That didn't stop him from looking up information on the NSA. The more he read the information the NSA made public on the web, the more likely it seemed that Zimmerman had ended up working for them.
The NSA gave out grants for mathematical research in algebra, number theory, discrete mathematics, probability, and. statistics. On their own page it said, "Because of the universal applicability of these areas to cryptology, it is not necessary for the mathematical research in these five areas to have any immediate connection to cryptology."
That made Gideon wonder what kind of application Zimmerman's work had. It also made Gideon wonder what kind of funding the Evolutionary Theorems Lab might have had.
Predictably, the NSA grant had a stinger in it. Research under the grant required disclosure to the Government before public release, and in certain cases required a review to see if the results would be classified.
Gideon checked the NSA employment recruiting pages, and saw that it seemed pretty likely that Zimmerman might find a job there. They were looking explicitly for computer scientists and mathematicians. A PhD with teaching experience could pull seventy-five grand a year according to the NSA's figures.
While he was plumbing what he could at the NSA, which wasn't much, his voice line rang. Gideon cursed and pushed the chair over to the other side of the office, where the phone was. He caught it on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Gideon?"
He recognized Kendal's voice immediately. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Never mind that. You have to meet me—"
Gideon could hear stress in Kendal's voice, "Sure, I'll come down to the office right now."
"No, meet me at the Vietnam Memorial in two hours."
"What's this about?"
"I can't go into it over the phone. Just be there." Kendal hung up, leaving Gideon with a dial tone.
What had scared Kendal?
Gideon looked up at the computer screen which still displayed "Employment Opportunities at the National Security Agency," and had some idea.
Kendal slowly set the cellular phone back in the cradle. Next to him, Christoffel—his long-time contact in the CIA—bent over and began rummaging in the built-in bar. Through the windows, Langley slid by the limousine.
"You look as if you could use something to drink," Christoffel said, pulling out a bottle of amber liquid. Kendal looked at him with distaste. "This is blackmail, you know that."
Christoffel tsked him. "You're aiding your country. The fact that you're preventing the Arabs from discovering your double-dealing—that's incidental."
Kendal looked away from the man, and out the window. He had done some legwork tracking down the history of the Daedalus thieves, and he'd ended up in the custody of the CIA. Now they were letting him
go—
If he played their game for them.
To encourage his cooperation, they threatened to leak his special relationship with Christoffel to the Saudis and the other Arabs he worked for. That would mean slightly more than a loss of business. . .
"Do you understand what you're going to tell him?" Christoffel pressed a glass into Kendal's hand. Kendal looked into his glass and nodded, feeling a vague disgust with himself for going along with them. Even if what he was supposed to tell Gideon was God's own truth—what he was supposed to leave out was just as important.
He couldn't even figure out why they were having him do this. It was as if they wanted Gideon to dig into this mess.
It was growing dark as Gideon limped up to the black wall of the Memorial. He was early, and he was one of only a few people out here this late. Soon the darkness would claim the District entirely, leaving the monuments to the homeless.
Gideon walked alongside the wall, exercising his leg. He could, with a little effort, walk without the crutch now. He walked a few dozen feet carrying the crutch before his leg ached with fatigue. It still felt as if it wasn't getting better, but it must be.
Along the bottom of the wall were collections of dying relics, candles, flowers, letters. He even passed a purple heart medal that someone had left.
It made him think of Rafe, before he'd moved on to New York, gotten married. He remembered standing next to him as they lowered Dad into the ground. Rafe had cried, silently. Gideon remembered catching sight of the reflection on his brother's cheek, and envying him the tear. Gideon hadn't been ably to cry, not then, not for months afterwards.
He realized that he had yet to visit his brother's grave.
Gideon had been standing there, looking into the dark granite for nearly fifteen minutes before the large shadow of Morris Kendal walked up next to him. By now, the only other people here were the homeless transients that seemed to multiply at night. There was one man lying on a sheet of cardboard only about twenty yards away sleeping on the grass of the Mall.
Gideon turned to face Kendal. "So what is this? Where'd you disappear to?"
Kendal looked over his shoulder, back the way he'd come. "You have no idea what you're involved in here—"
"So you've told me. What's going on?"
"There's more than the Government trying to keep a lid on what happened. Dangerous people. The truck driver, the guy who was shot up on the Metro, they were trying to cover their tracks. . ."
"Who?"
"The Doctor the bartender was talking about in The Zodiac— "
"Doctor Zimmerman."
Kendal looked surprised. "You know, then?"
"She's involved, that's all. And that was just a gut feeling until you confirmed it. You're saying she had a hand in those deaths?"
"The people who're using her do. The men in that warehouse weren't Secret Service, they were a covert military antiterrorist unit. They were there for the people Zimmerman's working for."
"Shit."
"Neither of us is safe. On one side you have the Government tied in knots because of all the classified knowledge Zimmerman is supposed to have, and on the other, you have the terrorists protecting Zimmerman."
"Who?" Gideon asked. He imagined a surreal image of the New Pythagorean Order with guns.
"I investigated the thieves, and found a connection back to the International Unification Front. Colonel Ramon's lawyer—" Kendal broke off and suddenly had an arm out, pushing Gideon back toward the granite wall of the monument.
Gideon turned when his back slammed into the wall. Past Kendal he saw the homeless man standing on top of his cardboard. The streetlights glinted off the automatic he held in his hand.
"Bastards!" Kendal bellowed. His voice was barely audible over the report as the homeless man emptied three shots from his gun.
The gunshots echoed through the Mall as the impact pushed Kendal's body into Gideon. Kendal's massive body collapsed against him.
"Set me up . . ." Kendal managed to whisper.
Gideon pushed himself sideways with his crutch and got to his feet, his wounded leg shooting pain up the side of his body. The gunman was running away, across the Mall. Gideon, spurred by adrenaline, tried to run after him, but he barely got a hundred feet before his leg gave out on the grass beneath him.
When he got up from the fall, the gunman was lost in the darkness.
It seemed to take an eternity before he got back to Kendal. His damn leg just wouldn't work right. He fell down twice, and when he reached Kendal, he collapsed against the wall and slid to his knees.
He reached out and took Kendal's hand and said, "You'll be all right. We'll get you to a doctor."
Kendal coughed and spat up some blood. "Ain't happening," he wheezed. The gunman had hit him in the gut, the chest, and near the throat. The only movement was in Kendal's face, in his eyes. He didn't even turn his head to look at him. "Funny," he whispered. "Don't feel anything."