Paying for it with some of Alida’s cash, he drove down the block to a theatrical supply store and bought spirit gum, sealers, face paints, pencils and crayons, scabs, effects gels, nose and scar wax, a bald-cap, some hairpieces, a lace beard, a prosthetic paunch, and a few cheek pieces and inserts. He had no idea how he might use anything or even what he might need, so he bought everything.
Back to the Jeep, and then he drove farther south on Cerrillos to the edge of town, where he found an anonymous motel that looked like it might cater to the trade. With a quick-and-dirty makeup job, he transformed himself into a low-life pimp, which went well with the black Jeep Unlimited he was driving. The clerk didn’t bat an eye when Gideon paid cash for an hourly rate, claimed to have lost his ID, and tipped the man a twenty, telling him to keep an eye out for a “classy young lady” who, of course, would never arrive.
Loading all the theatrical supplies into the suitcase, along with Blaine’s computer, he went into his rented room, spread the clothes out on the bed, and began mixing and matching them into various disguises. It was a process he had undertaken many times before.
In his days as an art thief, he usually robbed small private museums and historical societies during daylight hours, when they were open but almost deserted. After the first few heists, he always went in disguise, and as the years went by he got better and better at it. A good disguise was far more than mere appearance; it was about assuming a new character, walking differently, talking in a new way, even thinking differently. It was the purest, most refined form of Method Acting.
But creating the actual new persona was never easy. It had to be subtle, believable, not over the top, and yet with a few telling details that the average person would remember and which would be key to misleading investigators. A totally forgettable character would be a waste of time, but on the other hand, a too eccentric character would be dangerous. The process took time, thought, and imagination.
As he sorted through the clothes, laying out one shirt, then another, mixing and matching them with various pants and shoes, a character began to take shape in his mind—a mid-forty-ish man, out of shape, recently divorced, kids gone, laid off from his job, looking to rediscover and renew himself with a car trip cross-country. A Blue Highways sort of odyssey. He’d be a writer—no, make that an aspiring writer. He’d be keeping notes of his journey, ready to share his observations about America with anyone he ran into. His wallet had been stolen first day out—no ID now but that was cool in a way, a kind of freedom, a welcome release from the enslaving bonds of society.
Now that he had it, he quickly assembled the outfit: loafers, black jeans, L.L. Bean oxford pin-striped shirt, Bill Blass sport jacket, bald-cap with a fringe of hair on the longish side, skin with the slightly raddled look that marked the drinking man, Ray-Bans, a Pendleton “Indy” hat with a broad brim. A small but memorable diamond-shaped scar on his right cheek and a modest paunch completed the picture.
Going through the familiar process of creating a new persona, and a disguise to go with it, felt good. And—for at least a few minutes—he was able to forget Alida.
Now that he was done, he turned to the computer and fired it up. It was, just as he’d expected, password-protected, and his few feeble attempts to guess the password failed. Even if he broke the password, no doubt there would be other layers of security. Blaine’s plan might be on that computer, but it might as well be on the moon for all the good it would do him, if he couldn’t get through that password.
No time for that now. He shoved it in the suitcase with the other stuff, exited the motel room, tossed everything in the back of the Jeep, and took off. The vehicle had a GPS and when he plugged in the address for Fort Detrick, Maryland, it informed him the distance was eighteen hundred seventy-seven miles and would take thirty hours. By driving at five miles over the speed limit, stopping only for gas, he might shave it down to twenty-five, twenty-six hours. He didn’t dare push it any faster—without a driver’s license he couldn’t risk a traffic stop.
He looked at his watch. It was already ten o’clock in the morning. Blaine had said his plane was leaving early: he’d already be in the air. Gideon had checked with the airlines, and there had been no direct flights to DC that morning—he would have to change planes, and with the loss of two hours due to time zone changes, Blaine would not be at Fort Detrick until that evening at the earliest. The event would almost certainly go down tomorrow, N-Day—the infamous day on the appointment calendar he had seen in Chalker’s apartment.
He would be there by noon tomorrow. Whether that gave him time to intersect and confront Blaine he could only guess. Of course, it was entirely possible Blaine wasn’t going to Fort Detrick at all. That could have been a ruse; the man might instead be heading straight to Washington. But Gideon would have to deal with that problem when he got east.
He had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. In fact, he didn’t have the first notion of a plan, a strategy, a mode of attack. But at least—he thought as he started the engine—he had twenty-six unbroken hours to think one up.
59
STONE FORDYCE EASED his car down the hideous dirt road toward Blaine’s ranch. He was filled with misgivings. Under any other circumstances, he would have said to hell with it. But these were not normal circumstances. Washington was, perhaps, one day away from being nuked. And the investigation was now totally screwed up, headed in the wrong direction. Millard and Dart had it wrong: Gideon had been most certainly framed. By a Los Alamos insider. And that insider—probably Novak—was somehow involved with the terrorist plot. It was the only conclusion he could draw.
Actually, he’d come to a second conclusion: Gideon hadn’t run away. He was still in the neighborhood, trying to prove his innocence by searching for the guilty party. That was why he’d gone to Los Alamos, at huge risk to himself. And then he’d confronted Lockhart, again at high risk. Gideon was a clever fox, as sly as they came, but even he wouldn’t go to such extreme measures unless he was truly innocent. Somewhere along the way, Gideon had managed to convince Alida Blaine that he was no terrorist—that was the only way to explain her ongoing involvement, her not contacting the authorities.
So where was Gideon? He couldn’t have walked from Los Alamos to the Paiute Creek Ranch, back across the mountains, in such a short space of time. He had no horse. Therefore, he must have used a car.
But whose?
As soon as Fordyce asked the question he knew the answer. Gideon and Alida were being helped. Who would they turn to? It was so obvious he couldn’t believe no one had thought of it. They were being helped by Alida’s father—the writer, Simon Blaine.
From there, it had been a trivial matter to learn that Blaine had a ranch in the Jemez Mountains. And once it was obvious to him, Fordyce realized it would eventually be obvious to Millard, as well. The investigation might be off-base, but Millard wasn’t stupid. Somebody, at some point, would think to raid Blaine’s ranch.
He just hoped to hell it hadn’t already happened.
But as he approached, he saw that everything looked quiet. The ranch buildings were scattered around a large central field, through which ran a burbling creek, with stands of timber hiding various outbuildings, barns, and corrals.
He pulled off the road well short of the ranch, got out his service piece, and exited the car. There were no vehicles, no signs of life. He moved into the trees and approached the main house quietly, stopping every few minutes to listen. Nothing.
Then, when he was about a hundred yards away, he heard the banging of a door and Alida Blaine came striding out, her long blond hair streaming behind her, walking across the yard.
Fordyce stepped out into the sunlight, gun and badge on display. “Miss Blaine? Federal officer. Don’t move.”
But she took one look and broke into a run, heading straight toward the thick forest at the far side of the meadow.
“Stop!” he cried. “FBI!”
She only ran faster. Fordyce took off aft
er her, sprinting at high speed. He was a fast runner, in excellent shape, but she was really flying. He realized that if she got into those trees, she knew the country and might just get away.
“Stop!” He redoubled his speed, sprinting like a madman, and began to close the gap. They entered the trees but he was still gaining, and in a few hundred yards was close enough to launch himself at her and tackle her from behind.
They landed heavily on a bed of pine needles, but she rolled and fought like a mountain lion, screaming and punching, and it took all his ability, and a few high school wrestling moves, to subdue and pin her.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell’s your problem?” he yelled. “You’re damn lucky I didn’t shoot you!”
“You don’t have the balls,” she spat back, her face red, furious, still struggling.
“Will you just calm down and listen?” He could feel blood trickling down his face where she had raked his cheek with her hand. God, she was a wild one. “Look, I know Gideon was framed.”
The struggling stopped. She stared at him.
“That’s right. I know it.”
“Bullshit. You’re the one that tried to arrest him.” But she said this with a little less conviction.
“Whether bullshit or not, I’ve got a gun trained on you, so you’re going to goddamn well listen to me. You got that?”
She was quiet.
“All right.” And Fordyce briefly explained the arc of his reasoning. But in doing so he didn’t mention Novak’s name or go into any details—the last thing he needed was more freelancing on the part of Gideon. Or her.
“So you see,” he said, “I know both of you are innocent. But no one will listen to me, the investigation is completely off-base—and it’s up to us to pursue this line on our own.”
“Let me up,” she said. “I can’t think with you lying on top of me.”
He cautiously let her up. She stood, slapping away the pine needles and dust. “Let’s go into the house,” she said.
“Is Gideon inside?”
“No. He’s not on the ranch.”
He followed her into the house, into a large rustic living room with Navajo rugs on the walls, a bearskin on the floor, and an elk skull over the mantelpiece of a big stone fireplace.
“Want anything?” she asked. “Coffee?”
“Coffee. And a Band-Aid.”
“Coming up.”
The coffee tasted wonderful. He looked at her discreetly as she rummaged for a bandage. This was one hell of a woman. Like Gideon: formidable.
“What do you want?” she asked as she tossed him a Band-Aid box.
“I need to find Gideon. We took on this assignment together and I intend to complete it—with him, partners.”
She thought about this, but only for a moment. “Fair enough. I’m in.”
“No, you’re not in. You have no idea how dangerous this is going to be. We’re professionals—you’re not. You’d be a serious hindrance and a danger to us both—not to mention yourself.”
A long silence.
“Well,” she finally said, “I guess I can accept that. You and Gideon can use the ranch as your base.”
“Can’t do that, either. This ranch is likely to be raided—not today, maybe, but soon. It’s just a matter of time. You’ve got to get the hell out of here. And I’ve got to find Gideon. Now.”
More silence. She was thinking it through, and he was pretty confident she’d understand what she had to do.
Finally, she nodded. “Okay. Gideon’s taken the Jeep and he’s headed up to the Paiute Creek Ranch to confront Willis. Because sure as hell, he and his weirdo cult are behind this.”
Fordyce managed to cover up his surprise. Gideon had already confronted Willis—the day before.
“He went up to Paiute Creek…this morning?”
“Right. Left at dawn.”
So Gideon was lying to her, too. What the hell was the man really up to? He was on the track of someone, Fordyce was sure of that—and he had some reason for not sharing the information with her.
“All right,” he said. “Give me the plate number and a description of the vehicle, and I’ll take it from there.”
She gave him the info, while he wrote it down.
He rose. “Miss Blaine? May I offer you some advice?”
“Sure.”
“You need to go to ground. Now. Because it’s as I said: sooner rather than later, they’re going to raid this ranch—and with the mentality of this investigation, you might not survive it. Understand? Until we find out who’s really behind this, your life is not safe.”
She nodded.
“All right,” he said. “Thanks for your cooperation. I’m outta here.”
60
GIDEON HAD REACHED Tucumcari, and he pulled into a Stuckey’s to fill up on gas. It was about one in the afternoon and he’d been making excellent time. He felt a certain relief. He’d made a clean getaway and he was driving a vehicle unknown to law enforcement. He had twenty-three more hours of driving ahead of him, more or less. Alida’s money might not be enough to get him all the way, but if he had to raid a cash register or two he’d deal with that when the time came.
After filling up, he went into the Stuckey’s, in full disguise as Mr. Touchy-Feely-Middle-Aged-Divorced-Man-on-a-Road-Trip-of-Self-Discovery, and stocked up on beef jerky, Cheetos, Twinkies, and Ring Dings, along with a case of Coke and a box of NoDoz. He found a plastic hospital urinal and—after a momentary hesitation—added it to his basket. That would shave some time off his run. He brought everything to the counter, purchased it, and carried the bulging bag to his car. He got in and was about to start the engine when he felt something cold against the nape of his neck.
“Don’t fucking move,” came the low, hoarse voice.
Gideon froze. He glanced at the glove compartment, where he’d stashed the Python.
“I’ve already got your .357,” came the voice.
Now Gideon recognized the voice as Fordyce’s. Unbelievable. How had this happened? This was a disaster—the ultimate disaster.
“Listen to me well, Gideon. I know now you’re innocent. I know you were framed. And I also know the security director, Novak, was in on it.”
Gideon wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. He struggled with disbelief. Was this some kind of gambit? What was Fordyce up to?
“The investigation is seriously off-track. I need you. We need to partner together, just like before, and finish this assignment. Gideon, you’re a foxy son of a bitch, and I don’t know if I trust you any farther than I could throw you, but I swear to God we’re the only ones who can prevent that nuke from going off.”
This was becoming more convincing. “How did you find me?” he asked.
“I put out a routine ‘Attempt to Locate’ on the Jeep’s plate, got a report you were headed east on I-40, drove like hell, and found you here.” There was a pause. “Look, I know it’s hard to wrap your head around. Like everyone else, I was fooled. I thought you were guilty. But now I know different. I don’t know where you’re headed, what lead you’re following up, but I damn well know you’re going to need help.”
Gideon looked at him in the rearview mirror. “How’d you get the plate number?”
“I—I figured, since you were on the run with Alida Blaine, that you might be using one of her family cars.”
Gideon said nothing. So the vehicle wasn’t unknown to law enforcement, after all.
“Here’s your Python.” Fordyce handed it back to him. Gideon could see it was still loaded. “To show my good faith.”
Gideon glanced into the rearview mirror again, looked into Fordyce’s eyes, and saw sincerity. The man was telling the truth.
“Let’s go. We’re racing against the clock.” Gideon started the Jeep.
“Wait. We can take my pool car. I’ve got a siren, the works.”
“You’re AWOL from the investigation—?”
“They put me on leave.”
“This car’s marginally
safer. They might come looking for you first.”
Fordyce paused. “Makes sense.”
Gideon pulled out of the Stuckey’s, back onto the interstate. “While we drive,” he said, “I’m going to tell you what I’ve learned. And you tell me what you know. And then I’ve got a laptop in the back that needs to be broken into. You once said you worked in the FBI’s decryption section. Think you can help?”
“I can try.”
Gideon set the cruise control at seventy-nine. Then, with the car humming along the interstate, he began to tell Fordyce everything.
61
AFTER CROSSING THE Texas Panhandle, they stopped near the Oklahoma border so Fordyce could pick up a cigarette-lighter converter for the laptop’s AC adapter. On the long trip across Texas, Gideon had explained to the agent how he’d deduced that Blaine was the one behind the terrorist plot, and in turn Fordyce told him how he’d figured out that Gideon was innocent and the security director, Novak, was involved.
“What I don’t know,” Fordyce said, “is whether Novak was part of the plot from the beginning, or if he was paid for just the frame job.”
“From your description of his house, it seems like he’s had more money than he should for some time now,” Gideon replied. “My bet is that he’s one of the original players.” He paused. “No wonder Blaine was willing to help me, a fugitive on the lam. He probably wasn’t too happy that Alida became involved, but he must have figured that if I stayed on the loose, I’d prove just another distraction for the authorities.”
He paused again. “What I can’t figure out is Blaine himself. Why the hell would he, of all people, want to set off a nuke in Washington? I just don’t see the motivation. He’s a patriot, an ex-spy.”
“You’d be surprised how people can change. Or what their motivations might be.”
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