Finally Fordyce stood in front of him, in full costume. Gideon circled him appraisingly. “Too bad you shaved this morning.”
“We’ve got to go.”
“Not yet. I need to see you walk around.”
As Fordyce took a turn around the hotel room, Gideon groaned. “You’ve got to put your heart in it, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t know what more I can do. I already look like a jerk.”
“It’s not just about the look. It’s about the mental attitude. You’ve got to act the part. No, not just act it— beit.”
“So who am I supposed to be?”
“A cocky, wiseass, arrogant, cunning, self-satisfied, don’t-give-a-shit, morally bankrupt prick. Think about that while you walk around the room.”
“So how does a morally bankrupt prick walk?”
“I don’t know, you’ve got to feelit. Put in some attitude. Throw in a little pimp roll. Give us a curl of the lip. Tilt your chin.”
Fordyce, with an irritated sigh, did a second turn.
“Aw, shit,” said Gideon. “Can you lose the poker up the ass?”
Fordyce turned to him. “We’re wasting time. If we don’t get there soon, we won’t have time for the imam.”
With another muttered curse, Gideon followed Fordyce down toward the waiting Suburban. He wondered just how good a radar these people would have. To him, Fordyce still walked and talked just like a Fed.
Maybe they wouldn’t notice. But if they did, he’d better have a plan B.
22
The Paiute Creek Ranch lay north of Santa Fe in an isolated part of the Jemez Mountain range. Gideon and Fordyce bumped and ground their way up a washed-out mining road and into a series of ponderosa-covered hills and valleys just below a peak. The road ended at a brand-new chain-link fence with a set of locked gates.
As they got out of the Suburban, Gideon glanced over at Fordyce.
“You go first, I want to watch you walk again. Remember what I said.”
“Stop staring at my ass.” Fordyce started toward the gate, and it just about drove Gideon crazy to see how stubbornly the whiff of law enforcement clung to the agent. But he had to admit, the clothes were good—it was the way he carried himself that was a problem. If he kept his mouth shut, then maybe, just maybe, no one would notice.
“Remember,” Gideon muttered, “I’m doing the talking.”
“You mean, the bullshitting. Which you’re an expert at.”
Gideon peered through the fence. A hundred yards down the dirt track stood a small log cabin, and through the ponderosa pines he could glimpse more cabins, a barn, and the gables of a large ranch house. In the distance, some green fields were laid up alongside Paiute Creek.
Gideon shook the fence. “Yo!”
Nothing. Had all of them left, too?
“Hey! Anybody home?”
A man stepped out of the nearby cabin and came walking over. He had a long tangle of black hair and a long, squared-off beard in the mountain man style. As he approached, he casually unsheathed a machete stuck into his belt.
Gideon could feel Fordyce tensing up next to him.
“Relax,” he murmured. “It’s better than a .45.”
The man stopped ten feet from the fence, holding the machete dramatically across his chest. “This is private property.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Gideon. “Look, we’re friends. Let us in.”
“Who you here to see?”
“Willis Lockhart,” Gideon said, proffering the name of the commune’s leader.
“Is he expecting you?”
“No, but we’ve got a business proposition for him that he’ll want to hear—I guarantee it. I’m sure he would be pissed if we were turned away without him getting a chance to hear it. Goodand pissed.”
The man considered this a moment. “What kind of proposition?”
“Sorry, man, that’s for Lockhart’s ears only. It’s about money. M-O-N-E-Y.”
“Commander Will is a busy man.”
Commander Will.“Well, are you going to let us in or not? ’Cause we’re busy, too.”
A hesitation. “You armed?”
Gideon held out his arms. “No. Feel free to check.” And they had, in fact, left their sidearms in the car. Fordyce had his ID, the warrants, and the subpoena rubber-banded to his shin, under his pants.
“Him?”
“No.”
The man sheathed his machete. “All right. But the commander isn’t going to like it if you guys aren’t who you say you are.”
He unlocked the gate and they filed through. The man gave them a cursory pat-down. Gideon noted that he locked the gate behind them, which was too bad. Still, getting in had taken a lot less jawboning than he’d anticipated.
They passed a corral where some commune members were working cattle, branding and cutting—ordinary-looking cowboy types. Around a bend, the big ranch house came into closer view, three stories tall, with new-looking gabled wings and a huge wraparound porch. Beyond, in a large field, he could see a serious array of solar panels surrounded by chain link and razor wire, several monster satellite dishes, and a small microwave tower.
“What do you think they need all that shit for?” Fordyce murmured.
“In case the Playboy Channel on regular cable goes down,” Gideon said jokingly, but he, too, stared hard at the array.
As they approached the main house, they entered a beautifully restored historic mining town, complete with log cabins, corrals, and a hitching post with a couple of saddled horses tied up. The authenticity was spoiled by a parking lot behind the ranch house, in which stood a small fleet of identical Jeeps, earthmoving equipment, and several large trucks.
They mounted the wooden porch of the main house; the man knocked on the door, then entered. They followed him in. Gideon was surprised to find that the downstairs parlor had been fixed up as a modern-looking conference room, with a rosewood table, corporate chairs, whiteboards, and even a plasma screen. The whiteboard had some partial differential equations scribbled on it that Gideon did not recognize, but he knew enough to realize were very sophisticated. Beyond the parlor, he got a glimpse of a classroom in session, where a group of kids listened to a teacher in a gingham dress. The whole place had a weird, steampunk feel to it.
“Upstairs,” said their escort.
As they mounted the stairs, Gideon caught a bit of what the teacher was saying—something about how government biologists had developed the HIV virus for genocidal purposes.
He caught Fordyce’s eye.
Gaining the landing, Machete Man led them down a long corridor. Several of the doors were open; in one, a barely dressed, curvaceous woman lolled on a bed of purple satin sheets. She glanced out at them indifferently.
“Do you suppose she’s, ah, the vicecommander?” Gideon asked as they stopped before a closed door. “The perks of power.”
“Stow it,” Fordyce growled as Machete Man knocked on the door.
A voice called them in.
The room was done up in high Victorian whorehouse style, with red velvet wallpaper, opulent Victorian sofas and chairs, Persian rugs, brass lamps with green glass shades. Sitting behind a desk was a man in his fifties, extremely fit, with long hair, the same squared-off beard—it seemed to be a popular look—and Rasputin-like eyes. He was dressed in a blue shawl-lapel coat, brocaded vest, old-style ascot, and gold chain: the very image of a gambling-house dandy.
Totally hokey.
Gideon felt himself relaxing. Equations or no equations, these people were lightweights. This was no Manson Family. No Waco compound. His elaborate subterfuge was starting to look unnecessary.
“What do they want?” the man asked sharply, looking at Machete Man.
“They say they have a business proposition for you, Commander.”
Lockhart’s keen eyes turned to them, scanned Gideon, then scanned Fordyce. They remained on Fordyce for a moment—a little too long. Gideon’s heart sank.
“Who are you?” he asked Fordyce, his voice tinged with suspicion.
“He’s a Fed,” said Gideon, with sudden inspiration.