“Whew,” Gideon said. “No wonder he’s radioactive.”
Another shuffle. “We recovered two credit cards, a driver’s license, a Los Alamos ID card, and various other items from his wallet. Those are being analyzed now.”
“What about the autopsy?” Fordyce asked.
“The preliminary results indicate damage to his thyroid gland, consistent with exposure to iodine 131. This—” He glanced at Fordyce—“is a major fission product of U-235 and indicates Chalker was exposed for some time to a low level of radioactivity before the criticality incident.”
“Do you have a sense of how long?” Gideon asked.
“Cell necrosis indicates more than eleven days.” Shuffle. “There were also classic indications of a massive exposure to ionizing radiation in the criticality incident, with exposure on the order of eight thousand rads. The skin and the internal organs all showed evidence of acute radiation syndrome, beta as well as gamma burns. The exposure was from the front, with the greatest exposure on the hands. The traces of highly enriched uranium on his hands suggest he was actually handling the material when it went critical.”
“Without gloves?” Gideon asked.
Dart looked at him. “Yes. And that’s something we’re wondering about, too, why he didn’t wear protective gear. Unless of course he…did not expect to live much longer.” A short silence followed this statement, and then Dart shut the file. “That’s all we have so far.”
Gideon said, “If that’s true, we don’t have a lot of time.”
“Why’s that?”
“It seems to me he was assembling the bomb.”
“How do you know?” asked Fordyce, turning to him.
“The simplest nuke—the one terrorists would build—is a gun-type bomb. Two pieces of U-235 are fired together in a tube to achieve critical mass. With a bomb like that, you keep those two halves shielded and you don’t bring the pieces anywhere near each other until it’s time to actually assemble the bomb. Because those two pieces, if they get too close without proper shielding, will exchange neutrons, go critical, and let loose with a burst of gamma radiation exactly like what hit Chalker.”
“So you’re saying Chalker was assembling the weapon and botched it?” asked Fordyce.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“So was the weapon ruined?”
“Not at all,” said Gideon. “It might be a little hot, but nothing a suicide bomber would need to worry about. The fact that the uranium went critical would have caused physical changes in the core that will, unfortunately, enhancethe yield. It’ll make the bomb more powerful.”
“Son of a bitch,” muttered Fordyce.
“Very good, Dr. Crew,” said Dart. “Our own internal evaluation team has come to much the same conclusions.”
Fordyce asked, “What about his laptop computer? I heard they recovered one from his apartment.”
“The contents are encrypted. We haven’t been able to extract any information yet.”
“Then you should let me look at it. I recently finished a six-month tenure in the FBI’s Cryptology Unit.”
“Thank you, Agent Fordyce, but we’ve got a crack team on it and I personally feel your talents would be better used in other areas.”
There was a brief silence before Fordyce spoke again. “Any indication of the target?”
Dart looked at him steadily. “Not yet.”
Fordyce took a deep breath. “We need access to Chalker’s apartment.”
“Naturally you’ll have access. But NEST is first in the queue.” Dart consulted a calendar. “It’s going to be a couple of weeks, I’m afraid. We’ve got a long line of government agencies ahead of you.”
Gideon waited for Fordyce to react, but to his disappointment the agent didn’t respond. They rose to leave.
“May I have a private word with you, Special Agent Fordyce?” Dart said.
Gideon looked at Dart in surprise.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Crew, this is between us.”
Fordyce watched as Crew left. He wasn’t sure what Dart’s game was—he seemed like a straight shooter, but then everyone, even the best, had a game. Fordyce’s strategy had always been to hide his own game while figuring out the game of everyone around him. It had gotten him through FBI minefields for years.
After the door shut, Dart folded his hands and stared at Fordyce. “I’d like this to remain between us. I’m a little concerned, because, frankly, I find this assignment of yours to be rather odd.”
Fordyce nodded.
“I knew Dr. Crew briefly at Los Alamos. He’s more than bright. I have a high opinion of his abilities. But up on the Hill he had a reputation as a freelancer, someone who felt the rules were for others, not him. The qualities that make him a brilliant and creative scientist may not translate well into a criminal investigation like this. I’m asking you to keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t go off…half-cocked. That’s all.”
Fordyce kept his facial expression strictly neutral. It was true Gideon had a reckless, wiseass air about him that Fordyce didn’t like. He understood why Dart thought he had an attitude—because he did. But Crew was his partner, and although he wasn’t sure he trusted or even liked him, partnership loyalty trumped that. “Very well, Dr. Dart.”
Dart rose, extended his hand. “Thank you and best of luck.”
Fordyce rose and shook the hand.
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.”