"Exactly. I had the angle of entry into the Earth and a picture of Object X coming in. But what I didn't have was its velocity. Turns out the University of Maine at Orono has a meteoroid tracking station. They didn't get a picture of X but they got the acoustical signature on tape--the sonic booms--and got a precise velocity of twenty-point-nine kilometers per second. A lot slower than the hundred thousand miles an hour first reported in the papers."
Ford nodded. "Following you so far."
"So it was in an elliptical orbit. The apogee, the farthest point from the sun, is where it probably started its journey."
"I see."
She hit a few keys, and a schematic of the solar system came into view. She typed in a command and an ellipsis appeared. "Here's the orbit of Object X. Please note: the apogee is right at the orbit of Mars. And here's the kicker: if you extrapolate backward, you find that Mars itself was right at that point in its orbit when X began its journey toward Earth."
She sat back. "Object X," she said, "came from Mars."
A long silence enveloped the hotel room. Ford stared at the screen. It seemed incredible. "You're sure about this?"
"Triple-checked it."
Ford rubbed his chin and sat back. "Looks like we need to go where they know about Mars."
"And where's that?"
Ford thought for a moment. "Right now they're mapping Mars. Over at NPF, the National Propulsion Facility in Pasadena, California. We should head over there, poke around, see if they've found anything unusual."
Abbey cocked her head and looked at him. "You know, Wyman, there's one thing I don't get. Why are you doing this? What's in it for you? Nobody's paying you, right?"
"I'm deeply concerned. I'm not sure why, but my internal alarms are going off like crazy and I can't rest until I figure this out."
"Concerned about what, exactly?"
"If that was a mini-black hole, the planet was just kissed by the Grim Reaper. We came this close to extinction. What if there are more where that came from?"
47
Harry Burr waited in the car park of the upscale Connecticut mall, leaning on the fender of his yellow VW New Beetle, smoking an American Spirit cigarette. The message had come in the night before, urgent. Burr had never had an assignment that wasn't urgent. When somebody wanted somebody else dead, it was never "take your time, no rush."
He rolled the cigarette thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger, feeling the sponginess of the filter, watching the smoke curl up from the glowing ash. A foul habit, bad for his health, unattractive, working-class. Tweedy professors didn't smoke, or if they did, it was a briar pipe. He tossed the butt on the cement floor of the parking garage and ground it up with a dozen twists of the sole of his penny loafer until it was a shredded tuft. He would quit, but not right now.
A few cars passed and then one slowed as it approached him. It was an ugly American car, a late-model Crown Victoria, black, naturally. His employers, whoever they were, watched too many movies. He loved his New Beetle and it was perfect for his work. No one expected a contract killer to arrive in a Beetle. Or wear a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches from L.L. Bean with chinos and argyle socks.
As he watched the black car ooze up, Burr didn't know and didn't want to know who was hiring him, but he was pretty sure it was quasi-official. He'd had a fair amount of that kind of work lately.
The Crown Vic stopped and the smoked window--smoked window!--rolled down. It was the same Asian man he had dealt with before, in a blue suit and sunglasses. Still, he went through the little password charade. "You leaving this space?" he asked.
"Not for another six minutes."
They loved that kind of stuff. In response, a hand extended with a fat manila envelope. Burr took it, opened it, riffled the brick of money, tossed it onto the passenger seat.
"Above all, we want that hard drive," said the man. "We're raising the bonus to two hundred thousand dollars for the drive, intact. You got that?"
"I got it." Burr smiled blandly and waved the car away. The Crown Vic departed with an ostentatious squeal of rubber. Nice, he thought, draw a little attention to yourself, why dontcha?
He slid back into his car and opened the envelope, pouring out its contents: fact sheet, photographs, and money. A lot of it. With far more to come. This was a good job, even an excellent one.
Shoving the money into the glove compartment, he scanned the photographs and perused the assignment letter. He whistled. This was going to be easy. Get a hard drive and kill a geek. There must be something pretty sweet on that hard drive.
He plucked a glossy product photograph of a hard drive out of the batch and gazed at it, shoved it back, sorted through the others, and then scanned the fact sheet. He'd review it more thoroughly tonight, do the research, make the hit tomorrow. He could hardly imagine now what it was like in the days before Google Earth, MapQuest, Facebook, YouTube, reverse white pages, people search, and all the other privacy-busting tools on the Internet. In half an hour he could do what was once a week's worth of research.
Harry Burr laid the papers aside and indulged in a little self-reflection. He was good, and not just because he was prep-school educated and could recite the Latin first declension. He was good because he didn't like killing. It gave him no pleasure. He didn't need to do it, he didn't have to do it, it wasn't like eating or sex. He was good because he felt for his victims. Knowing they were real people, he could put himself in their shoes, look out at the world through their eyes. That made it so much easier to kill them.
And finally, Harry Burr was efficient. Back when he was another person, a snot-nosed, prepped-out prick in Greenwich named Gordie Hill, his father had taught him all about efficiency. He had a store house of quotations he would roll out: if you're going to do it, do it; if you make a lot of money, no one will care how you did it; if you intend to win, one way is as good as another. "The victor will never be asked if he told the truth," was what the old man said when he walked out of the kitchen after shooting his mother. Never to be seen again. A few years later Harry learned his father had been quoting Hitler. Now that was funny.
Harry Burr smiled. He was "damaged," or so he was led to believe by the parade of school psychologists, social workers, counselors, and all the other professional advice-giving-for-one-hundred-dollars-an-hour folks after his mother's murder. So why not make a career of being damaged? He plucked the crumpled cigarette pack out of his shirt pocket. Fishing the last one out, he lit it and put the empty pack back in his pocket. What was it St. Augustine said? "God give me chastity, but not right now." One of these days he'd quit, but not right now.
48
Abbey waited behind Ford as he knocked on the open door of the office of Dr. Charles Chaudry, director of the Mars mission. She felt itchy and hot in the new suit Ford had made her wear, especially in California in June.
The director rose and came around his desk, hand extended.
"My assistant, Abbey Straw."
Abbey shook the cool hand. Chaudry was a handsome man with a lean, chiseled face, dark brown eyes, springy on his feet, athletic, personable. He sported one of those tight little ponytails that seemed endemic to Californians of a certain age.
"Come in, please," said the man, his tenor voice almost musical.
Ford eased his frame into a chair and Abbey followed suit. She tried to hide her nervousness. Part of her was thrilled at the cloak-and-dagger business, the pretense with which they'd gained access. This Ford fellow, who looked so buttoned down and mainstream, was actually a subversive at heart. She liked that.
The office was pleasantly large and spare, with windows looking out over gray-brown mountains that rose abruptly behind the giant parking lot. Two walls of books added to the comfortable, scholarly atmosphere. Everything was as neat as a pin.
"Well now," said Chaudry, folding his hands. "So you're writing a book on our Mars mission."
"That's right," said Ford. "A big, beautiful photography book. They tell me you're the man
in charge of mapping and photographing the surface."
Chaudry nodded.
Ford went on to describe the book in enthusiastic detail, the layout, what it would cover, and of course all the beautiful photographs it would contain. Abbey was amazed at the transformation from his usual dry and cool manner to a bubbling enthusiasm. Chaudry listened politely, hands tented in front.
Ford finished up. "I understand that because this is a NASA project, the photographs are in the public domain. I'd like access to all your images, at the highest resolution."
Chaudry unclasped his hands and leaned forward. "You're right that the images are in the public domain--but not at the highest resolution."
"We're going to be running double trucks and gatefolds and we'll need the best resolution we can get."
The director leaned back. "The high-res images are strictly classified, I'm afraid. Don't be concerned--we can get you all the images you need at a resolution more than adequate for a book."
"Why classified?"
"Standard operating procedure. The imaging technology is highly classified and we don't want our enemies knowing just how good that technology is."
"Just how high is the highest resolution?"
"Again, I can't talk about specifics. Generally, from orbit, we can see something on the ground as small as fifty centimeters. And with our SHARAD radar we can look as much as a hundred meters under the surface, too."
Ford whistled. "Seen anything unusual?"
Chaudry smiled, showing very white teeth. "Just about everything we see is unusual. We're like Columbus setting foot in America."
"Anything . . . not strictly natural?"
The smile faded. "And what do you mean by that?" he asked coolly.
"Let's say you were to see something on the surface that wasn't natural--say, an alien spaceship." Ford chuckled lightly. "What would you do then?"
Now the smile was completely gone. "Mr. Ford, please don't even joke about that. We get a lot--and I mean a lot--of nuts in here pushing crazy theories. We've actually had demonstrations in front of the buildings by groups demanding we release pictures of the alien civilizations we've discovered." He paused, and then added: "You are joking, Mr. Ford? Or do you have some specific reason for asking the question?"
"Yes," said Ford. "I was joking."
Abbey spoke. "You're right, Dr. Chaudry. I read somewhere that almost forty percent of Americans believe in the existence of intelligent life somewhere else in the universe. Imagine being that dumb!"
Chaudry shifted uncomfortably.
"Well," said Ford briskly, casting a sharp eye on Abbey. "You've been most helpful, Dr. Chaudry."
Chaudry rose with evident relief. "Mr. Ford, we'd be glad to cooperate with your book. All the pictures are online at our Web site. Just pick out the ones you want and my press office will be glad to get you a DVD of the images at the highest legal resolution." He gave a rather forced smile and eased them out of the office with a practiced hand.
"That was a waste of time," muttered Abbey, as they walked down the long halls.
Ford rubbed his chin and looked about, then turned a corner and headed down a wrong hall.
"Yo, Einstein," Abbey said. "You're going the wrong way."
A smile crept onto Ford's face. "Darn. This is such a big, confusing place. Easy to get lost." He continued on, turning another corner, going down another hallway.
Abbey tried to keep up with his long strides.
"Just follow my lead," said Ford. He turned another corner and Abbey realized he already seemed to know the layout of the place. They came to an office door, which was shut. Ford knocked and a rather irritated voice sounded within, "Come in."
Ford opened and door and entered. Abbey saw a large man with an unpleasantly fleshy face, wearing a short-sleeved shirt with hammy arms. It was hot and the place smelled of sweat.
"Dr. Winston Derkweiler?" Ford rapped out.
"Yes?"
"I'm with the Agency," Ford said, then nodded toward Abbey. "My assistant."
Derkweiler looked at her, then back at him. "Agency? Which agency?"
"About a month ago," Ford continued as if he hadn't heard, "one of your scientists was murdered."
Abbey was surprised. This was all new to her. Ford played his cards close.
"That's right," said Derkweiler, "but I understood the case was closed."
Ford turned to Abbey. "Ms. Straw, would you please shut the door?"
"Yes, sir." Abbey shut the door, and then turned the lock for good measure.
"The case may be closed, but the security breach is still under investigation."
Derkweiler nodded. "Security breach? I'm not sure I understand."
"Let us just say Dr. Freeman was indiscreet."
"It doesn't surprise me."
"I'm glad you understand the problem, Dr. Derkweiler."
"Thank you."
Ford smiled. "I was told I could count on you for help. Now then, I'd like a list of the staff in your department."
Derkweiler hesitated. "Well, speaking of security, I . . . I'd need to see your pass or ID or something."
"Naturally! My apologies." Ford removed a well-worn badge, on which Abbey could see a blue, white, and gold seal with the legend, Central Intelligence Agency.
"Oh, that agency," said Derkweiler.
The badge swiftly disappeared back into Ford's suit. "This is just between us--understood?"
"Absolutely." Derkweiler delved into his files and removed a piece of paper, handing it to Ford. "There it is: personnel in my department--names, titles, contact info."
"And ex-personnel?"
Derkweiler frowned, rummaged through some files. "Here's a list as of last quarter. If you want to go further back, I'd suggest checking with the personnel office directly."
They were out of the building in five minutes, in the vast parking lot to the side of the building. It was brutally hot in their rental car, the seat like a skillet. Abbey had never been to Southern California before and she hoped never to return. How could people stand the weather? Give her Maine in January.
Ford started the car and the AC came on in a blast of hot air. Abbey looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Good job, Special Agent Ford."
"Thank you." Ford slipped the lists Derkweiler had given him out of his pocket and handed them to her. "Find me a disgruntled former employee, preferably someone who was fired."
"You think they're covering something up?"
"A place like that is always covering something up. That's the nature of the beast. All large bureaucracies, no matter what they do, are dedicated to controlling information, expanding their budgets, and self-perpetuation. If they've found anything unusual about Mars, you can bet it's been hidden. God bless the disgruntled employee--no one does more to bring openness to government."
49
Mark Corso let himself into the dingy brownstone, riffled through the stack of mail on the side table, tossed it back in disgust, and went into the parlor. He flopped down on the sofa and fired up the Xbox running Resident Evil 5. He had to go to work at Moto's in another hour and he wanted to kill some time.
As the game started, the small parlor shook with the sounds of weapons fire, explosions, and ripping meat. He played for ten minutes but it wasn't any good. He paused the game and set the console aside, silence descending. It just wasn't fun anymore, he couldn't get back in the groove. Not with this discovery still up in the air, waiting for Marjory to call, waiting, waiting, waiting. He was taking the drive to the Times first thing tomorrow morning.
It had been only two days since his call to Marjory but she was still cautioning him to keep quiet about it. Maybe she was buying time while looking for the machine herself. Good luck--she'd never find it on the surface of Mars.
He thought back to the journalist who'd called him that morning. He'd been cautious, circumspect, but he gave her enough information, he hoped, to light a fire under Chaudry's ass. Give him a scare when the piece came out. Although,
in thinking back over the conversation, he felt a little uneasy, wondering if he should have been a little less forthcoming. But she had assured him it was off the record, background only--his name would never come up.
Passing by the side table, he went through the mail again irritably, pointlessly. No job offers, nothing. He swelled with anger at the idea that they had cheated him out of eight thousand dollars and he recalled Chaudry's cool contempt as he repulsed his offer and threatened him back.
Feeling all nerves, he went into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, toweling it dry. The cold water did nothing to help. He couldn't wait to get to Moto's, to be distracted, calm down with a stiff drink. Moping about the house all day long was killing him.
He would definitely talk to the Times. The government wouldn't dare arrest him after that. He'd be a hero. A Daniel Ellsberg.
In the middle of these ruminations, the deep electronic gong of the doorbell rang.
"Mark?" He heard his mother's timid voice from the kitchen. "Would you get that?"
Corso went to the door and looked through the peephole. A man in a tweed jacket stood there, looking uncomfortably hot in the gray, muggy morning air.
"Yes?" Corso asked through the door.
The man didn't respond, instead holding up a battered leather wallet which fell open, displaying a police badge. "Lieutenant Moore."
Oh shit. Corso peered intently through the peephole. The officer continued to hold up the badge, almost as a challenge. The photo seemed right. But it was the Washington, D.C. Police. What did that mean? Corso felt an overwhelming panic. Chaudry had turned him in.
"What's it about?" Corso tried to say, almost choking on the words.
"May I come in, please?"
Corso swallowed. Did he have a right to refuse entry? Did the man have to show a warrant? Maybe it was better not to piss him off. He un-shot the bolt, unhooked the chain, turned the lock, and opened the door.
Officer Moore slipped inside and Corso quickly shut the door behind him. "What's it about?" Corso said, standing in the hall.
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