by Glenn Cooper
They arrived late, after a long drive through the desert during which neither of them spoke much. There wasn't time to plan things but he wanted everything to be perfect. His mind drifted back to when he was seven, waking up before his parents and rushing to make them breakfast for the first time in his life, pouring out cereal, slicing a banana, and carefully balancing the bowls and cutlery and little glasses of OJ on a tray that he proudly presented to them in bed. He'd wanted everything to be perfect that day, and when he succeeded, he solicited their praise for weeks. If he kept his wits, he could succeed today too.
They had champagne and steaks when they arrived. More champagne was on its way for brunch, with crepes and strawberries. A Realtor would meet them in the lobby in an hour for an afternoon of house-hunting. He wanted her to be happy.
"Kerry?"
She moved under the sheets and he called her name again, a bit louder.
"Hi," she answered into the pillow.
"Brunch is coming, with mimosas."
"Didn't we just eat?"
"Ages ago. Want to get up now?"
"Okay. Did you tell them you weren't going into work?"
"They know."
"Mark?"
"Uh-huh?"
"You were acting kind of weird last night."
"I know."
"Will you act normal today?"
"I will."
"Are we really going to buy a house today?"
"If you see one you like."
She propped herself up and showed her face, which was brightly illuminated by her smile. "Well, my day's starting pretty nice. Come over here and I'll start yours off nice too."
Will drove all night and now was cruising on flat land through Ohio, going for broke, driving fast into the dawn and hoping he'd skip through unscathed, avoiding speed traps and unmarked staties. He knew he couldn't make it all the way without sleeping. He'd have to pick his spots, Motel 6 kinds of places near the highway, where he'd pay cash and pick up four hours here, six there-no more than that. He wanted to be in Vegas by Friday night and ruin this motherfucker's weekend.
He couldn't recall the last time he'd pulled an all-nighter, especially an alcohol-free one, and it didn't feel good. He had cravings for booze, for sleep, and for something to squelch his anger and indignation. His hands were cramped from gripping the wheel too hard, his right ankle sore because the old Taurus didn't have cruise control. His eyes were red and dry. His bladder ached from the last large coffee. The only thing giving him any solace was the red Lipinski rosebud, succulent and healthy, stuck into a plastic water bottle in the cup holder.
In the middle of the night, Malcolm Frazier left his Operations Center and took a walk to clear his head. The last piece of news was unbelievable, he thought. Un-fucking-believable. This abomination happened on his watch. If he survived this-if they survived this-he'd be testifying at closed Pentagon hearings till he was a hundred.
They'd gone into crisis mode the moment Shackleton switched his cell phone off and the beacon was lost. A team converged on the Venetian but he was gone, his Corvette still in the valet lot, the bill unsettled.
What followed was a very dark hour until they were able to turn things around. He had been with a woman, an attractive brunette whom the concierge recognized as an escort he'd seen around the hotel. They accessed Shackleton's mobile phone records and found dozens of calls to a Kerry Hightower, who fit the woman's description.
Hightower's phone was pinging towers along I-15 westbound until the signal went dead fifteen miles west of Barstow. It looked like L.A. was a likely destination. They fed the description of her car and its tag number to the CHP and local sheriff departments but wouldn't know until an after-action investigation that her Toyota had been in the shop and she was driving a loaner.
Rebecca Rosenberg was eating her third postmidnight candy bar when she suddenly blasted through Shackleton's encryption and almost choked on a gob of caramel. She peeled out of her lab, ran clumsily down the hall to the Operations Center, and burst into the scrum of watchers, her white-girl version of a sixties Afro bouncing on her shoulders.
"He's been passing DOD's to a company!" she gasped.
Frazier was at his terminal. He swiveled toward her and looked like he wanted to throw up. This was as bad as it got. "The fuck you say. You sure?"
"Hundred percent."
"What kind of company?"
It got worse. "Life insurance."
The corridors of the Primary Research Lab were empty, which magnified the echo-chamber effect. To relieve tension, Malcolm Frazier coughed to play with the acoustic bounciness. Shouting or yodeling wouldn't have been dignified even if no one was listening. During the day, as Chief of NTS-51 Operational Security, he roamed the underground with a cocky swagger that intimidated the rank and file. He liked being feared and had no regrets that his watchers were universally hated. That meant they were doing their jobs. Without fear, how was order to be maintained? The temptation to exploit the asset was simply too great for the geeks. He had contempt for them, and always felt a rush of superiority when he saw them in the strip 'n' scan, fat and puffy or thin and weak, never fit and well-muscled like his lot. Shackleton, he recalled, was one of the thin and weak ones, snappable like a plank of balsa wood.
He gravitated to the special elevator and called it up with an access key. The descent was so smooth it was almost imperceptible, and when he emerged he was the only soul on the Vault level. His motion would trigger a monitor and one of his men would be watching, but he was permitted to be there, he knew the entry codes, and he was one of the few authorized to pass through the heavy steel doors.
The power of the Vault was visceral. Frazier felt his back straighten as if an iron rod had been rammed through his spine. His chest swelled and his senses heightened, his depth perception-even in the subdued cool-blue light-so acute he was almost seeing in 3-D. Some men felt tiny in the vastness of the place, but the Vault made him feel large and powerful. Tonight, in the midst of the most serious security breech in the history of Area 51, he needed to be there.
He stepped into the chilled dehumidified atmosphere. Five feet, ten, twenty, a hundred. He wasn't planning to walk its full length; he didn't have the time. He went far enough to fully experience the magnitude of its domed ceiling and stadium dimensions. He let the fingertips of his right hand brush one of the bindings. Strictly speaking, contact was not allowed, but he wasn't exactly pulling it off the shelf-it was just an affirmation.
The leather was smooth and cool, the color of mottled buckskin. Tooled onto the spine was the year: 1863. There were rows of 1863s. The Civil War. And Lord knew what else was going on in the rest of the world. He wasn't a historian.
At one side of the Vault a narrow stairway led to a catwalk where one could take in the full panorama. He went there and climbed to the top. There were thousands of gunmetal-gray bookcases stretching into the distance, nearly 700,000 thick leather books, over 240 billion inscribed names. The only way to get your mind around these numbers, he was convinced, was to stand there and take it in with your own eyes. All the information had long been stored on disks, and if you were one of the geeks, you were impressed with all the terabits of data or some such bullshit, but there was no substitute for actually being in the Library. He grabbed the railing, leaned into it and breathed slow, deep breaths.
Nelson Elder was having a pretty good morning. He was at his favorite table in the company cafeteria tucking into an egg-white omelet and the morning paper. He was energized from a good run, a good steam shower, and renewed confidence in the future. Of all the things in his life that affected his mood, the single biggest factor was the Desert Life stock quote. In the last month the stock was up 7.2 percent, rising a full 1.5 percent the day before on an analyst upgrade. It was too early for this craziness with Peter Benedict to affect his bottom line, but he could predict with mathematical certainty that denying coverage to life insurance applicants with an impending date of death, and risk-adjusting the p
remiums for those with an intermediate death horizon, would turn his company into a cash machine.
To top that off, Bert Myers's walk on the wild side with his Connecticut hedge fund was turning the corner, with double-digit yields in July. Elder translated his bullishness into a new, more aggressive tone with investors and research analysts, and the Street was taking notice. The sentiment on Desert Life was shifting.
He didn't care how this odd-duck Benedict had access to his magical database or where it came from or how it was even possible. A moral philosopher, he wasn't. He only cared about Desert Life, and now he had an edge that none of his competitors could ever match. He had paid Benedict $5 million out of his own pocket to avoid his auditors picking up a corporate transaction and asking questions. He already had enough worries about Bert's hedge fund adventure.
But it was money well spent. The value of his personal stock holdings had appreciated by $10 million, a damned good return on investment in one month! He would keep his own counsel on the Benedict business. No one knew, even Bert. It was too bizarre and too dangerous. He had enough trouble explaining to his head of underwriting why he needed to receive a daily nationwide list of all new life insurance applicants.
Bert saw him eating alone and came by grinning and wagging a finger. "I know your secret, Nelson!"
That startled the older man. "What are you talking about?" he asked sternly.
"You're ditching us this afternoon and playing golf."
Elder exhaled and smiled. "How'd you know?"
"I know everything around here," the CFO boasted.
"Not everything. I've got a couple of things up my sleeves."
"You got my bonus up there too?"
"You keep the high yields coming and you'll be buying an island in a couple of years. Want to join me for breakfast?"
"Can't. Budget meeting. Who're you playing with?"
"It's a charity thing over at the Wynn. I don't even know who's in my four."
"Well, enjoy yourself. You deserve it."
Elder winked at him. "You're right. I do."
Nancy couldn't concentrate on the bank robbery file. She turned a page only to realize that none of it registered and she had to go back and read it again. She had a meeting with John Mueller later in the morning, and he was expecting some kind of briefing. Every few minutes she compulsively opened the browser and searched the Web for new articles on Will, but the same AP story was being recycled around the world. Finally, she couldn't wait any longer.
Sue Sanchez saw her in the hall and hailed her from a distance. Sue was among the last people Nancy wanted to see but she couldn't very well pretend she hadn't noticed her.
The strain on Sue's face was remarkable. The corner of her left eye was twitching and there was a quaver in her voice. "Nancy," she said, drawing so close it made her uncomfortable. "Has he tried to contact you?"
Nancy made sure her handbag was closed and zippered. "You asked me last night. The answer's still no."
"I have to ask. He was your partner. Partners get close." The statement made Nancy nervous, and Sue picked up on it and backtracked. "I don't mean close in that way. You know, bonding, friendship."
"He hasn't called or e-mailed. Besides, you'd know if he had," she blurted out.
"I haven't authorized a tap on him or you!" Sue insisted. "If we were doing a tap I'd be aware of it. I'm his superior!"
"Sue, I know a lot less than you do about what's going on, but would you really be shocked if some other agencies were calling the shots?"
Sue looked hurt and defensive. "I don't know what you're talking about." Nancy shrugged, and Sue recovered her composure. "Where are you going?"
"To the drugstore. Need anything?" Nancy said, moving toward the elevator bank.
"No. I'm fine." She didn't sound convincing.
Nancy walked five blocks before reaching into her bag for the prepaid phone. She checked one more time for tags and punched the number.
He picked up on the second ring. "Joe's Tacos."
"Sounds appetizing," she said.
"I'm glad you called." He sounded bone weary. "I was getting lonely."
"Where are you?"
"Someplace as flat as a pool table."
"Can you be more specific?"
"Sign says Indiana."
"You didn't go all night, did you?"
"I believe I did."
"You've got to get some sleep!"
"Uh-huh."
"When?"
"I'm looking for a place as we speak. Did you talk to Laura?"
"I wanted to see how you were first."
"Tell her I'm fine. Tell her not to be worried."
"She'll be worried. I'm worried."
"What's going on in the office?"
"Sue looks like shit. Everyone's got their doors closed."
"I heard about me on the radio all night. They're playing this large."
"If they've got a dragnet out on you, what are they doing with Shackleton?"
"I guess the chances of finding him with his feet up on his porch aren't too high."
"What then?"
"I'm going to use my years of skills and resourcefulness."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm going to wing it." He went quiet and then said, "You know, I was thinking."
"About what?"
"About you."
"What about me?"
There was another long pause, the whooshing sound of an eighteen-wheeler passing. "I think I'm in love with you."
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them she was still in lower Manhattan. "Come on, Will, why are you saying something like that? Sleep deprivation?"
"Nope. I mean it."
"Please find a motel and get some sleep."
"That's all you have to say?"
"No. I think I might love you too."
Greg Davis was waiting for the kettle to boil. His relationship with Laura Piper was only a year and a half old and they were facing their first significant crisis as a couple. He wanted to step up to the plate and be a great guy and a supportive boyfriend, and in his family you dealt with a crisis by brewing tea.
Their apartment was tiny, with minimal light and no views, but they'd rather have a garret in Georgetown than a nicer place in a soulless suburb. She had finally fallen asleep at 2:00 A.M., but as soon as she awoke, she turned the TV back on, saw the crawl on the screen informing that her father remained at large and began crying again.
"Do you want regular or herbal?" he called out.
He heard sobs. "Herbal."
He brought her a cup and sat beside her on the bed.
"I tried calling him again," she said weakly.
"Home and cell?"
"Voice mail." He was still in his boxers. "You'll be late," she said.
"I'm calling in."
"Why?"
"To stay with you. I'm not leaving you alone."
She wrapped her arms around him, and his shoulder got wet from her tears. "Why are you so good to me?"
"What kind of question is that?"
His cell phone began to vibrate and move on the bed table. He lunged for it before it fell off the edge. It read: UNKNOWN CALLER.
A woman was asking for him.
"This is Greg."
"It's Nancy Lipinski, Greg. We met at Will's apartment."
"Jesus! Nancy! Hello!" He whispered to Laura, "Your dad's partner," and she sat bolt upright. "How'd you get my number?"
"I work for the FBI, Greg."
"Yeah. I see that," he said. "Are you calling about Will?"
"Yes. Is Laura there?"
"She is. Why'd you call me?"
"Laura's phones could be tapped."
"Christ, what did Will do?"
"Am I talking to his daughter's boyfriend or a journalist?" Nancy asked.
He hesitated then looked at Laura's pleading eyes. "Her boyfriend."
"He's in a lot of trouble but he didn't do anything wrong. We got too close to something a
nd he's not backing down. I need you to promise me you'll keep this confidential."
"Okay," he assured her, "you're off the record."
"Put Laura on. He wants her to know he's all right."
The Realtor was a platinum blonde entering her Botox years. She talked a mile a minute and bonded with Kerry in an instant. The two of them were yapping away in the front of the big Mercedes while Mark sat in the back, anesthetized, his legs straddling his briefcase.
He was aware on some level that there was chatter going on and that they were passing cars and people and shops along Santa Monica Boulevard, that it was cool in the sedan and hot and sunny outside the tinted windows, and that there were two clashing perfumes in the cabin and a metallic taste in his mouth and a throbbing behind his eyes, but each sense existed in its own dimension. He was no more than a series of unlinked sensors. His mind wasn't processing and integrating the data. He was somewhere else, lost.
Kerry's squeal penetrated his veil. "Mark! Gina's asking you a question!"
"Sorry, what?"
The Realtor said, "I was asking about your time frame."
"Soon," he said softly. "Very soon."
"That's great! We can really use that as leverage. And you said you wanted a cash deal?"
"That's right."
"I mean, you guys are so totally with it!" the Realtor gushed. "I get out-of-towners coming in and all they want to see is Beverly Hills or Bel Air or Brentwood-the three B's-but you guys are so smart and focused. I mean, did you know that the Hollywood Hills in your price range with your aggressive attitude is the single best luxury value in L.A.? We're going to have a great afternoon!"
He didn't respond and the two women picked up their conversation and left him alone again. When the car began its climb into the mountain range, he felt his back pushing against the seat. He closed his eyes and was in the rear of his father's car, driving into the White Mountains to their rental cabin in Pinkham Notch. His father and mother were droning on about something or other and he was on his own with the numbers swimming in his head, trying to arrange them into a theorem proof. When the theorem yielded and QED started flashing in his mind, he was suffused with a gush of joy he wished he could summon now.
The Mercedes snaked up narrow winding roads and houses hidden by gates and hedges. It came to a stop behind one of the ubiquitous landscaping trucks they had been passing, and when Mark opened his door he was blasted by furnace heat and the roar of a leaf blower. Kerry sprinted to the gate clutching a listing sheet, looking like a skipping child.