—I want to make sure we’re a real part of this investigation. That’s how we’re going to make a difference.”
Gideon grinned. “You go, girl.”
19
SIMON BLAINE LIVED in a large house about half a mile from the plaza, along the Old Santa Fe Trail. With the car gone with Fordyce to Albuquerque, Gideon walked from the plaza to the house. The weather was glorious, a warm, high-altitude summer’s day, not too hot, the sky a royal blue, just a few thunderheads forming over the distant Sandia Mountains. He wondered if Blaine would still be around. The damn town was now half empty.
Eight days to N-Day. The clock was ticking. Still, he was glad to be in Santa Fe instead of New York, which was a total mess. Most of the Financial District, Wall Street, the World Trade Center site, and the area of Midtown around the Empire State Building had been abandoned—followed inevitably by looting, fires, and National Guard deployments. In the past day a political furor had erupted, with hysterical political attacks on the president. Certain divisive media figures and radio personalities had leapt into the fray, exploiting the situation to their own gain, whipping up public sentiment. America was not handling the crisis well at all.
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