Gideon's Corpse

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 ru

The conference room emptied as quickly as it had filled. As Dart picked up the black folder and rapped it smartly against the table, Cu

“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 banda

“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 gri

“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.”