Code to Zero

by Ken Follett

  "Yep."

  They crossed the street and knocked on Mrs. Sims's door. She opened it instantly--she had been waiting in the hall. "I saw him!" she said immediately. "He went in there looking like a bum, and came out dressed to the nines!"

  Anthony made a gesture indicating that Hite should ask the questions. Hite said, "Did he have a car, Mrs. Sims?"

  "Yes, a nice little blue-and-white model. I thought it didn't belong to anyone in this street." She looked at them slyly. "I know what you're going to ask me next."

  "Did you happen to notice the license plate?" Hite asked.

  "Yes," she said triumphantly. "I wrote it down."

  Anthony smiled.

  3 P.M.

  The upper stages of the missile are contained in an aluminum tub with a cast magnesium base. The upper-stage tub rests on bearings, allowing it to spin during flight. It will rotate at about 550 revolutions per minute to improve accuracy.

  On Thirty-seventh Street at the end of O Street, the iron gates of Georgetown University stood open. Around three sides of a muddy lawn were Gothic buildings of rusticated gray stone, and students and faculty hurried from one building to another in their cold-weather coats. As Luke drove slowly in, he imagined that someone might catch his eye, recognize him, and say, "Hey, Luke! Over here!" And the nightmare would be over.

  Many of the professors wore clerical collars, and Luke realized this must be a Catholic university. It also appeared to be all-male.

  He wondered whether he was Catholic.

  He parked in front of the main entrance, a triple-arched portico marked Healy Hall. Inside he found a reception desk and the first woman he had seen here. She said that the physics department was directly below where he stood, and told him to go outside and turn down a flight of steps that led beneath the portico. He felt he was coming nearer to the heart of the mystery, like a treasure hunter penetrating the chambers in an Egyptian pyramid.

  Following her directions, he found a large laboratory with benches down the center and doors on either side that led to smaller offices. At one of the benches, a group of men was working with the components of a microwave spectrograph. They all wore eyeglasses. Judging by their ages, Luke thought they were professors and graduate students. Some of them might easily be people he knew. He approached them with an expectant look.

  One of the older men caught his eye, but there was no flash of recognition. "Can I help you?"

  "I hope so," Luke said. "Is there a department of geophysics here?"

  "Goodness, no," he said. "At this university, even physics is considered a minor subject." The others laughed.

  Luke gave them all a chance to look at him, but none seemed to know him. He had chosen badly, he thought despondently; he probably should have gone to George Washington University. "What about astronomy?"

  "Why, yes, of course. The heavens, we study. Our observatory is famous."

  His spirits lifted. "Where is it?"

  The man pointed to a door at the back of the lab. "Go to the other end of this building and you'll see it on the far side of the baseball diamond." He returned his attention to the bench.

  Luke followed a long, dark, dirty corridor that ran the length of the building. Seeing a stooped man in professorial tweeds coming the other way, Luke looked him in the eye, a smile ready to break out if the professor recognized him. But a nervous expression came over the man's face, and he hurried by.

  Undaunted, Luke walked on, giving the same look to everyone he passed who might possibly be a scientist, but no one showed any sign of recognition. Leaving the building, he saw tennis courts and a view of the Potomac River, and to the west, across the sports field, a white dome.

  He approached it with mounting anticipation. On the flat roof of a small two-storey house was a large revolving observatory, its dome having a sliding roof section. It was an expensive facility that indicated a serious astronomy department. Luke stepped inside the building.

  The rooms were arranged around a massive central pillar that supported the enormous weight of the dome. Luke opened a door and saw an empty library. He tried another and found an attractive woman about his own age sitting behind a typewriter. "Good morning," he said. "Is the professor in?"

  "You mean Father Heyden?"

  "Uh, yes."

  "And you are?"

  "Um . . ." Luke had stupidly not foreseen that he would have to give a name. Now his hesitation caused the secretary to raise her eyebrows mistrustfully. "He won't know me," Luke said. "That is . . . he will know me, I hope, but not by name."

  Her suspicion grew. "Still, you do have a name."

  "Luke. Professor Luke."

  "To which university are you attached, Professor Luke?"

  "Um . . . New York."

  "Any particular one of New York's many institutions of higher learning?"

  Luke's heart sank. In his enthusiasm he had failed to plan for this encounter, and now he saw that he was making a mess of it. When you're in a hole, it's best to stop digging, he thought. He turned off his friendly smile and spoke coldly. "I didn't come here to be cross-examined," he said. "Just tell Father Heyden that Professor Luke, the rocketry physicist, has dropped by and would like a word with him, would you?"

  "I'm afraid that won't be possible," she said firmly.

  Luke left the room, slamming the door. He was angry with himself more than with the secretary, who was only protecting her boss from being pestered by an apparent nutcase. He decided to look around, opening doors until either someone recognized him or he was thrown out. He went up the stairs to the second floor. The building seemed to be deserted. He climbed a wooden stair with no handrail and entered the observatory. It, too, was empty. He stood admiring the large revolving telescope with its complex system of cogs and gears, a real masterpiece of engineering, and wondered what the hell he was going to do next.

  The secretary came up the stairs. He prepared himself for a row, but instead she spoke sympathetically. "You're in some kind of trouble, aren't you," she said.

  Her kindness brought a lump to his throat. "It's very embarrassing," he said. "I've lost my memory. I know I'm in the rocketry field, and I was hoping to run into someone who might recognize me."

  "There's nobody here right now," she said. "Professor Larkley is giving a lecture on rocket fuels at the Smithsonian Institute, as part of International Geophysical Year, and all the faculty is there."

  Luke felt a surge of hope. Instead of one geophysicist he could meet a whole roomful. "Where's the Smithsonian Institute?"

  "It's downtown, right in the Mall, around Tenth Street."

  He had driven around Washington enough today to know that that was not far away. "What time is the lecture?"

  "It started at three."

  Luke checked his watch. It was three-thirty. If he hurried, he could get there by four. "The Smithsonian," he repeated.

  "Actually, it's in the Aircraft Building, around the back."

  "How many people will be at the lecture, do you know?"

  "About a hundred and twenty."

  Surely one of them would know him!

  "Thank you!" he said, and he ran down the stairs and out of the building.

  3.30 P.M.

  Rotating the second-stage tub stabilizes the flight path by averaging the variations between the eleven individual small rocket motors in the cluster.

  Billie was furious with Len Ross for trying to ingratiate himself with the people from the Sowerby Foundation. The post of Director of Research ought to go to the best scientist--not the most oleaginous. She was still annoyed that afternoon when the chief executive's secretary called and asked her to come to his office.

  Charles Silverton was an accountant, but he understood the needs of scientists. The hospital was owned by a trust whose twin aims were to understand and alleviate mental illness. He saw his job as making sure that administrative and financial problems did not distract the medical people from their work. Billie liked him.

  His office had
been the dining room of the original Victorian mansion, and it still had the fireplace and the ceiling mouldings. He waved Billie to a chair and said, "Did you speak to the people from the Sowerby Foundation this morning?"

  "Yes. Len was showing them around, and I joined the party. Why?"

  He did not answer her question. "Do you think you could have said anything to offend them?"

  She frowned, mystified. "I don't think so. We just talked about the new wing."

  "You know, I really wanted you to get the job of Director of Research."

  She was alarmed. "I don't like your use of the past tense!"

  He went on. "Len Ross is a competent scientist, but you're exceptional. You've achieved more than him and you're ten years younger."

  "The Foundation is backing Len for the job?"

  He hesitated, looking awkward. "I'm afraid they're insisting on it, as a condition of their grant."

  "The hell they are!" Billie was stunned.

  "Do you know anyone connected with the Foundation?"

  "Yes. One of my oldest friends is a trustee. His name is Anthony Carroll, he's godfather to my son."

  "Why is he on the board? What does he do for a living?"

  "He works for the State Department, but his mother is very wealthy, and he's involved with several charities."

  "Does he have a grudge against you?"

  For a moment, Billie slipped back in time. She had been angry with Anthony, after the catastrophe that led to Luke's leaving Harvard, and they never dated again. But she forgave him because of how he behaved toward Elspeth. Elspeth had gone into a decline, letting her academic work slide, and was in danger of failing to graduate. She walked around in a daze, a pale ghost with long red hair, getting thinner and missing classes. It was Anthony who rescued her. They became close, though the relationship was a friendship rather than a romance. They studied together, and she caught up enough to pass. Anthony won back Billie's respect, and they had been friends ever since.

  Now she told Charles, "I got kind of mad at him, back in nineteen forty-one, but we made it up long ago."

  "Maybe someone on the board admires Len's work."

  Billie considered. "Len's approach is different from mine. He's a Freudian, he looks for psychoanalytical explanations. If a patient suddenly loses the ability to read, he assumes they have some unconscious fear of literature that is being suppressed. I would always look for damage to the brain as the likeliest cause."

  "So there might be a keen Freudian on the board who is against you."

  "I guess." Billie sighed. "Can they do this? It seems so unfair."

  "It's certainly unusual," Charles said. "Foundations normally make a point of not interfering with decisions requiring professional expertise. But there's no law against it."

  "Well, I'm not going to take this lying down. What reason did they give?"

  "I got an informal call from the chairman. He told me the board feels Len is better qualified."

  Billie shook her head. "There has to be another explanation."

  "Why don't you ask your friend?"

  "That's exactly what I'm going to do," she said.

  3.45 P.M.

  A stroboscope was used to determine exactly where weights should be placed so that the spinning tub would be perfectly balanced--otherwise the inner cage would vibrate within the outer frame, causing the whole assembly to disintegrate.

  Luke had looked at his street map of Washington before leaving the Georgetown University campus. The Institute was in a park called the Mall. He checked his watch as he drove along K Street. He would be at the Smithsonian in about ten minutes. Assuming it took him another five to find the lecture theater, he should arrive as the talk was ending. Then he would find out who he was.

  It was almost eleven hours since he had awakened to this horror. Yet, because he could remember nothing from before five o'clock this morning, it seemed to have been going on all his life.

  He turned right on Ninth Street, heading south toward the Mall with high hopes. A few moments later, he heard a police siren blip once, and his heart skipped a beat.

  He looked in his rearview mirror. A police cruiser was on his tail, lights flashing. There were two cops in the front seat. One pointed toward the right-hand curb and mouthed, "Pull over."

  Luke was devastated. He had almost made it.

  Could it be that he had committed some minor traffic violation, and they wanted to ticket him? Even if that were all, they would still ask for his driver's license, and he had no kind of identification. Anyway, this was not about a minor traffic violation. He was driving a stolen car. He had calculated that the theft would go unreported until the owner got back from Philadelphia later tonight, but something had gone wrong. They intended to arrest him.

  But they would have to catch him first.

  He clicked into escape mode. Ahead of him on the one-way street was a long truck. Without further thought, he stomped on the gas pedal and pulled around the truck.

  The cops switched on their siren and followed.

  Luke pulled in front of the truck, going fast. Acting on instinct now, he yanked the parking brake and spun the wheel hard to the right.

  The Ford went into a long skid, turning as it did so. The truck swerved left to avoid it, forcing the patrol car all the way over to the left side of the street.

  Luke shifted into neutral to prevent the car from stalling. It came to rest facing the wrong way. He put it into drive again and stepped on the gas, heading against the traffic on the one-way street.

  Cars veered wildly left and right to avoid a head-on collision. Luke swung right to miss a city bus, then clipped a station wagon, but plowed on amid a chorus of indignant horns. An old prewar Lincoln swung onto the sidewalk and hit a lamp post. A motorcyclist lost control and fell off his machine. Luke hoped he was not badly hurt.

  He made it to the next crossing and swung right onto a broad avenue. He raced two blocks, running red lights, then looked in his mirror. There was no sign of the police car.

  He turned again, heading south now. He was lost, but he knew the Mall was to his south. Now that the patrol car was out of sight, he would have been safer to drive normally. However, it was four o'clock, and he was farther away from the Smithsonian than he had been five minutes ago. If he was late, the audience would have gone. He stepped on the gas.

  The southbound street he was on dead-ended, and he was forced to turn right. He tried to watch for street names as he sped along, swerving around slower vehicles. He was on D Street. After a minute he came to Seventh and turned south.

  His luck changed. All the lights were green. He hit seventy crossing Constitution Avenue, and he was in the park.

  Across the lawn to his right, he saw a big dark red building like a castle in a fairy tale. It was exactly where the map said the museum would be. He stopped the car and checked his watch. It was five past four. The audience would be leaving. He cursed and jumped out.

  He ran across the grass. The secretary had told him the lecture was in the Aircraft Building around the back. Was this the front or the back? It looked like the front. To the side of the building was a path through a little garden. He followed it and came out on a wide two-way avenue. Still running, he found an elaborate iron gateway leading to the back entrance of the museum. To his right, beside a lawn, was what looked like an old aircraft hangar. He went inside.

  He looked around. All kinds of aircraft were suspended from the ceiling: old biplanes, a wartime jet, and even the sphere of a hot-air balloon. At floor level were glass cases of aircraft insignia, flight clothing, aerial cameras, and photographs. Luke spoke to a uniformed guard. "I'm here for the lecture on rocket fuels."

  "You're too late," the man said, looking at his watch. "It's ten past four, the lecture's over."

  "Where was it held? I might still catch the speaker."

  "I think he's gone."

  Luke stared hard at him and spoke slowly. "Just answer the fucking question. Where?"

&nb
sp; The man looked scared. "Far end of the hall," he said hastily.

  Luke hurried the length of the building. At the end, a lecture theater had been improvised, with a lectern, blackboard, and rows of chairs. Most of the audience had left, and attendants were already stacking the metal seats at the side of the room. But a small knot of eight or nine men remained in a corner, deep in discussion, surrounding a white-haired man who might have been the lecturer.

  Luke's spirits fell. A few minutes ago, more than a hundred scientists in his field had been here. Now there was just a handful, and it was quite possible that none of them knew him.

  The white-haired man glanced up at him, then looked back at the others. It was impossible to know whether he had recognized Luke or not. He was speaking and carried on without a pause. "Nitromethane is almost impossible to handle. You can't ignore safety factors."

  "You can build safety into your procedures, if the fuel is good enough," said a young man in a tweed suit.

  The argument was a familiar one to Luke. A bewildering variety of rocket fuels had been tested, many of them more powerful than the standard combination of alcohol and liquid oxygen, but they all had drawbacks.

  A man with a southern accent said, "What about unsymmetrical dimethylhydrazine? I hear they're testing that at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena."

  Luke suddenly said, "It works, but it's deadly poison."

  They all turned to him. The white-haired man frowned, looking slightly annoyed, resenting the interruption from a stranger.

  Then the young man in the tweed suit looked shocked and said, "My God, what are you doing in Washington, Luke?"

  Luke felt so happy he could have wept.

  PART THREE

  4.15 P.M.

  A tape programmer in the tub varies the speed of rotation of the upper stages between 450 rpm and 750 rpm, to avoid resonance vibrations that could cause the missile to break up in space.

  Luke found he could not speak. The emotion of relief was so strong it seemed to constrict his throat. All day he had forced himself to be calm and rational, but now he was close to breaking down.

  The other scientists resumed their conversation, oblivious to his distress, except for the young man in the tweed suit, who looked concerned and said, "Hey, are you okay?"