Gideon's Corpse

by Douglas Preston

  “Fine, I’m fine. Just tired. And I’m still dirty, with all that charcoal.” He waved vaguely at his black-smeared face.

  “I like it. Sexy.”

  “Do you know what the novel’s about?”

  “Something to do with viruses, I think.”

  “Does your father ever teach writers’ workshops?”

  “Sure. He enjoys that. Can we talk about something else right now?”

  Gideon swallowed. “In a moment. There’s a workshop in Santa Cruz I’ve heard about, called Writing Your Life.”

  “My father teaches at that one every year. He adores Santa Cruz.”

  Gideon had to cover his expression with a hefty slug of the drink. He was already feeling the effects of the alcohol.

  “So he likes teaching?” he said.

  “He loves it. After his disappointment over the Nobel, I think he finds it consoling.”

  “You mentioned the Nobel before. What happened, exactly?”

  Alida sipped her own drink. “He was on the short list a few times, but didn’t get it. And then he learned through the grapevine why they’d never give it to him—because his politics were wrong.”

  “Politics? How so?”

  “He used to be a British citizen. And when he was a young man, he was in MI6—that’s the British intelligence service. Sort of like the CIA.”

  “I know what it is.” Gideon was stunned. “I had no idea.”

  “He never, ever talks about it, even to me. Anyway, I don’t know about the Nobel for a fact myself. It’s just what people say. The Nobel Committee refused Graham Greene for the same reason—he worked in British intelligence. Those damn Swedes just don’t like the idea of a writer being involved in espionage and counter-intelligence. John le Carré won’t get one, either!” She snorted.

  “Was your father upset?”

  “He doesn’t admit it, but I know he was. I mean, he was only doing his patriotic duty to his country. It’s humiliating.” Her voice had climbed slightly. “Look at all the great writers passed over—James Joyce, Vladimir Nabokov, Evelyn Waugh, Philip Roth. The list goes on and on. And who do they give it to instead? Writers like Dario Fo and Eyvind Johnson!” She sat back with a thump.

  Gideon was so taken aback by her sudden passion he had temporarily forgotten how guilty this whole act of dissembling made him feel. “Aren’t you…well, worried about your father going to Maryland right now? I mean, that’s close to DC.”

  “He’s not going anywhere near the evacuation zone. Anyway, I’m sick of talking about my father. I really want to talk to you about us. Please.”

  She grasped his shoulder and looked into his face, her dark brown eyes glistening. With tears? Certainly with love. And Gideon couldn’t stop feeling the same unbearable tug at his own heart. “I just…” he started, stumbled. “I’m just concerned about your father, given this terrorist situation. I’d like to know where he’s going in Maryland.”

  She looked at him with a small flash of impatience. “I can’t remember. Some army base. Fort Detrick, I think. Why is this so important?”

  Gideon knew that Fort Detrick was hardly more than a stone’s throw from Washington. Was Simon Blaine planning to mobilize his people there for the final push? Why an army base? It was surely no coincidence that Blaine was traveling back east to an army base, thirty hours before N-Day. His head reeled at the possibilities. “Your father must know a lot of people in the intelligence community.”

  “He does. When he was in MI6, I believe one of the things he did was act as a liaison with the CIA. At least, I once saw a citation they gave him. Classified. It was the one time he left his safe open.”

  “And he’s flying out tomorrow morning?”

  She laid a hand on his arm, the impatience breaking out again. “That would be this morning, since it’s two AM already. Gideon, what’s this interest in my father? I want to talk about us, our relationship, our future. I know it’s sudden, I know guys don’t like to be ambushed like this, but, damn it, I know you feel the same way I do. And you of all people know we may not have a lot of time.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to avoid the subject.” He tried to cover up his runaway interest by adopting a slightly accusatory tone. “It’s just that I thought your father was going to help us. Now he’s running away.”

  “He has helped us! He’s not running away, either. Look, we’re safe here, we can use this as a base to find out who framed you. All we have to do is track down that man Willis. It makes sense that he and his crazy cult are behind this. He’ll be caught, the hunt will be over, and you and I will be cleared.”

  Gideon nodded, feeling awful all over again. “Yes. I’m sure that will happen.” He gulped the rest of his drink.

  She sat back. “Gideon, are you ready to talk? Or are you just trying to forestall it with all these questions about my father? I don’t want to force myself on you.”

  He nodded dumbly, attempted a smile. He was already wishing for a second drink. “Sure.”

  “I hesitate to bring up a painful subject, but… Well, you know I’m direct. I say what I think, even if I put my foot in my mouth. I hope you know that about me by now.”

  “I do,” he croaked.

  She drew closer. “I know you may have a fatal condition. That doesn’t frighten me off. I’m ready to make a commitment to you. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. That’s what I’ve wanted to tell you. I haven’t felt this way about a guy…well, ever.”

  Gideon could hardly manage to look at her.

  She took his hands in hers. “Life is short. Even if it’s true, and you only have a year—well, let’s make that year count. Together. You and me. Will you do that? We’ll roll up a lifetime of love into one year.”

  56

  FORDYCE FOLLOWED MILLARD through the sea of desks and cubicles that formed the new command and control center. A glorious dawn was breaking outside, but in the converted warehouse, the air was dead and close and the lighting fluorescent.

  Millard was a true company man, thought Fordyce; always pleasant, never sarcastic, tone of voice mild—and yet, underneath it all, a raging asshole. What was the word the Germans used? Schadenfreude. Taking pleasure in the misfortune of others. That described Millard’s attitude perfectly. The moment Millard had phoned asking for a meeting, Fordyce had been able to guess what it was about.

  “How are you feeling, Agent Fordyce?” Millard asked, his voice laden with false empathy.

  “Very good, sir,” Fordyce replied.

  Millard shook his head. “I don’t know. You look tired to me. Very tired, in fact.” He squinted at Fordyce as if he were an object behind museum glass. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You’ve been working yourself too hard.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m really feeling fine.”

  Millard shook his head again. “No. No, you look exhausted. I appreciate your team spirit, but I simply can’t allow you to go on working yourself like this.” He paused, as if gathering himself for the kill. “You need to take a vacation.”

  “You already told me to take a few days off.”

  “This is not a—how should I say it?—a quick break. I want you to take some serious time off from the job, Agent Fordyce.”

  That was it—the line he’d been waiting to hear. “Time off? Why?”

  “To recharge your batteries. Regain an objective outlook.”

  “How long are we talking about, exactly?”

  Millard shrugged. “That’s a little hard to say at present.”

  An indefinite leave of absence. That’s what they called it. Fordyce realized that, once he was out the door, that would be it. If he was going to do something, he had to do it now—right now. They only had one day.

  “Novak is dirty,” he said.

  This was such a non sequitur that Millard stopped short. “Novak?”

  “Novak. Chief of security for Tech Area Thirty-three. He’s dirty. Take him in, sweat him, do what it takes.”

&nbs
p; A long silence. “Perhaps you’d better explain.”

  “Novak’s living a lifestyle way beyond his means. Luxury cars, a big house, Persian rugs, all on a hundred and ten thousand a year. His wife doesn’t work, and there’s no family money.”

  Millard looked at him sideways. “And why is this significant?”

  “Because there’s only one person who could’ve planted those emails in Crew’s account, and it’s Novak.”

  “And how do you know all this?”

  Fordyce took a breath. He had to say it. “I interviewed him.”

  Millard stared at him. “I’m aware of that.”

  “How?”

  “Novak complained. You barged into his house after midnight, no authorization, didn’t follow any interview protocols—what did you expect?”

  “I had no choice. We’re out of time. The fact is, the guy lied to investigators, told them it was impossible to plant those emails. He forgot to mention he’s the only one who could have done it.”

  Millard stared at him long and hard, his lips compressed. “Are you saying Novak framed Crew? For money?”

  “All I’m saying is, the guy’s dirty. Take him in now, sweat the bastard—”

  Millard’s lips became almost invisible. The man’s skin seemed to tighten across his face, as if he were drying out. “You are out of line, mister. Your behavior is unacceptable, and these demands are improper and, frankly, outrageous.”

  Fordyce couldn’t take it anymore. “Improper? Millard, N-Day is tomorrow. Tomorrow! And you want me to—”

  A loud commotion erupted at the main door. A man was shouting, his shrill manic voice echoing in the warehouse space, rising above the hubbub of voices swirling around him. He had apparently just been brought in, and as his outrage rang out, Fordyce heard disjointed accusations of police brutality and government conspiracies. Clearly a nut case.

  And then Fordyce heard Gideon’s shouted name mingling with the incoherent mix.

  “What the hell?” Millard flashed him another look. “Don’t you go anywhere. I’ll get back to you in a moment.”

  Fordyce followed Millard to the front, where the man was haranguing a large group of agents. He was shocked to see it was Willis Lockhart, the cult leader. He hadn’t been brought in, it seemed—he had come in on his own. But what a change: he was wild, his face haggard, spittle on his lips. From the outraged, furious rant, Fordyce gathered that Gideon Crew had showed up at the ranch the previous night, kidnapped Willis at gunpoint, brought him to a grave he’d dug in the woods, brutalized him, tortured him, threatened to kill him, all the while demanding answers to questions about nukes and terrorism and God knows what else.

  So Gideon was still alive.

  Willis screeched about how it was all a plan, a plot, a conspiracy, before his rantings dissolved into incoherency.

  At that moment, Fordyce was suddenly and utterly convinced: Gideon Crew was innocent. There was no other explanation—none—for why he would have gone to the Paiute Creek Ranch and done what he did to Willis. He had been framed. Those emails had been planted. And just as clearly, it meant that Novak was in on the terrorist plot. Even though he already half believed it, now the conclusion was inescapable.

  “Hey! Hey, you!”

  Lockhart’s scream interrupted this epiphany. Fordyce looked up to see the cult leader staring at him, extending a shaking finger. “It’s him! There he is! It’s the other guy who came up to the ranch last week! They started a fight, trashed the place, left my people hurt! You son of a bitch!”

  Fordyce glanced left and right. Everyone was staring at him, Millard included.

  “Fordyce,” Millard said in a strange voice, “is this another man you interviewed?”

  “Interviewed?” Lockhart shouted. “You mean brutalized! He attacked half a dozen of my people with a chain saw! He’s a maniac! Arrest him! Or are all of you part of it as well?”

  Fordyce glanced at Millard, glanced at the exit. “The man’s crazy,” he said in a calm voice. “Look at him.”

  He saw on everyone’s faces a certain relaxation, a certain relief that these accusations were as crazy as all the others. Everyone’s face, that is, except Millard’s.

  Suddenly Lockhart lunged at Fordyce, and there was an eruption of chaos as a dozen agents rushed in to intervene.

  “Let me at him!” Willis yelled, clawing at the air. “He’s the devil! He and that man Gideon Crew!” He swung a powerful forearm, connecting with an agent, slammed into another. In the resulting confusion, the pushing and hollering and shoving, Fordyce managed to duck down, dart through the crowd, and slip out the door. He headed straight for his car, got in, started the engine, and took off.

  57

  AS DAWN BROKE, Gideon stood by the leather sofa, his head pounding, pulling on his clothes while Alida lay nude on the bearskin rug before the fireplace, still asleep, her blond hair in a wild tangle, her smooth skin glowing against the coarse dark nap of the rug. Out the windows of the cabin, dark clouds smeared across half the sky, and a humid wind lashed the pines. A storm was brewing.

  Confused memories of the night before knocked about in his head: too many drinks, more spectacular sex, and God only knew what unwise things said or promised. Gideon felt awful. What had he done? He was a complete asshole. To allow himself to be drawn into that, when he suspected her father of being a terrorist and all the while plotting how to stop him, bring him down…it was monstrous.

  What should he do? Should he take Alida into his confidence? No, that wouldn’t work—she would never, ever believe that her father, Simon Blaine, bestselling author, ex-spy, was the ringleader of—or at least involved in—a nuclear terrorism plot. Who would? He had to keep lying to her, and he had to do this alone. He had to go to Maryland, find Blaine, and stop him. And he couldn’t get on a plane, couldn’t do anything requiring an ID. His only way of getting back east was to drive—in Alida’s Jeep.

  It seemed impossible. Why would a man like Blaine be involved in a terrorist plot like this? But he was. Gideon was sure of it now. There was simply no other answer.

  As he thought about his position, once again he felt overcome with self-loathing. Yet what choice did he have? This was about more than clearing his own name. Countless lives were at stake. Nobody would believe him; he was a wanted man; and so he was compelled to act alone. There was no escaping it.

  As he pulled on his shirt, his eye once again fell on the curves of Alida’s body, her face, her lucent hair… Was it possible he was actually in love with her?

  Of course it was.

  Enough, enough. But even as he was trying to pull his eyes away, she opened her own. And winced.

  “Ouch,” she said. “Hangover.”

  He tried to force a grin onto his face. “Yeah. Me too.”

  She sat up. “You look like hell. I hope I didn’t break you.” She gave a wicked smile.

  He hid his face by bending down to tie his shoes.

  “And where are you so all fired up to go this morning?”

  He forced himself to look up. “Paiute Creek Ranch. I’m going to confront Willis.”

  “Good. It’s him, I just know it. Let me come along.”

  “No, no. Could be dangerous. And your presence might detract from getting the truth out of him.”

  She hesitated. “I get it. But I’m worried. Be careful.”

  Gideon tried to arrange his face into a semblance of normality. “I’ll need to borrow the Jeep.”

  “No problem. Just stick to the back mountain roads.”

  He nodded.

  She stood up and before he could escape she put her arms around him, pressed her lips to his, and sidled her naked body up against him. A long, lingering kiss followed, the warmth of her body creeping through his clothing. Gideon surrendered to it. Finally, she released him.

  “That was for luck,” she said.

  Gideon could only nod dumbly. She went to a drawer, plucked out the keys, tossed them to him.

  He caught them.
“Um, just in case—gas, whatever—do you have any money?”

  “Sure.” She picked her pants off the floor, rummaged in the pockets, extracted a wallet. “How much?”

  “Whatever you can spare, I guess.”

  She pulled out a bunch of twenties, and without counting handed them over with a radiant smile.

  He tried to move but felt as if frozen. He couldn’t do this—not to her. And yet here he was, about to do it. Stealing her car, taking her money, lying to her, going after her own father. But, damn it, what choice did he have? His position was impossible. If he stayed here with Alida, countless people would die and he might still end up in jail. If he left…

  “I may not be back for a while,” he told her. “I have a few other things to do. Don’t wait up for me tonight.”

  She looked at him with real concern. “All right. But stay away from people—any people. My father mentioned roadblocks on the main routes going in and out of the mountains, Los Alamos, and Santa Fe. Watch yourself.”

  “I will.”

  He stuffed the money in his pocket, dodged another kiss, and rushed to the Jeep. He jumped inside, started the engine, and peeled out, leaving a cloud of dust. He tried not to look back but couldn’t help himself—and saw her standing in the doorway, still naked, one leg slightly cocked, her blond hair cascading down her shoulders, waving.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He pounded on the steering wheel as he headed down the ranch road. Rounding a bend, he came to Blaine’s writing hut, surrounded by trees and out of view of the main ranch. On impulse, he drove up to it and got out. Using the Jeep’s tire iron, he smashed a window, climbed in, took Blaine’s laptop computer, tossed it and a charger into the back, and then continued on.

  58

  GIDEON’S FIRST STOP was the Goodwill Industries Thrift Store out on Cerrillos Road. He parked the expensive, late-model Jeep far from the entrance and walked through a Walgreens, where he bought a disposable cell phone before going into the thrift store. Heading for the racks, he pulled off a hasty selection of sports jackets, shirts, pants, suits, and various pairs of shoes in his approximate size. He also found some sunglasses, a toupee, some cheesy man-jewelry, and a large suitcase.