Code to Zero

by Ken Follett

  "My lord, Dr. Lucas, this is the Army! Don't you know there must be a million of them buff-colored file folders here? How would I know which is the one you were carrying?"

  "Just check around, see if there's one someplace where it shouldn't be. As soon as I land at Huntsville, I'll go to the house and search there. Then, if I don't find it, I'll come to the base." Luke hung up and ran for the plane.

  11 A.M.

  The flight plan is programmed in advance. During flight, signals telemetered to the computer activate the guidance system to keep it on course.

  The MATS flight to Huntsville was full of generals. Redstone Arsenal did more than design space rockets. It was the headquarters of the Army Ordnance Missile Command. Anthony, who kept track of this kind of thing, knew that a whole range of weapons was being developed and tested at the base--from the baseball bat-sized Red Eye, for ground troops to use against enemy aircraft, up to the huge surface-to-surface Honest John. The base undoubtedly saw a lot of brass.

  Anthony wore sunglasses to conceal the two black eyes Billie had given him. His lip had stopped bleeding, and the broken tooth showed only when he talked. Despite his injuries, he felt energized: Luke was within his grasp.

  Should he simply take the first opportunity to kill him? It was temptingly simple. But he worried that he did not know exactly what Luke was up to. He had to make a decision. However, by the time he boarded the plane he had been awake for forty-eight hours straight, and he fell asleep. He dreamed he was twenty-one again, and there were new leaves on the tall trees in Harvard Yard, and a life full of glorious possibilities stretched before him like an open road. Next thing he knew, Pete was shaking him as a corporal opened the aircraft door, and he woke up inhaling a warm Alabama breeze.

  Huntsville had a civilian airport, but this was not it. MATS flights came down on the airstrip within Redstone Arsenal. The terminal building was a small wooden hut, the tower an open steel gantry with a one-room flight control post on top.

  Anthony shook his head to clear it as he walked across the parched grass. He was carrying the small bag which held his gun, a false passport, and five thousand dollars in cash, the emergency kit without which he never caught a plane.

  Adrenaline enlivened him. In the next few hours he would kill a man, for the first time since the war. His stomach tensed as he thought of it. Where would he do it? One option was to wait for Luke at the Huntsville Airport, follow him as he left, and gun him down on the road somewhere. But that was high-risk. Luke might well spot the tail and escape. He would never be an easy target. He could yet slip away, if Anthony was not extremely careful.

  It might be best to find out where Luke was planning to go, then get there ahead and ambush him. "I'm going to make some inquiries at the base," he said to Pete. "I want you to go to the airport and keep watch. If Luke arrives, or anything else happens, try to reach me here."

  At the edge of the airstrip, a young man in the uniform of a lieutenant waited with a card that read: "Mr. Carroll, State Department." Anthony shook his hand. "Colonel Hickam's compliments, sir," the lieutenant said formally. "As requested by the State Department, we have provided you with a car." He pointed to an olive-drab Ford.

  "That'll be fine," Anthony said. He had called the base before catching his plane, brazenly pretending he was under orders from CIA Director Allen Dulles, and demanded Army cooperation for a vital mission the details of which were classified. It had worked: this lieutenant seemed eager to please.

  "Colonel Hickam would be glad if you would drop by headquarters at your convenience." The lieutenant handed Anthony a map. The base was enormous, Anthony realized. It stretched several miles south, all the way to the Tennessee River. "The headquarters building is marked on the map," the soldier went on. "And we have a message, asking you to call Mr. Carl Hobart in Washington."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant. Where's Dr. Claude Lucas's office?"

  "That'll be the Computation Laboratory." He took out a pencil and made a mark on the map. "But all those guys are down to Cape Canaveral this week."

  "Does Dr. Lucas have a secretary?"

  "Yes--Mrs. Marigold Clark."

  She might know Luke's movements. "Good. Lieutenant, this is my colleague Pete Maxell. He needs to get to the civilian airport to meet a flight."

  "I'd be glad to drive him there, sir."

  "I appreciate that. If he needs to reach me here at the base, what's the best way?"

  The lieutenant looked at Pete. "Sir, you could always leave a message at Colonel Hickam's office, and I would try to get it to Mr. Carroll."

  "Good enough," Anthony said decisively. "Let's get going."

  He got into the Ford, checked the map, and started out. It was a typical Army base. Arrow-straight roads ran through rough woodland broken by neat rectangles of lawn close-cropped like a conscript's haircut. The buildings were all flat-roofed structures of tan brick. It was well signposted, and he easily found the Computation Lab, a T-shaped building two storeys high. Anthony wondered why they needed so much space to make calculations, then realized they must have a powerful computer in there.

  He parked outside and thought for a few moments. He had a simple question to ask: Where in Huntsville did Luke plan to go? Marigold probably knew, but she would be defensive of Luke and wary of a stranger, especially one with two black eyes. However, she had been left behind here when most of the people she worked with had gone to Cape Canaveral for the big event, so she was probably also feeling lonely and bored.

  He went into the building. In an outer office were three small desks, each with a typewriter. Two were vacant. The third was occupied by a Negro woman of about fifty wearing a flowered cotton dress printed with daisies, and spectacles with diamante rims. "Good afternoon," he said.

  She looked up. He took off his sunglasses. Her eyes widened in surprise at his appearance. "Hello! How can I help you?"

  With mock sincerity, he said, "Ma'am, I'm looking for a wife who won't beat me up."

  Marigold burst out laughing.

  Anthony pulled up a chair and sat to one side of her desk. "I'm from Colonel Hickam's office," he said. "I'm looking for Marigold Clark. Where is she?"

  "That's me."

  "Oh, no. The Miz Clark I'm looking for is a grown woman. You're just a young girl."

  "Now, you stop your jive," she said, but she smiled broadly.

  "Dr. Lucas is on his way here--I guess you knew that."

  "He called me this morning."

  "What time do you expect him?"

  "His plane lands at two-twenty-three."

  That was useful. "So he'll be here around three."

  "Not necessarily."

  Ah. "Why not?"

  She gave him what he wanted. "Dr. Lucas said he's going home first, then he'll stop by here."

  That was perfect. Anthony could hardly believe his luck. Luke was going from the airport straight to his house. Anthony could go there and wait, then shoot Luke as soon as he walked in the door. There would be no witnesses. If he used the silencer, no one would even hear a shot. Anthony would leave the body where it fell and drive away. With Elspeth in Florida, the corpse might not be found for days.

  "Thank you," he said to Marigold. He stood up. "It was a pleasure to meet you." He left the room before she could ask his name.

  He returned to the car and drove to the headquarters building, a long three-storey monolith that looked like a prison. He found Colonel Hickam's office. The colonel was out, but a sergeant showed him to an empty room with a phone.

  He called Q Building but did not speak to his boss, Carl Hobart. Instead he asked for Carl's superior, George Cooperman. "What's up, George?" he said.

  "Did you shoot at someone last night?" said Cooperman, his smoker's voice sounding even more gravelly than usual.

  With an effort, Anthony put on the swashbuckling persona that appealed to Cooperman. "Aw, hell, who told you that?"

  "Some colonel from the Pentagon called Tom Ealy in the Director's office, and E
aly told Carl Hobart, who had an orgasm."

  "There's no proof, I picked up all the slugs."

  "This colonel found a hole in the fucking wall about nine millimeters wide and he guessed what caused it. Did you hit anybody?"

  "Unfortunately not."

  "You're in Huntsville now, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "You're supposed to come back immediately."

  "Then it's a good thing I didn't talk to you."

  "Listen, Anthony, I always cut you as much slack as I can, because you get results. But I can't do any more for you on this one. You're on your own from here, buddy."

  "That's how I like it."

  "Good luck."

  Anthony hung up and sat staring at the phone. He did not have much more time. His Billy the Kid act was wearing thin. He could disobey orders for only so long. He needed to wrap this up fast.

  He called Cape Canaveral and got Elspeth on the phone. "Have you talked to Luke?" he asked her.

  "He called me at six-thirty this morning." She sounded shaky.

  "Where from?"

  "He wouldn't say where he was, where he was going, or what he intended to do, because he was afraid my phone might be tapped. But he told me you were responsible for his amnesia."

  "He's on his way to Huntsville. I'm at Redstone Arsenal now. I'm going to your house to wait for him there. Will I be able to get in?"

  She answered with another question. "Are you still trying to protect him?"

  "Of course."

  "Will he be okay?"

  "All I can do is my best."

  There was a moment's pause, then she said, "There's a key under the bougainvillea pot in the backyard."

  "Thanks."

  "Take care of Luke, won't you?"

  "I said I would do my best!"

  "Don't snap at me," she said with some of her more usual spirit.

  "I'll take care of him." He hung up.

  He stood up to go, and the phone rang.

  He wondered whether to answer. It might be Hobart. But Hobart did not know he was in Colonel Hickam's office. Only Pete knew that . . . he thought.

  He picked up.

  It was Pete. "Dr. Josephson's here!" he said.

  "Shit." Anthony had felt sure she was out of the picture. "She just got off a plane?"

  "Yeah, it must have been a faster flight than the one Lucas is on. She's sitting in the terminal building, like she's waiting."

  "For him," Anthony said decisively. "Damn her. She's come to warn him that we're here. You have to get her out of there."

  "How?"

  "I don't care--just get rid of her!"

  12 Noon

  The Explorer's orbit will be at 34 degrees to the equator. Relative to the earth's surface, it will head southeast across the Atlantic Ocean to the southern tip of Africa, then northeast across the Indian Ocean and Indonesia to the Pacific.

  Huntsville Airport was small but busy. The single terminal building had a Hertz desk, some vending machines, and a row of phone booths. As soon as she arrived, Billie checked on Luke's flight and learned it was running almost an hour late and would land in Huntsville at 3:15. She had three hours to kill.

  She got a candy bar and a Dr Pepper from a machine. She put down the attache case that contained her Colt and stood leaning against a wall, thinking. How was she going to handle this? As soon as she saw Luke, she would warn him that Anthony was here. Luke would be on his guard and could take precautions--but he could not go into hiding. He had to find out what he had done here on Monday, and for that he would need to move around. He had to take risks. Could she do anything to help protect him?

  As she was racking her brains, a girl in Capital Airlines uniform approached her. "Are you Dr. Josephson?"

  "Yes."

  "I have a phone message for you." She handed over an envelope.

  Billie frowned. Who knew she was here? "Thanks," she muttered, tearing it open.

  "You're very welcome. Please let us know if there's any way we can be of further service."

  Billie looked up and smiled. She had forgotten how polite people were in the South. "I sure will," she said. "I appreciate that."

  The girl walked away, and Billie read her message: "Please call Dr. Lucas at Hunstville JE 6-4231."

  She was bewildered. Could Luke be here already? And how had he known she would be here?

  There was only one way to find out. She dropped her pop bottle in a trashcan and found a payphone.

  The number she dialed answered immediately, and a man's voice said, "Components Test Lab."

  It sounded as if Luke was already at Redstone Arsenal. How had he done that trick? She said: "Dr. Claude Lucas, please."

  "Just one moment." After a pause the man came back. "Dr. Lucas stepped out for a minute. Who is this, please?"

  "Dr. Bilhah Josephson, I have a message to call him on this number."

  The man's tone changed immediately. "Oh, Dr. Josephson, I'm so glad we found you! Dr. Lucas is very concerned to contact you."

  "What's he doing here? I thought he was still in the air."

  "Army security pulled him off the plane at Norfolk, Virginia, and laid on a special flight. He's been here more than an hour."

  She felt relieved he was safe, but at the same time she was puzzled. "What's he doing there?"

  "I think you know."

  "Okay, I guess I do. How is it going?"

  "Fine, but I can't give you details, especially over the phone. Can you get yourself down to us?"

  "Where are you?"

  "The lab is about an hour out of town on the Chattanooga Road. I could send an Army driver to pick you up, but it would be quicker for you to get a cab, or rent a car."

  Billie took a notebook out of her bag. "Give me directions." Then, remembering her southern manners, she added, "If you would, please."

  1 P.M.

  The first-stage engine must be switched off sharply, and separated immediately, otherwise gradual thrust decay could cause the first stage to catch up with the second and misalign it. As soon as pressure drops in the fuel lines, the valves are closed, and the first stage is separated 5 seconds later by detonation of spring-loaded explosive bolts. The springs increase the speed of the second stage by 2.6 feet per second, ensuring that it separates cleanly.

  Anthony knew the way to Luke's house. He had spent a weekend there, a couple of years back, soon after Luke and Elspeth had moved from Pasadena. He reached the place in fifteen minutes. It was on Echols Hill, a street of large older homes a couple of blocks from downtown. Anthony parked around the corner so that Luke would not be forewarned that he had a visitor.

  He walked back to the house. He should have felt quietly confident. He held all the cards: surprise, time, and a gun. But instead, he was nauseated with apprehension. Twice already he had felt he had Luke in his hands, and Luke had eluded him.

  He still did not know why Luke had chosen to fly to Huntsville rather than Cape Canaveral. This inexplicable decision suggested there was something Anthony did not know about, an unpleasant surprise that might leap out at him any moment.

  The house was a white turn-of-the-century colonial with a pillared verandah. It was too grand for an Army scientist, but Luke had never pretended to live on what he made as a mathematician. Anthony opened a gate in a low wall and entered the yard. The place would have been easy to break into, but that would not be necessary. He circled around to the back. By the kitchen door was a terra-cotta planter with bougainvillea spilling out of it, and under the pot was a big iron key.

  Anthony let himself in.

  The outside was pleasantly old-fashioned, but the interior was right up to the minute. Elspeth had every kind of gadget in the kitchen. There was a big hall decorated in bright pastel colors, a living room with a console TV and a record player, and a dining room with modern splayed-leg chairs and sideboards. Anthony preferred traditional furniture, but he had to admit this was stylish.

  As he stood in the living room, staring at a curved
couch upholstered in pink vinyl, he recalled vividly the weekend he had spent here. He had known within an hour that the marriage was in trouble. Elspeth was flirtatious, always a sign of tension with her, and Luke adopted a forced air of cheery hospitality that was quite uncharacteristic.

  They had given a cocktail party on the Saturday night and invited the young crowd from Redstone Arsenal. This room had been full of badly dressed scientists talking about rockets, junior officers discussing their prospects for promotion, and pretty women gossiping about the intrigues of life at a military base. The gramophone had been stacked with long-playing jazz records, but that night the music had sounded plaintive, not joyous. Luke and Elspeth had got drunk--a rare thing for both of them--and Elspeth had grown more flirty while Luke became quieter and quieter. Anthony had found it painful to see two people he liked and admired so unhappy, and the whole weekend had depressed him.

  And now the long drama of their interwoven lives was playing out its inevitable conclusion.

  Anthony decided to search the house. He did not know what he was looking for. But he might turn up something that would give him a clue to why Luke was coming here, and warn him of unforeseen danger. He put on a pair of rubber gloves he found in the kitchen. There would be a murder investigation eventually, and he did not want to leave fingerprints.

  He started in the study, a small room lined with shelves of scientific books. He sat at Luke's desk, which looked out onto the backyard, and opened the drawers.

  Over the next two hours, he searched the house from top to bottom. He found nothing.

  He looked in every pocket of every suit in Luke's well-filled closet. He opened every book in the study to check for papers concealed between the pages. He took the lids off every piece of Tupperware in the enormous double-door refrigerator. He went into the garage and searched the handsome black Chrysler 300C--the fastest stock sedan in the world, according to the newspapers--from its streamlined headlamps to its rocket-ship tailfins.

  He learned a few intimate secrets along the way. Elspeth colored her hair, used sleeping pills which were prescribed by a doctor, and suffered from constipation. Luke used a dandruff shampoo and subscribed to Playboy magazine.

  There was a small pile of mail on a table in the hall--put there by the maid, presumably. Anthony shuffled the letters, but there was nothing of interest: a flyer from a supermarket, Newsweek, a postcard from Ron and Monica in Hawaii, envelopes with the cellophane address window that indicated a business letter.