Michael Crichton - Binary

The Ford sedan drew up behind the truck and three men, all wearing children's Halloween masks, jumped out. A driver remained at the wheel. Nobody spoke as the men opened the back of the truck, climbed up on the hydraulic tailgate, and went into the cargo area.

`Nice and easy,' Peters said, standing near Reeves with the gun. `Nice and easy.'

Reeves did not move.

The men emerged from the truck carrying two small, extremely heavy boxes. Peters could see the triple-blade radiation symbol on the boxes. The men closed the truck and started to load the boxes into the car. One of them came over and expertly tied and gagged Reeves with adhesive tape.

Then, speaking for the first time, the man said, `bet's go.'

Peters was confused. `I thought you were going to take -'

`Let's go.'

Peters went with the man, who wore a Donald Duck mask, and got into the car. The sedan backed out of the road and drove off.

The men all left their masks on. One of them said, `What's the time?'

`Nine thirty-two.'

`Perfect.'

Peters was given a mask of his own, a witch's mask with day-glo pink cheeks and wild eyes. He pulled it on ` and said, `I thought we were taking the penicillin too.'

`The plan was changed,' somebody said.

`But if we just take the capsules -'

`The plan was changed this morning. We were told to take only the capsules.'

Peters frowned and said nothing. He felt the change in plan was a terrible mistake. By stealing the penicillin they would have confused the issue; it might have taken the truckers several days to discover the theft of the radiation capsules. But now they'd find only the capsules gone… It was too obvious, too simple. Why had the change been made?

`Time?'

`Nine thirty-six.'

The driver nodded and pulled over to the side of the road. The men sat quietly, not removing their masks. Peters looked at the backs of their necks, noticing the length of their hair, the condition of their collars, the way they were dressed. Several minutes gassed.

`Time?'

`Nine forty.'

The driver put the car in gear. He drove down the road through gently rolling farm country. The morning air was still cool.

`There it is.'

Up ahead was another dirt road turnoff, with another truck pulled off the road and another man standing over the driver.

`Remember, we want twenty pounds of it.'

The black sedan pulled up behind the truck. Peters was given the spool of inch-wide adhesive tape; he quickly tied and gagged the driver. Meanwhile the others opened the truck and removed several small packages. They were wrapped in clear plastic and looked like bread dough: a whitish, puttylike substance. The men carried two packages each, bringing them around to the trunk of the sedan, setting them in carefully, then going back for more.

Peters gave a mask to the man standing over the driver with the gun. The gunman did not speak. Then Peters went around to the trunk of the sedan and began counting the plastic packages. When there were twenty, he placed them in a suitcase, locked the case, and closed the trunk.

The men climbed back into the sedan and drove off.

`Time?'

`Nine fifty-one.'

`Beautiful.'

'T'he black sedan drove back to the San Diego Freewa, and stopped at the on-ramp for Hackley Road. Peters got out. So did the other gunman. Peters went around to the trunk and removed the suitcase with the plastic packages. The other gunman placed the two radiation capsules into the blue canvas gym bag.

He stood with Peters until the sedan had pulled onto the freeway and disappeared. Then, his back to the road, he took off his mask. Peters took off his mask as well. The other man removed a paper American flag from the bag. With Peters' help, he taped the flag onto the side of the suitcase.

Then Peters removed his black-haired wig and his moustache. The other man removed his blond wig and peeled away a reddish, new-looking scar on the side of his cheek.

The two men looked at each other and laughed.

`Well done, brother,' Peters said, and clapped him on the back.

They waited five minutes, and then another black sedan, very dusty, pulled up. An older man leaned out and said, `Give you boys a lift?'

Peters said, `We're going to Phoenix.' As he said it, he glanced at his brother, who was frowning.

`Hell of along way,' the old man said. `Anyhow, you want to go south. This is the north ramp.'

`We're just resting a minute.'

The man looked at them as if they were peculiar, shrugged, and drove onto the ramp. His car rattled as he gathered speed, and then he was gone. They were left by the roadside.

His brother lit a cigarette.

`You know,' his brother said, `this is going to create a hell of a mess.'

`That was the idea.'

`When are you leaving?'

`Four.'

`That's cutting it awfully close. I'm getting out at three.'

`To Vegas?'

His brother nodded. `You?'

`Chicago.'

`You better hope nothing delays that plane on the ground.'

`There's another flight at four thirty. I'm booked on that one as well.'

His brother nodded.

Down the road they saw a car approach. It was black and white, a sedan. They couldn't see it clearly, but as it came closer they saw the configuration better. A police car.

`Shit,' Peters said.

His brother lit another cigarette. `What if he wants to look in the suitcase? What if he -'

`We haven't done anything wrong,' Peters said. He glanced at his watch. It was almost ten o'clock. Where the hell was the pickup?

The police car came closer.

`I don't like this at all,' his brother said.

`We haven't done anything wrong,' Peters said again.

The police car approached them and put on its blinker.

`The bastard's pulling over.'

But the car did not pull over. Instead, it drove onto the ramp and merged with traffic. The cop hardly glanced at them.

They sighed.

`What time is it?'

`I have ten, on the nose.'

In the distance a car got off the far ramp and made a U turn under the freeway. It was a Cadillac convertible with a woman driving. She came around and started up the ramp, going back the way she had come. She stopped when she saw them.

`I took the wrong turnoff. Can I give you fellows a lift?,

'We're going to Phoenix,' Peters said.

`No kidding,' the woman said. `That's my home town.'

`No kidding,' Peters said. `Which part?'

`The right part,' she said.

The two men exchanged glances, then got into the car, placing the suitcases in the back seat. The woman said, `Sorry I'm late,' and drove off. Nothing else was said.

The voice crackled over the telephone line. `Fucking around with the computers,' Phelps said, `is not my idea of a. joke.'

Graves sat in the hotel phone booth and stared across the lobby at Lewis and a marshal. Lewis was gesturing to Graves to get off the phone. `It wasn't intended as a joke.'

`How was it intended?' Phelps said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

`It was intended as an attempt to recall my own file.'

`You're not supposed to do that.'

`There are a lot of things I'm not supposed to do.'

`And you seem bent on doing all of them,' Phelps said. `Have you picked up Wright yet?'

`No.'

`You've certainly had time; it's ten -'

`I want to play him a little. Besides, I have somebody else.'

`Oh?'

`Timothy Drew.'

`Where?'

`Upstairs. We've got him in a hotel on Third.'

`We've been looking for him for forty-eight hours,' Phelps said. `And I mean looking hard. How did you find him?'

'Wright led us to him,' Graves said. That was the only thing that bothered Graves. It was too much like a setup, as if Wright were giving him Drew.