In the middle of these thoughts a timid knock came on the door. Corso turned from the window, peeked through the eyehole to see the building super standing with something in his hand. He opened the door and the rotund little man stuck out a hairy arm with a small cardboard box. "Package."
He took it, thanked the man, shut the door. Something from Amazon, it seemed . . . but then he looked more closely and felt a sudden freezing of his spine. The box had been reused; the package was from Jason J. Freeman.
For a crazy moment Corso thought maybe Freeman wasn't dead after all, that the old reprobate had gone to Mexico or something, but then he noted the cancellation date, which was ten days old, and the media mail stamp on the box. Ten days . . . Freeman had mailed the package two days before his murder and it had been in transit ever since.
His heart racing, Corso took a paring knife from the kitchen and slit open the box. He removed wadded newspaper to expose a letter and, nesting underneath, a high-density hard drive stenciled with the Mars mission logo. As he lifted it out, he saw, with a sudden feeling not unlike nausea, that it was classified.
#785A56H6T 160Tb
CLASSIFIED: DO NOT DUPLICATE
Property of NPF
California Institute of Technology
National Aeronautics and Space Administration
With a trembling hand Corso placed it on the coffee table and slit open the envelope with his fingernail. Inside was a handwritten letter.
Dear Mark,
I'm sorry to burden you but there's no other way. I don't have much time to write, so I'll be blunt. Chaudry and Derkweiler are arrant fools, they are political animals through and through, and they're incapable of understanding the significance of what I've discovered. This is huge, unbelievable. I'm not about to hand it to those bastards, especially after the way they've treated me. It's a serpent's den over there at NPF with all those self-important hemorrhoidal shit-encrusted assholes. Everything is political and nothing's about science. I just couldn't take it any longer. It's impossible to work there.
To make a long story short, I saw the writing on the wall, so before I was fired I smuggled out this drive.
Someday I'll tell you all about it over a brace of martinis but that's not why I need your help now. My last week at NPF I did something really stupid, really compromising, and because of that I've got to park this drive with you. Just for a while, as a precaution, until things cool off. Do this for me, Mark, please. You're the only one I can trust.
Don't contact me, don't call, just sit tight. You'll hear from me sooner rather than later. In the meantime, I'd love to have your thoughts on the gamma ray data in here, if you get a chance to look at it.
Jason
And then, scrawled at the bottom almost as an afterthought, was the password to the drive.
For a moment Corso couldn't even think as he stared at the letter, until he realized it was rattling in his trembling hand.
This was a disaster. A catastrophe beyond belief. A breach of security that would stain everyone involved. This would fuck up everything. Not only was it highly illegal for the classified hard drive to be outside the building, but the fact that Freeman had even managed to smuggle it out would cause an uproar. Security of classified information had been drummed into them from day one. Zero tolerance. He remembered the scandal back at Los Alamos in the nineties when a single classified hard drive went missing. The news made the front page of The New York Times, the director was forced out, and dozens of scientists fired. It was a bloodbath.
He sat down, his head in his hands, clutching his hair. How did Freeman get it out? These drives had to be wrapped with a security seal every night, logged, and locked in a safe. They were encrypted up the wazoo and physically alarmed. Every use of the drive was recorded on the user's permanent security record. If the drive were moved more than a certain distance from its approved server, alarms would go off.
Freeman had somehow evaded all that.
Corso rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, tried to calm himself down. If he brought this to the attention of NPF, it would cause a scandal, cast a dark cloud over the whole Mars mission, and taint everyone--especially him. Freeman and he went back years. Freeman had brought him in, mentored him; he was known as Freeman's protege. He had tried to help Freeman during his free fall over the past few months.
But of course he had to do the right thing and report it. No choice. He had to.
Or did he? Was it better to do the right thing or the smart thing?
He began to understand why Freeman had sent it to him via media mail instead of by some other means. Untraceable. Nothing to sign for and no tracking number.
If Corso destroyed the drive and pretended he never received it, nobody would be the wiser. Eventually they might discover the drive was missing and that Freeman took it, but Freeman was dead and that's where it would end. They'd never trace the drive to him.
Corso began to feel calmer. This was a manageable problem. He would do the smart thing, destroy the drive, pretend he'd never gotten it. Tomorrow, he'd drive up into the mountains, go for a hike, bust it up into pieces, burn, scatter, and bury them.
He immediately felt a wash of relief. Clearly that was the correct way to handle this problem.
Standing up, he went into the kitchen and got himself a beer, took a frosty pull, came back into the living room. He stared at the drive, sitting on his coffee table. Freeman was excitable, a bit crazy, but he was also brilliant. What was this big thing, this gamma ray thing? Corso found his curiosity aroused.
Before he got rid of the drive, he'd just take a quick look at it--see what the hell Freeman was talking about.
6
At the wheel, Abbey guided the lobster boat toward the floating dock, tossed out a fender, and neatly brought it alongside. See that, Dad? she thought, I'm perfectly capable of piloting your boat. Her father had gone to California on his annual visit to his widowed older sister and would be gone for a week. She'd promised to take care of the boat, check up on it, look into the bilges every day.
That's what she planned to do--on the water.
She remembered those summers when she was thirteen, fourteen--when her mother was still alive--the mornings she had set off with her father to go lobstering. She worked as his "stern man," baiting the traps, measuring and sorting the lobsters, tossing back the shorts. It galled her that he had never let her take the wheel--ever. And then, after her mother died and she'd gone off to college, he'd hired a new stern man and refused to take her back on when she'd returned. "It wouldn't be fair to Jake," he said. "He's working for a living. You're going to college."
She shook off these thoughts. The pre-dawn ocean was as still as a mirror, and since it was a Sunday, when it was illegal to fish, there were no lobster boats out. The harbor was quiet, the town silent.
She threw a couple of dock lines to Jackie, who cleated the boat. Their supplies were piled on the dock: ice chests, a small propane tank, a couple of bottles of Jim Beam, two duffel bags, boxes of dry food, foul weather gear, sleeping bags, and pillows. They began stowing the gear in the cabin. As they worked, the sun rose over the sea horizon, throwing gold bullion across the water.