Gideon's Corpse

12

Gideon Crew stared at the mess in disbelief. Even at two in the morning, there were now so many emergency and government vehicles, barriers, command and control stations, and staging areas around Chalker’s apartment that they had been forced to park several blocks away. As they pushed their way closer to the row house where the hostage taking had occurred, the area became a zoo of law enforcement, vast and chaotic, with individuals from scores of government agencies moving about, layers of checkpoints, red tape, and peremptory challenges. Thank God, Gideon thought, for Fordyce, his shield, and his ferocious scowl, which enabled them to cut an efficient swath through it all.

The barriers were also keeping back a seething crowd of television crews, reporters, and photographers, all mingling with rubberneckers and people evicted from their homes, some of whom were protesting, waving homemade signs and shouting. Amazingly, so far the government had been able to keep a lid on the explosive news that radiation was involved and that they might be dealing with a loose nuke in the hands of terrorists.

Gideon did not expect that lid to stay on much longer. Too many people already knew. And when it came off, God only knew what would happen.

As they worked their way to the front of the alphabet soup of responders, they came to the central command and control center: three mobile vans in a U-shaped formation, festooned with satellite dishes. A set of stanchions had been set up, like an airport security apparatus, managing a crush of law enforcement personnel moving in and out. Beyond, the street had been cleared and, in the brilliant glow of artificial lights, Fordyce could see several people in radiation suits moving about on the front lawn and inside the building.

“Welcome to New Clusterfuck City,” Gideon said.

Fordyce walked toward someone in an FBI uniform. “Special Agent Fordyce.” He extended his hand.

“Special Agent Packard, Behavioral Science Unit.”

“We need to get into the apartment.”

Packard gave a cynical snort. “If you want in, you got to get in line. The six guys in the apartment right now have been there for three hours already, and there must be a hundred more waiting. The 9/11 response was a lot more organized than this.” The man shook his head. “What unit are you with?”

“I’m liaising with a private security contractor.”

“Jesus, a private contractor? You might as well take a vacation in Hawaii and come back in two weeks.”

“So who are these guys that get to go first?” Fordyce asked.

“NEST, naturally.”

Gideon touched Fordyce’s shoulder and nodded at one of the figures in radiation suits. “Wonder who his haberdasher is?” he murmured.

Fordyce seemed to get the hint. He paused a moment, considering. Then he turned back to Agent Packard. “Where do you get the suits?”

Packard nodded toward another van. “Over there.”

Fordyce grasped his hand. “Thanks, brother.”

As they moved away, Gideon said, “So you’re ready for a little guerrilla action? I mean, those jihadists have a nuke. Two weeks is going to be way too late.”

Fordyce said nothing, simply wending his way through the crowd toward the van. Gideon followed. It was hard to know what the FBI agent was thinking from looking at his stony face.

A changing tent had been set up behind the van, with racks of suits and respirators. Radmeters were fitted to the sleeves of each suit. Fordyce ducked under the canvas barrier and, with Crew in tow, walked up to the racks and began pawing through them.

Immediately a man in a NEST uniform came over. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Fordyce gave him a blue-eyed stare, plucked his shield from the chain around his neck, and almost pushed it into the man’s face. “We need access. Now.”

“Look,” the man said shrilly, “how many times do I have to tell you people, FBI will get its turn?”

Fordyce stared at him. “No FBI have been in there yet? At all?”

“That’s right. NEST has a lot of work to do first.”

“Dart’s group?”

“That’s right. National security protocol in the event of a nuclear emergency says that NEST is the lead agency.”

A long silence. Fordyce had again seemed to shut down. Gideon realized it would be up to him to do whatever it was they had to do to get in; Fordyce was too rule-bound and had too much to lose. Gideon, on the other hand, had nothing at all to lose.

“Thank goodness for that,” said Gideon, taking a suit from the rack and stepping into it. “No wonder Dart was so eager to get us seconded to NEST.”

He found Fordyce’s sapphire stare on him, and he smiled back pleasantly. “Hurry up. You know Dart, he’ll be pissed if we don’t have our report in by dawn.”

The man relaxed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to challenge you, I didn’t realize you’re assigned to NEST.”

“No problem,” said Gideon, eyeing Fordyce and wondering if the special agent was going to get with the program. “Come on, Stone, we don’t have all day.”

Still, the agent hesitated—and then, to Gideon’s relief, began donning his own suit.

“Wait. I’ve got to see your authorization papers. And I’m supposed to help you select your gear.”

Fordyce zipped his suit up the front and bestowed a friendly smile on the man. “Paperwork is on its way. And thanks, but we already know our gear.”

“I’ve got to at least see your temp ID.”

“You’re going to make me take this off to show you an ID?”

“Well, gotta see ID.”

Fordyce smiled, put a hand on the fellow’s shoulder. “What’s your name, son?”

“Ramirez.”

“Hand me those respirators, Ramirez.”

Ramirez handed him the respirators. Fordyce handed one to Gideon.

Gideon took it. “Dart authorized us personally. If you have any questions, call him.”

Ramirez was still looking at Fordyce. “Well, Dart doesn’t like to be disturbed—”

Fordyce fitted the respirator to his face, which effectively cut off his ability to communicate with Ramirez. Gideon followed suit. He saw that the respirator was fitted with a small radio transmitter. He flicked it on, set it to a private channel, indicated for Fordyce to do the same.

“You read, Fordyce?”

“Loud and clear,” Fordyce’s voice crackled back.

“Let’s get going before, ah, it’s too late.”

They began to move past Ramirez.

“Wait,” said Ramirez apologetically. “I really got to see that ID.”

Gideon lifted his respirator. “We’ll show it to you when we unsuit. Or you can check with Dart—but be sure to catch him at the right moment. He’s kind of irritable right now.”

“You’re not kidding,” said Ramirez, shaking his head.

“So you can imagine how pissed he’ll be if his two handpicked guys get delayed.”

Gideon eased the respirator back over his head before Ramirez could reply. They hopped the last barrier and strode toward the row house.

“Nice work if you can get it,” said Gideon into the intercom, with a chuckle. “And by the way, that suit doesn’t do a thing for you.”

“You think it’s funny?” said Fordyce, suddenly angry. “I’ve been dealing with that crap all of my career and there’s nothing funny about it. And by the way, I’m going to say this was all your idea.”

They gave the basement apartment, where Chalker had spent the last two months of his life, a swift walk-through. It was small and stark, consisting of a tiny room in the front, a pullman kitchen and bathroom, and a back room with a single window. The apartment was scrupulously clean and smelled faintly of Pine-Sol and bleach. Six NEST personnel moved about slowly, scanning with various instruments, picking up fibers and dust, taking photographs. Nothing had been touched.

The front room was empty, save for a rug by the door with a row of flip-flops, and a second, small but sumptuous Persian rug in the middle.

Gideon paused, staring the rug. It was askew, out of line with the lines of the room.

“Prayer rug,” came Fordyce’s tinny voice over the intercom. “Pointing in the direction of Mecca.”

“Right. Of course.”

The only other item in the room was a Qur’an, open, resting on an elaborately carved book stand. Fordyce examined it and saw it was a bilingual edition, English and Arabic, and well worn. Many of the pages had been marked with strings.

It would be interesting to see which verses had attracted Chalker’s special attention. Gideon glanced at the page it was open to and his attention was immediately arrested by one verse, which had been marked:

Has there reached you the report of the Overwhelming Event?

Some faces, that day, will be humbled, working hard and exhausted.

They will burn in an intensive Fire.

They will be given drink from a boiling spring.

He looked up at Fordyce, who was also gazing at the book. He nodded slowly.

Fordyce pointed at the kitchen, then moved into it for a closer examination. It was as clean and bare as the rest of the apartment, everything in its place.

“Are we allowed to open the refrigerator?” Gideon asked Fordyce over the radio.

“Don’t ask. Just do it.”

Gideon opened the door. Inside was a carton of milk, a package of dates, leftover pizza in a carton, cheese, some Chinese food cartons, and other miscellaneous items. The freezer contained frozen lamb cubes, Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, and a bag of raw almonds. As he shut the door, Gideon noticed a calendar affixed to the side of the refrigerator with a magnet, a photograph of the Taj Mahal filling its upper half. In the calendar grid below, a number of appointments had been scribbled in Chalker’s hand. Gideon scanned them with interest while Fordyce came up behind.

Gideon grasped the calendar page and turned it back a month, then another. It was crabbed with cryptic appointments. “Jesus,” he murmured into the intercom, dropping the calendar back to the current month. “You see that?”

“See what?” asked Fordyce, staring at the empty calendar. “It’s blank.”

“That’s just it. The appointments just stop. There’re no appointments after the twenty-first of this month.”

“Which means?”

“We’re looking at the appointment calendar of a suicide bomber. And all his appointments end ten days from now.”