But as this thought ran through his mind, he faltered. Who was he to judge? The world was made up of all kinds of people. If he fled to his cabin and New York was taken out by a nuke, where would that leave him? Was it his responsibility? No. But by running away, he would have still put himself lower than that tuxedoed scumbag by orders of magnitude.
Whether he had eleven months or fifty years, it would be a long and lonely space of time in which he would never, ever forgive himself.
For a long, furious moment he hesitated. And then, boiling with rage and frustration, he turned and retraced his steps down Little West 12th Street to the anonymous door of Effective Engineering Solutions, Inc. It opened as he approached, as if Glinn were expecting him.
11
Chalker’s body lay on a porcelain gurney encased in a large glass cube, like an offering to some high-tech god. The corpse had been autopsied and was splayed open, a riot of red among gray steel, glass, and chrome, various organs arrayed around it—the heart, liver, stomach, and other body parts Gideon did not recognize and didn’t want to recognize. There was something uniquely unsettling about seeing the guts of someone you’d known personally—it wasn’t just another image on the evening news.
Chalker’s personal effects were arranged on a table next to the body: his clothes, wallet, keys, belt, credit cards, papers, change, ticket stubs, Kleenex, and various other items—all tagged. All, evidently, radioactive.
At a console, medical personnel and technicians were operating a set of eight robotic arms inside the glass cube, each one of which terminated in a different set of grisly-looking dissecting instruments—bone chisels, shears, mallets, forceps, knives, skullbreakers, spreaders, and other tools of cadaveritude. Despite the highly dissected condition of the body, the work was still progressing.
“Lucky thing,” said Fordyce, removing his notebook. “We didn’t miss the autopsy completely.”
“Funny, I was thinking just the opposite,” said Gideon.
Fordyce glanced at him and rolled his eyes.
Gideon heard a whirring sound. One of the robotic arms, which terminated in a circular saw, began to move, the blade spinning up to a high-pitched whine. As the technicians murmured into headsets, the blade lowered toward Chalker’s skull. “Torquemada would have loved this stuff,” Gideon said.
“Looks like we’re just in time for the removal of the brain,” Fordyce said, licking his finger and turning the pages of his notebook to find a blank one.
The whine became muffled as the saw sank into Chalker’s forehead. A dark liquid began running into the drain along the edge of the gurney. Gideon turned away, pretending to examine some papers in his briefcase. At least, he thought, there was no smell.
“Agent Fordyce? Dr. Crew?”
Gideon glanced over to see a technician with big glasses, a ponytail, and a clipboard, standing beside them expectantly.
“Dr. Dart will see you in his office now.”
With a feeling of relief, Gideon followed the technician toward a cubicle at the far end of the high-tech area. Fordyce went along, grumbling about being taken away from the autopsy. They entered a spartan space no more than nine by twelve feet. Dart himself was sitting behind a small desk covered with heavy, squared stacks of folders. He rose and offered his hand, first to Fordyce, then to Gideon.
“Please sit down.”
They took seats in folding chairs set up in front of the desk. Dart spent a moment organizing some already-organized papers. He had a face that did little to conceal the bones of the skull underneath; his eyes, full of vitality, were so deeply set that they gleamed out of two pools of darkness. At Los Alamos he had been a bit of a legend, a rather humorless geek physicist with a doctorate from CalTech who was unexpectedly a decorated soldier—a most unusual combination—having won two Silver Stars and a Purple Heart in action in Desert Storm.
Dart finished organizing the papers and looked up. “This is a pretty unusual portfolio they’ve given you two.”
Fordyce nodded.
“As commander of NEST,” Dart went on, “I’ve already thoroughly briefed the FBI. But I see they want you to have a little extra.”
Gideon said nothing. He had no intention of taking the lead. That’s what Fordyce was there for: to run interference, take the heat, and, if necessary, present his ass for kicking. Gideon intended to lie low.
“We’re an independent team,” said Fordyce. “We appreciate you giving us this private briefing, sir.” His voice was mild, nonconfrontational. Here was a man who knew how the game was played.
Dart’s eyes swiveled to Gideon. “And I’ve been told you’ve been hired by a private contractor whose identity is classified.”
Gideon nodded.
“I thought I recognized you. We worked together at Los Alamos. How did you happen to get from there to here?”
“It’s a long story. I’m on an extended vacation from the lab.”
“You were on the Stockpile Stewardship Team, as I recollect. Same as Chalker.” This little fact hung in the air. It was hard for Gideon to gauge how much Dart knew or what he thought about it.
“You were in on the incident,” Dart continued.
“They brought me in to try to talk him down…but it didn’t work out.” Gideon felt his face flush.
Dart seemed to sense the awkwardness. He waved his hand. “I’m sorry about that. It must have been tough. They tell me you saved the two kids.”
Gideon didn’t answer. He felt the flush deepen.
“All right, moving on.” Dart opened a file and shuffled more papers. Fordyce had his notebook out and ready. Gideon chose to take no notes; he had discovered in graduate school that note taking interfered with his ability to assemble the big picture in his mind.
Dart spoke rapidly while looking at the papers in front of him. “The autopsy and analysis of the personal effects of Chalker are not finished, but we have preliminary results.”
Fordyce began scribbling.
“Nuclear spectroscopy from swipes of Chalker’s hands and neutron activation tests showed conclusively that there were traces of highly enriched uranium 235 on his palms and fingers. He’d handled it in the past twenty-four hours. Chalker’s clothes were contaminated with absorbed and adsorbed radioactive isotopes, including cerium 144, barium 140, iodine 131, and cesium 137. These are the classic fission products of a U-235 criticality event. The iodine 131 has a half-life of eight days, and we found a high level of it, so we know the accident took place no more than twenty-four hours ago.”
Dart glanced at Fordyce. “If some of this is confusing to you, Agent Fordyce, Dr. Crew will explain it later.”
He examined other sheets of paper. “The contents of his pockets have been inventoried. There was an admission ticket stub in his pocket, dated Friday last week, to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.”
Fordyce scribbled faster.
“Slow down before you burn out a tendon,” Gideon said, nudging Fordyce.
“There was a train ticket receipt, one way, Washington Union Station to New York Grand Central, dated yesterday afternoon. There was a piece of paper with a website address written on it and several phone numbers. The phone numbers are being analyzed.”
Fordyce glanced up. “The website address?”
“I’m afraid I’m not authorized to release that information.”
There was a silence. “Excuse me,” said Fordyce, “but I thought we were authorized to receive all information.”
Dart looked at him with his brightly gleaming eyes. “In an investigation like this,” he said, “there has to be a certain level of compartmentalization. Each investigator is given what he needs to know, and not more. We all have to work within parameters.” His glance shifted to Gideon. “For example, I’ve been denied information about the private contractor you’re working for.” He smiled, then went on in his dry voice. “An analysis of Chalker’s vomitus indicated his last meal took place at around midnight. It was crab soup, bread, ham, lettuce, tomatoes, Russian dressing, and french fries.”