“My father teaches at that one every year. He adores Santa Cruz.”
Gideon had to cover his expression with a hefty slug of the drink. He was already feeling the effects of the alcohol.
“So he likes teaching?” he said.
“He loves it. After his disappointment over the Nobel, I think he finds it consoling.”
“You mentioned the Nobel before. What happened, exactly?”
Alida sipped her own drink. “He was on the short list a few times, but didn’t get it. And then he learned through the grapevine why they’d never give it to him—because his politics were wrong.”
“Politics? How so?”
“He used to be a British citizen. And when he was a young man, he was in MI6—that’s the British intelligence service. Sort of like the CIA.”
“I know what it is.” Gideon was stunned. “I had no idea.”
“He never, ever talks about it, even to me. Anyway, I don’t know about the Nobel for a fact myself. It’s just what people say. The Nobel Committee refused Graham Greene for the same reason—he worked in British intelligence. Those damn Swedes just don’t like the idea of a writer being involved in espionage and counter-intelligence. John le Carré won’t get one, either!” She snorted.
“Was your father upset?”
“He doesn’t admit it, but I know he was. I mean, he was only doing his patriotic duty to his country. It’s humiliating.” Her voice had climbed slightly. “Look at all the great writers passed over—James Joyce, Vladimir Nabokov, Evelyn Waugh, Philip Roth. The list goes on and on. And who do they give it to instead? Writers like Dario Fo and Eyvind Johnson!” She sat back with a thump.
Gideon was so taken aback by her sudden passion he had temporarily forgotten how guilty this whole act of dissembling made him feel. “Aren’t you…well, worried about your father going to Maryland right now? I mean, that’s close to DC.”
“He’s not going anywhere near the evacuation zone. Anyway, I’m sick of talking about my father. I really want to talk to you about us. Please.”
She grasped his shoulder and looked into his face, her dark brown eyes glistening. With tears? Certainly with love. And Gideon couldn’t stop feeling the same unbearable tug at his own heart. “I just…” he started, stumbled. “I’m just concerned about your father, given this terrorist situation. I’d like to know where he’s going in Maryland.”
She looked at him with a small flash of impatience. “I can’t remember. Some army base. Fort Detrick, I think. Why is this so important?”
Gideon knew that Fort Detrick was hardly more than a stone’s throw from Washington. Was Simon Blaine planning to mobilize his people there for the final push? Why an army base? It was surely no coincidence that Blaine was traveling back east to an army base, thirty hours before N-Day. His head reeled at the possibilities. “Your father must know a lot of people in the intelligence community.”
“He does. When he was in MI6, I believe one of the things he did was act as a liaison with the CIA. At least, I once saw a citation they gave him. Classified. It was the one time he left his safe open.”
“And he’s flying out tomorrow morning?”
She laid a hand on his arm, the impatience breaking out again. “That would be thismorning, since it’s two AM already. Gideon, what’s this interest in my father? I want to talk about us, ourrelationship, ourfuture. I know it’s sudden, I know guys don’t like to be ambushed like this, but, damn it, I know you feel the same way I do. And you of all people know we may not have a lot of time.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to avoid the subject.” He tried to cover up his runaway interest by adopting a slightly accusatory tone. “It’s just that I thought your father was going to help us. Now he’s running away.”
“He hashelped us! He’s not running away, either. Look, we’re safe here, we can use this as a base to find out who framed you. All we have to do is track down that man Willis. It makes sense that he and his crazy cult are behind this. He’ll be caught, the hunt will be over, and you and I will be cleared.”
Gideon nodded, feeling awful all over again. “Yes. I’m sure that will happen.” He gulped the rest of his drink.
She sat back. “Gideon, are you ready to talk? Or are you just trying to forestall it with all these questions about my father? I don’t want to force myself on you.”
He nodded dumbly, attempted a smile. He was already wishing for a second drink. “Sure.”
“I hesitate to bring up a painful subject, but… Well, you know I’m direct. I say what I think, even if I put my foot in my mouth. I hope you know that about me by now.”
“I do,” he croaked.
She drew closer. “I know you may have a fatal condition. That doesn’t frighten me off. I’m ready to make a commitment to you. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. That’s what I’ve wanted to tell you. I haven’t felt this way about a guy…well, ever.”
Gideon could hardly manage to look at her.
She took his hands in hers. “Life is short. Even if it’s true, and you only have a year—well, let’s make that year count. Together. You and me. Will you do that? We’ll roll up a lifetime of love into one year.”
56
Fordyce followed Millard through the sea of desks and cubicles that formed the new command and control center. A glorious dawn was breaking outside, but in the converted warehouse, the air was dead and close and the lighting fluorescent.
Millard was a true company man, thought Fordyce; always pleasant, never sarcastic, tone of voice mild—and yet, underneath it all, a raging asshole. What was the word the Germans used? Schadenfreude.Taking pleasure in the misfortune of others. That described Millard’s attitude perfectly. The moment Millard had phoned asking for a meeting, Fordyce had been able to guess what it was about.
“How are you feeling, Agent Fordyce?” Millard asked, his voice laden with false empathy.
“Very good, sir,” Fordyce replied.
Millard shook his head. “I don’t know. You look tired to me. Very tired, in fact.” He squinted at Fordyce as if he were an object behind museum glass. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You’ve been working yourself too hard.”
“I don’t think so. I’m really feeling fine.”
Millard shook his head again. “No. No, you look exhausted. I appreciate your team spirit, but I simply can’t allow you to go on working yourself like this.” He paused, as if gathering himself for the kill. “You need to take a vacation.”
“You already told me to take a few days off.”
“This is not a—how should I say it?—a quick break. I want you to take some serioustime off from the job, Agent Fordyce.”
That was it—the line he’d been waiting to hear. “Time off? Why?”
“To recharge your batteries. Regain an objective outlook.”
“How long are we talking about, exactly?”
Millard shrugged. “That’s a little hard to say at present.”
An indefinite leave of absence. That’s what they called it. Fordyce realized that, once he was out the door, that would be it. If he was going to do something, he had to do it now—right now. They only had one day.
“Novak is dirty,” he said.
This was such a non sequitur that Millard stopped short. “Novak?”
“Novak. Chief of security for Tech Area Thirty-three. He’s dirty. Take him in, sweat him, do what it takes.”
A long silence. “Perhaps you’d better explain.”
“Novak’s living a lifestyle way beyond his means. Luxury cars, a big house, Persian rugs, all on a hundred and ten thousand a year. His wife doesn’t work, and there’s no family money.”
Millard looked at him sideways. “And why is this significant?”
“Because there’s only one person who could’ve planted those emails in Crew’s account, and it’s Novak.”