"Sir?"
"Black, no sugar, please."
The man poured. Ford sat back with the steaming cup and took a sip.
"I'll leave the pot here in case the gentleman wants another."
The gentleman would want another, thought Ford, draining the tiny china cup with one gulp and refilling it.
Lockwood worried the stone in his hands. "I've got a team of geophysicists at Lamont-Doherty in New York working on what they are. The stones are unusual in composition, with an index of refraction higher than a diamond, specific gravity thirteen point-two, hardness nine. The deep honey color is almost unique. A beautiful stone--with a twist. They're laced with Americium-241."
"Which is radioactive."
"Yes, with a half-life of four hundred thirty-three years. Not enough radiation to kill you right away but enough to create long-term exposure problems. Wear a string of these around your neck and you're liable to lose your hair after a few weeks. Carry a pocketful of these around for a couple of months and you might sire the monster from the black lagoon."
"Lovely."
"The stones are hard but brittle and easily pulverized. You could take a few pounds of these gems, grind them up, pack them in C-4 in a suicide belt, detonate it in Battery Park when the wind is from the south, and you could loft a nice radioactive cloud over the financial district, wipe out a few trillion dollars of U.S. market capitalization in half an hour and render lower Manhattan uninhabitable for a couple of centuries."
"Nice work if you can get it."
"Homeland Security is freaking out."
"Do the Bangkok dealers know they're hot?"
"The reputable wholesalers won't touch 'em. They're being funneled through the dregs of the gem market."
"Any idea how these gems formed?"
"We're working on it. Americium-241 is not an element that exists naturally on Earth. The only known way it can be made is as a by-product of a nuclear reactor producing weapons-grade plutonium. These 'honeys' might well be evidence of illicit nuclear activity."
Ford finished his second cup and poured himself a third.
"All indications are that the stones are coming out of a single source in Southeast Asia, most likely Cambodia," said Lockwood.
Draining the third cup, Ford leaned back. "So what's the assignment?"
"I want you to go undercover to Bangkok, follow the trail of these radioactive honeys back to the source, locate it, document it, and come back out."
"And then?"
"We make the problem go away."
"Why me? Why not CIA?"
"This is sensitive stuff--Cambodia is an ally. You get caught, we need deniability. It's not the kind of operation the CIA does well--small and quick, in and out. A one-man job. I'm afraid you won't have Agency backup on this one."
"Thanks for the offer." Ford set down his cup and rose to leave.
"The president's approved the op personally."
"Excellent coffee." He headed for the door.
"I promise, we won't hang you out to dry."
He paused.
"It's simple: go in, find the mine, get out. Do absolutely nothing. Don't touch the mine. We're still analyzing those gemstones--they might be extremely important."
"I have no interest in going back to Cambodia," said Ford, his hand resting on the doorknob.
"It does no service to your wife's memory to keep running from your past."
Ford was startled at this unexpected and painful insight from Lockwood. He sighed and folded his arms.
"The money's good," said Lockwood, "the CIA won't interfere, you'll be in control, in charge of your own people. You have the backing of the Oval Office--what more could you want?"
"What's my cover?"
"Crooked American black-market gem wholesaler."
Ford shook his head. "Won't work. A wholesaler wouldn't care about finding the source--he'd be content to buy from middlemen. I'll be a get-rich-quick schemer looking for a one-time killing--the kind of guy who thinks he'll get a better price by bypassing the wholesalers and going directly to the source."
"Is that a yes?"
"Give me a rap sheet with an arrest for smuggling cocaine, dismissed on a technicality."
"You want to get killed?"
"And two brutal murder charges, acquitted. That'll make 'em think twice."
"If that's the way you want to play it, fine."
"I'll need some gold to throw around. American eagles."
"Will do."
"I want translators standing by, twenty-four/seven, fluent in the common Southeast Asian languages, especially Thai. There are a couple of high-tech devices I'll need."
"No problem."
"If I fail, bury me in Arlington Cemetery, twenty-one-gun salute, the works."
"I'm sure that won't be necessary," said Lockwood, his thin lips tightening into a mirthless smile. "Does this mean you're in?"
"What's the compensation?"
"A hundred thousand. Same as last time."
"Make it two, so I can pay my secretary's health insurance."
Lockwood extended his hand. "Two."
They shook. As Ford left the office, he noticed the worry stone going a mile a minute in Lockwood's manicured hand.
5
Mark Corso entered his modest apartment and shut the door. He stood there for a moment, as if seeing it for the first time. The crying of a baby came through the walls and a heavy smell of fried bacon permeated the stale air. The air-conditioner unit, which took up a third of the window, thumped and shuddered, issuing a feeble current. The faint sound of sirens penetrated from outside. In front of him, the picture window looked out over a busy intersection with a car wash, drive-thru burger joint, and a used-car lot.
For the first time, Corso took a grim satisfaction in the general seediness of the apartment, the paper-thin walls, the stains on the rug, the dead ficus in the corner, the soul-crushing view. A year ago he had rented the apartment long-distance, suckered by the glowing description on a Web site and a raft of artfully shot photographs. From Greenpoint, Brooklyn, it had seemed like pure California dreaming, a large one-bedroom "drenched" with light, with a private garden, swimming pool, palm trees, and (best of all) a parking garage with his very own assigned space.
Now, finally, he could say good-bye to this dump.
The past few months at NPF had been crazy, with his old professor and mentor Jason Freeman getting canned--followed by his freakish murder in a home invasion and robbery. That had shaken Corso up like nothing since the death of his father. Freeman had been going downhill for a while, coming in late to work, blowing off staff meetings, arguing with colleagues. Corso had heard rumors of women and heavy drinking. It distressed him deeply because Freeman, his undergraduate thesis advisor back at MIT, had been the one who brought him into the Mars mission at NPF.
That morning, Corso had learned he was going to be promoted to Freeman's place. It was an enormous step forward, with a new title, more money, and prestige. He wasn't even thirty yet, younger than most of his colleagues, a rising star. Nevertheless, his good fortune built on the back of his beloved teacher's failure filled him with conflicting feelings.
He turned from the window and pushed the sting of guilt out of his mind. What happened to Freeman was tragic, but it was random, like being struck by lightning, and Corso had done all he could. He'd supported Freeman among his colleagues and had tried to warn him about what was happening. Freeman seemed in the grip of some reckless obsession or force larger than life that was dragging him down, despite all Corso could do.
The promotion meant he'd finally have the money to break his lease, kiss his security deposit good-bye, and find something better. No problem there; Pasadena wasn't like Brooklyn and there were thousands of other apartments for rent. Having been there a year, he was familiar enough with the area to know where to look and which areas to avoid.