Gideon's Corpse

38

The wilderness ended and Los Alamos began as if someone had drawn a line, the trees suddenly giving way to a typical suburban neighborhood with ranch houses, postage-stamp lawns, play sets and kiddie pools, blacktopped driveways sporting station wagons and mini vans.

From the cover of the fringe of trees, Gideon stared across a dark lawn at one mini van in particular, an old 2000-model Astro. It was eleven o’clock at night, but the house was still dark. Nobody was home. In fact, as he looked around, he noted that almost all the houses were dark; an air of desertion, even desuetude, hung over the place.

“This is making me nervous,” said Alida.

“There’s nobody here. Looks like they’ve all left.”

He walked boldly across the lawn, Alida following a few steps behind. They gained the side of the house and he turned back to her. “Wait here a moment.”

There was no sign of a burglar alarm, and it was the work of two minutes—and long experience—to slip inside and assure himself the house was empty. Finding the master bedroom, he helped himself to a crisp new shirt that almost fit. He combed his hair in the bathroom, then grabbed some fruit and some sodas from the kitchen and went back to where Alida was waiting.

“I hope you’re not too nervous to eat,” he said, handing her an apple and a Coke. She bit ravenously into the apple.

Rising from a crouch, Gideon walked to the breezeway and got into the car. The keys were not in the ignition or the center console. He got out, opened the hood.

“What are you doing?” Alida mumbled through the apple.

“Hot-wiring it.”

“Jesus. Is this another one of your little ‘skills’?”

He closed the hood, got back in the driver’s seat, started dismantling the steering column with a screwdriver he’d found in the glove compartment. A few moments later everything was ready, and with a cough the car started up.

“This is crazy. They’re going to shoot us on sight.”

“Get down on the floor and cover yourself with that blanket.”

Alida got into the backseat and lowered herself out of sight. Without another word, Gideon backed out of the driveway and drove down the street. He soon found himself on Oppenheimer Drive, heading past Trinity, on his way to the Tech Area main gate. The town was deserted, but even this late in the evening, with a nuclear threat hanging over the country, work proceeded at Los Alamos. As they approached the gate, Gideon made out the brilliant sodium lights, the two armed guards in their pillboxes, the cement barriers, the always-friendly security officer.

There was a car ahead of them being checked through. Gideon slowed, stopped, waited. He hoped the guard wouldn’t look at him too closely—his shirt was clean, of course, but his pants were a muddy mess. His heart was pounding like mad in his chest. He told himself that there was no reason for the FBI to publicize his name; no reason to notify Los Alamos security, considering that was the last place he’d go; and every reason to keep his identity secret while they hunted him down.

Then again, what if Alida was right? What if they had put out an APB on him? As soon as he reached the gate they’d nail him. This was crazy. He had a car—he should just turn around and get the hell out of there. He began to panic and threw the car into reverse, getting ready to stomp on the accelerator.

The car ahead went through.

Too late. He eased the car back into drive and pulled up, plucked his Los Alamos ID from around his neck and handed it to the guard…

The guard nodded to him nonchalantly, clearly recognizing him, took it, and went inside. That wasn’t what normally happened. Had the man recognized the car as not belonging to him?

Once again Gideon shifted the car into reverse, his foot hovering over the gas pedal. There was no car in line behind him. If he blasted back out, he might reach the turnoff to the back road to Bandelier before they organized a chase. Then he’d ditch the car at the Indian ruins of Tsankawi and cross the San Ildefonso Indian Reservation on foot.

God, it was taking forever. He should go now, before the alarms went off.

And then the security guard appeared with a smile and the card. “Thanks, Dr. Crew. Here’s your card. Working late, I see.”

Gideon managed a smile. “The grind never stops.”

“Ain’t it the truth.” And the man waved him through.

Gideon parked in the rear of the lot for Tech Area 33, where he worked. It was an enormous, warehouse-like building of white stucco and Pro-Panel. The building housed the offices and labs of part of the Stockpile Stewardship Team, along with access to the underground test chambers and a small linear accelerator for probing aging bomb fuel and other fissile materials.

In the dark of the car, Gideon checked the phony six-gun. It was a replica of an old Colt Model 1877 double-action revolver, nickel-plated, and fully loaded with blanks. Blanks or not, he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

He shoved it into his waistband and covered it with his shirt. “We’re here.”

Alida threw off the blanket and rose. “Is that it? No more security?”

“There are other rings of security but not, at least, to visit an office.” He checked his face in the mirror—not exactly clean, and not exactly shaven. He was known around his department as a slapdash dresser, so he hoped his present disheveled state would not be noted. Most of the physicists, it had to be said, were infamously sloppy; it was sort of a badge of honor.

He got out of the car. They walked through the parking lot and around toward the front of the building.

“Is this Bill Novak you told me about, the network security guy, going to be in?” Alida asked. “It’s after eleven.”

“Probably not. But there’s always someone in the security office. Tonight it’ll probably be Warren Chu. At least I hope so. He’s not likely to give us much trouble.”

They entered the building. An L-shaped hall ran through the front section; the labs were in the back and below ground. Gideon walked slowly, working on his breathing, trying to stay calm. He turned the corner and came to a closed door, knocked.

“Yeah?” came a muffled voice from inside. The door opened. Chu stood there, a round, smooth fellow with glasses and a cheerful expression. “Hey, Gideon. Where you been?”

“Vacation.” He turned. “This is Alida—she’s new. I’m showing her around.”

The round face turned to Alida and the smile broadened. “Welcome to Mars, Earthling.”

Gideon let his own expression turn serious. “Can I come in?”

“Sure. Is there a problem?”

“Yeah. A big one.”

Chu’s face fell as Gideon stepped aside. They walked into his tiny, windowless office. Chu swept the only extra chair clear, eyeing Gideon’s muddy pants but not commenting on them. Alida sat down, Gideon stood. He smelled coffee and spied a box of Krispy Kreme donuts. He was suddenly starving.

“You mind?” He sidled up to the box, tipping it open.

“Be my guest.”

Gideon took a glazed cruller and a New York cheesecake. He caught Alida’s glance and took another two for her. He stuffed the cruller into his face.

“So what’s up?” Chu looked annoyed at seeing four of his donuts vanish so quickly.

Gideon swallowed with effort, wiped the crumbs from his mouth. “It seems somebody used my computer while I was on vacation. Hacked into it. I don’t know how they bypassed my password, but they did. I want to know who.”

Chu’s face paled and he lowered his voice. “Jesus, Gideon, you know you’ve got to report that through proper channels. You can’t come here. I’m just the tech guy.”

Gideon lowered his voice. “Warren, I came to you because whoever did this seems to have it in for you.”

“Me?” Chu’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment.

“Yeah, you. Look—I know you didn’t do it. But whoever did it plastered your picture on my screen, giving me the finger. And a cute little poem: Warren Chu says Fuck you too.”

“Are you serious? Oh my God, I can’t believe it. Why would someone do that to me? I’ll kill him, I swear I will.” Chu was already turning to his monitor. “When did this happen?”

Gideon considered the time line. He had to have been framed at some point between the plane crash and his attempted arrest. “Between, um, four days ago and very early yesterday morning.”

“Wow,” Warren said, staring at his screen. “Your account’s been frozen. And they never told me!”

“That’s because they suspect you.”

Chu practically pulled at his long hair. “I can’t believe it. Who would do this?”

“Is there any way to get into my account and take a look around? Maybe we could figure out who did it, you know, before it gets out and security comes down on you like a ton of bricks.”

“Hell, yes. I have the clearance to override this. If they haven’t taken that away.”

Gideon’s heart quickened. “Really?”

“Sure.” Chu’s fingers were beating a furious tattoo on the keyboard. “How’d the hacker get your password?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“You write it down somewhere?”

“Never.”

“You ever log on in front of anyone?”

“No.”

“Then it would have to be someone with high-security clearance.”

Gideon watched intently as a series of numbers scrolled by on the screen, faster and faster. Chu was the very picture of nerdy outrage.

“Gonna find the mother,” said Chu, clicking away. “Gonna find the mother… There—I’ve broken into your account!”

A final, triumphant rap of the keyboard and Gideon stared at the screen. It showed his post-login home page. Where would the incriminating “jihadist love letters” be?

“Let’s check my email,” he said.

Chu continued typing, and Gideon’s secure email account popped up. Again Chu was forced to override the locked-up account.

Looking at the mass of emails, Gideon had an idea. “Are there any to or from Chalker?”

“Reed Chalker?” Chu seemed uneasy, but typed in the request. A list popped up, dating back to the months before Chalker disappeared. Gideon was stunned by the number of messages; he couldn’t remember ever having corresponded with Chalker.

“Looks like you guys had a lot to talk about,” said Chu. “How’s this supposed to help us find the hacker?”

“Those emails were planted,” said Gideon. “Planted by the hacker.”

“Yeah?” Chu sounded doubtful. “That would have been quite a job.”

“I never emailed Chalker. Well, hardly ever.” Gideon reached past Chu, bent over the keyboard, highlighted a year-old email innocuously titled “vacation,” and hit the ENTER key.

Salaam Reed,

To answer your question: you remember what I said about the world being divided into Dar al-Islam and Dar al-Harb—the House of Islam and the House of War. There is no middle ground, no halfway place. You, Reed, have now personally entered the House of Islam. Now the real struggle begins—with the House of War you left behind.

Gideon stared in disbelief. He’d never written that. It didn’t just make him look like a co-conspirator with Chalker; it made him look like his recruiter. He quickly opened the next.

My friend Reed, Salaam:

Jihad is not just an internal struggle, but it’s also external. There can be no peace for you as a good Muslim, no cessation of struggle, until all the world becomes Dar al-Islam.

He began paging forward through the emails. This was clearly a complex, highly sophisticated and exhaustive fraud. No wonder Fordyce had been taken in. He noticed a more recent email, opened it.

The time is now. Do not hesitate. If someone receives the message of Islam and dies rejecting it, they are forever destined to Hellfire. Anyone who truly believes in the message, their previous sins are forgiven and they will spend eternity in Paradise. If you have belief, act on it. Do not worry what anyone else thinks. Your eternal life is at stake.

It continued in a similar vein, persuading Chalker to convert. Gideon read on with mounting outrage. Not only had he been framed, but he had been framed in a most sophisticated fashion—by someone on the inside.