Gideon's Corpse

8

The van doors opened into an underground, garage-like space, where they were herded through a tunnel of plastic. To Gideon, who knew their radiation exposure was probably secondary and fairly minor, it seemed like overkill, more designed to follow some bureaucratic protocol than anything else.

They were shunted into a high-tech waiting area, all chrome and porcelain and stainless steel, with monitors and computer displays winking softly from all angles. Everything was new and had obviously never been used before. They were separated by sex, stripped, given three sets of showers, examined thoroughly, asked to undergo blood work, given shots, provided with clean clothes, tested again, and then finally allowed to emerge into a second waiting area.

It was an amazing subterranean facility, brand new and state of the art, clearly built after 9/11 to handle a radiological terrorist attack in the city. Gideon recognized various kinds of radiation testing and decontamination equipment, far more advanced than even what they had at Los Alamos. As extraordinary as the place was, he was not surprised: New York City would certainly need a major decontamination center like this.

A scientist entered the waiting room, smiling and wearing a normal white lab coat. He was the first person they’d had contact with who was not in a radiation or hazmat suit. He was accompanied by a small, gloomy man in a dark suit whose size belied an air of command. Gideon recognized him immediately: Myron Dart, who had been deputy director of Los Alamos when Gideon first arrived at the lab. Dart had been appointed from Los Alamos to government service of some kind. Gideon hadn’t known him well, but Dart had always seemed competent and fair. Gideon wondered how he’d handle this emergency.

The cheerful scientist spoke first. “I’m Dr. Berk and you’re all now clean,” he said, beaming at them as if they had passed a final exam. “We’re going to have individual counseling, and then you’ll be free to resume your lives.”

“How bad was the exposure?” Hammersmith asked.

“Very minor. The counselor will discuss with each person his or her actual exposure readings. The hostage taker’s radiation exposure occurred elsewhere, not on site, and radiation exposure isn’t like the flu. You can’t catch it from someone else.”

Now Dart stepped forward. He was older than Gideon remembered, his face long and narrow, shoulders sloped. His dress was impeccable as usual: gray suit with an understated pinstripe, beautifully cut, the lavender silk tie giving him an incongruously fashionable look. He carried with him a quiet air of self-assurance. “My name is Dr. Myron Dart, and I’m commander of the Nuclear Emergency Support Team. There’s one very important thing I need to impress on all of you.” Dart placed his hands behind his back while his gray eyes perused the group, slowly and deliberately, as if he were about to speak to each person individually. “So far, the news that this was a radiological incident hasn’t leaked out. You can imagine the panic if it were to do so. Each and every one of you must keep absolutely quiet about what happened today. There are only two words you need to know: no and comment. That goes for everyone who is going to ask you what happened, from reporters to family. And they will ask.”

He paused. “You will all be signing nondisclosure papers before your release. I’m afraid you won’t be released until you sign these papers. There are criminal and civil penalties for violating the terms of the nondisclosure, spelled out in the documents. I’m sorry, but this is the way it has to be, and I’m sure you’ll understand.”

Not a word was said. Dart himself had spoken mildly, but something about the very quietness of his voice told Gideon the guy wasn’t kidding.

“I apologize,” said Dart, “for the inconvenience and the scare. Fortunately, it appears the exposure for all of you was slight to none. I will now turn you over to the very competent hands of Dr. Berk. Good day.”

And he left.

The doctor consulted his clipboard. “Let’s see. We’re going to proceed alphabetically.” Now he was like a camp counselor. “Sergeant Adair and Officer Corley, please come with me?”

Gideon glanced around at the assembled group. The SWAT team member who had freaked out in the van was no longer with them, and he thought he could hear, faintly, somewhere in the bowels of that vast facility, the man screaming and threatening.

Suddenly the door opened and Myron Dart reentered, accompanied by Manuel Garza. Dart looked seriously put out. “Gideon Crew?” His eyes fastened on Gideon, and he fancied he saw recognition in those eyes.

Gideon rose.

Garza came over. “Let’s go.”

“But—”

“No discussion.”

Garza walked rapidly to the door, Gideon hurrying to keep up. As they passed Dart, the man looked at him with a cool smile. “You have interesting friends, Dr. Crew.”