Douglas Preston - Gideon's Corpse

“So?”

“So maybe it isn’t a character in a book. Maybe it’s the name of a real person. He wouldn’t be likely to forget that. And the most obvious person would be Alida.”

“Obvious, all right. Way too obvious.” Fordyce typed in the name anyway, tried a bunch of variations. “Nope.”

“Okay, so do what you suggested a minute ago. Change some of the letters to numbers or symbols.”

“I’ll change the l to a 1 .” Fordyce tried this password. “Nada.”

“Try something else. Change the i to a dollar sign.”

More typing. “Strike three,” said Fordyce.

Gideon licked his lips. “I remember reading that most decent passwords are composed of two parts, a root and an appendage. Right? So add something on the end.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Xyz , maybe. Or 00 .”

Still more typing. “This is getting old, fast,” Fordyce told him.

“Wait a minute—I just thought of something. Blaine has a pet name for Alida. Miracle Daughter . He sometimes calls her MD. Try that after her name.”

Fordyce typed. “No go. Not in front, in back, or in the middle.”

Gideon sighed. Maybe Fordyce was right. “Just keep trying all the variables.” He concentrated on the road ahead while Fordyce typed quietly beside him, trying one variant after another.

Suddenly the FBI agent gave a whoop of triumph. Gideon glanced over and saw a fresh welter of text scrolling up the screen.

“You got in?” he asked in disbelief.

“Damn right!”

“What was the password?”

“ A1$daMdee . Kind of sentimental, don’t you think?” And Fordyce settled in to browse the computer’s files as the skyline of Oklahoma City came into view.

Twelve hours later they were crossing Tennessee. Fordyce slouched in the passenger seat, nose buried in the laptop. For twelve hours, he had been poring over it, browsing its many thousands of files, with no hits; nothing but book drafts, endless chapter revisions, correspondence, outlines, movie treatments, notes, and the like. The computer seemed completely and totally devoted to writing—and nothing else.

Gideon glanced over. “Any luck?” he asked for about the thirtieth time.

Fordyce shook his head.

“What about emails?”

“Nothing of interest. No exchanges with Chalker, Novak, or anyone else up at Los Alamos.” It seemed more and more likely, Fordyce reflected, that there had been another computer in Blaine’s office that Gideon had failed to grab. But he didn’t say anything.

In the background, Gideon was listening to NPR, which—as usual—was spewing a mixture of news and speculation about the impending nuke attack on Washington. The investigation had managed to keep the presumed N-Day—today—a secret, but the massive movements of troops, the evacuations of Washington, and all the other preparations in major cities around the country were garnering frantic media attention. The country was in a state of intense and escalating anxiety. People knew that things were coming to a head.

Anxiety and outrage ruled the airwaves. A parade of self-appointed experts, pundits, talking heads, and politicians offered their conflicting views, one after the other, excoriating the stalled investigation and offering their own insights. Everyone had a theory. The terrorists had abandoned their plan. The terrorists had shifted their attack to another major American city. The terrorists were lying low, biding their time. The terrorists were all dead from radiation poisoning. The liberals were to blame. The conservatives were to blame. The terrorists were communists, right-wingers, left-wingers, fundamentalists, anarchists, bankers, you name it.

It went on and on. Fordyce couldn’t help but listen with a kind of repulsed fascination, wanting to ask Gideon to turn it off yet unable to.

He glanced out at the road ahead of them. They were approaching the outer suburbs of Knoxville. He stretched again, looked back down at the laptop. It was incredible how many files a writer could generate. He was about three-quarters through them, and there was nothing to do but keep going.

As he opened the next file—something called “OPERATION CORPSE”—he was jolted by the sudden whoop of a siren and flashing lights in his rearview mirror. He glanced over at the speedometer and saw they were still going seventy-nine—in a zone where the speed limit had just dropped to sixty.

“Oh shit,” he muttered.

“No driver’s license,” said Gideon. “I’m dead.”

Fordyce laid aside the computer. The cop whooped his siren again. Gideon put on his blinker, slowed, eased over into the breakdown lane, and came to a stop.

“Play it by ear,” said Fordyce, his mind working fast. “Tell him you had your wallet stolen, that your name is Simon Blaine.”

The cop got out of his car, hitching up his pants. He was a state trooper, big and square, with a shaved head, knobby ears, mirrored shades, and a frown on his thick lips. He came up, tapped on the window. Gideon rolled it down.

The trooper leaned in. “License and registration?”

“Hello, Officer,” Gideon said politely. He reached over into the glove compartment and rummaged around, pulling out the registration. He handed it to the cop. “Officer, my wallet was stolen at a rest stop back there in Arkansas. As soon as I get back to New Mexico I’ll be getting a replacement license.”

A silence while the trooper glanced over the registration. “Are you Simon Blaine?”

“Yes, sir.”

Fordyce hoped to hell the guy wasn’t a fiction reader.

“You say you have no license?”

“I have a license, Officer, but it was stolen.” He had to engineer this one fast. He pitched his voice in a confidential tone. “My dad was a state trooper just like you, shot in the line of duty—”

“Please step out of the car, sir,” said the trooper, impassive.

Gideon moved to comply, fumbling with the doorknob while he continued talking. “Routine traffic stop, two guys, turned out they’d just robbed a bank…” He continued fumbling. “Damn door…”

“Out. Now.” The man brought his hand to rest on the butt of his sidearm, as a precaution.

Fordyce could see that this was already going the wrong way. He took out his shield and leaned over Gideon, showing it to the trooper. “Officer?” he said. “Special Agent Fordyce, FBI.”

The trooper, startled, took the shield and examined it through the mirrored shades. He handed it back to Fordyce, making a show of being unimpressed. Then he turned to Gideon once again. “I asked you to step out of the car.”

Fordyce was irritated. He opened his door and got out.

“You remain in the car, sir,” said the trooper.

“Excuse me,” said Fordyce, sharply. He walked around the front of the car and approached the trooper, staring at his shield. “Officer Mackie, is it? As I said, I’m a special agent from the DC field office.” He did not offer his hand. “My associate here is an FBI technical liaison. We’re traveling undercover. We’re both assigned to NEST, working on the terrorist case. I’ve given you my name and shown you my badge number, and you’re welcome to check out my affiliation. But I am sorry to say you are not going to see any ID from this gentleman and you’ll just have to accept that. Do you understand?”

He paused. Mackie said nothing.

“I said, do you understand me, Officer Mackie?”

The trooper remained unmoved. “I will check out your affiliation, thank you. May I have your identification back, sir?”

This wasn’t acceptable: the last thing Fordyce wanted was for Millard to learn he was two-thirds of the way across the country in Simon Blaine’s Jeep. But… If the man needed the identification back, it meant he hadn’t noted his name. Fordyce took another step toward the trooper and lowered his voice. “No more of this bullshit. We need to get to Washington, and we’re in a big-time hurry. That’s why we were speeding. Because we’re traveling undercover, we can’t slap a siren on the vehicle or travel with an escort. Call in my ID, check it out—no problem. You do that. But in case you haven’t been listening to the news, there’s a crisis going on, and my associate and I sure as hell can’t wait around while you check us out.” He paused, scanning the man’s face to see if he was penetrating that stolid exterior.