Douglas Preston - Impact

"All indications are that the stones are coming out of a single source in Southeast Asia, most likely Cambodia," said Lockwood.

Draining the third cup, Ford leaned back. "So what's the assignment?"

"I want you to go undercover to Bangkok, follow the trail of these radioactive honeys back to the source, locate it, document it, and come back out."

"And then?"

"We make the problem go away."

"Why me? Why not CIA?"

"This is sensitive stuff--Cambodia is an ally. You get caught, we need deniability. It's not the kind of operation the CIA does well--small and quick, in and out. A one-man job. I'm afraid you won't have Agency backup on this one."

"Thanks for the offer." Ford set down his cup and rose to leave.

"The president's approved the op personally."

"Excellent coffee." He headed for the door.

"I promise, we won't hang you out to dry."

He paused.

"It's simple: go in, find the mine, get out. Do absolutely nothing. Don't touch the mine. We're still analyzing those gemstones--they might be extremely important."

"I have no interest in going back to Cambodia," said Ford, his hand resting on the doorknob.

"It does no service to your wife's memory to keep running from your past."

Ford was startled at this unexpected and painful insight from Lockwood. He sighed and folded his arms.

"The money's good," said Lockwood, "the CIA won't interfere, you'll be in control, in charge of your own people. You have the backing of the Oval Office--what more could you want?"

"What's my cover?"

"Crooked American black-market gem wholesaler."

Ford shook his head. "Won't work. A wholesaler wouldn't care about finding the source--he'd be content to buy from middlemen. I'll be a get-rich-quick schemer looking for a one-time killing--the kind of guy who thinks he'll get a better price by bypassing the wholesalers and going directly to the source."

"Is that a yes?"

"Give me a rap sheet with an arrest for smuggling cocaine, dismissed on a technicality."

"You want to get killed?"

"And two brutal murder charges, acquitted. That'll make 'em think twice."

"If that's the way you want to play it, fine."

"I'll need some gold to throw around. American eagles."

"Will do."

"I want translators standing by, twenty-four/seven, fluent in the common Southeast Asian languages, especially Thai. There are a couple of high-tech devices I'll need."

"No problem."

"If I fail, bury me in Arlington Cemetery, twenty-one-gun salute, the works."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," said Lockwood, his thin lips tightening into a mirthless smile. "Does this mean you're in?"

"What's the compensation?"

"A hundred thousand. Same as last time."

"Make it two, so I can pay my secretary's health insurance."

Lockwood extended his hand. "Two."

They shook. As Ford left the office, he noticed the worry stone going a mile a minute in Lockwood's manicured hand.

5

Mark Corso entered his modest apartment and shut the door. He stood there for a moment, as if seeing it for the first time. The crying of a baby came through the walls and a heavy smell of fried bacon permeated the stale air. The air-conditioner unit, which took up a third of the window, thumped and shuddered, issuing a feeble current. The faint sound of sirens penetrated from outside. In front of him, the picture window looked out over a busy intersection with a car wash, drive-thru burger joint, and a used-car lot.

For the first time, Corso took a grim satisfaction in the general seediness of the apartment, the paper-thin walls, the stains on the rug, the dead ficus in the corner, the soul-crushing view. A year ago he had rented the apartment long-distance, suckered by the glowing description on a Web site and a raft of artfully shot photographs. From Greenpoint, Brooklyn, it had seemed like pure California dreaming, a large one-bedroom "drenched" with light, with a private garden, swimming pool, palm trees, and (best of all) a parking garage with his very own assigned space.

Now, finally, he could say good-bye to this dump.

The past few months at NPF had been crazy, with his old professor and mentor Jason Freeman getting canned--followed by his freakish murder in a home invasion and robbery. That had shaken Corso up like nothing since the death of his father. Freeman had been going downhill for a while, coming in late to work, blowing off staff meetings, arguing with colleagues. Corso had heard rumors of women and heavy drinking. It distressed him deeply because Freeman, his undergraduate thesis advisor back at MIT, had been the one who brought him into the Mars mission at NPF.

That morning, Corso had learned he was going to be promoted to Freeman's place. It was an enormous step forward, with a new title, more money, and prestige. He wasn't even thirty yet, younger than most of his colleagues, a rising star. Nevertheless, his good fortune built on the back of his beloved teacher's failure filled him with conflicting feelings.

He turned from the window and pushed the sting of guilt out of his mind. What happened to Freeman was tragic, but it was random, like being struck by lightning, and Corso had done all he could. He'd supported Freeman among his colleagues and had tried to warn him about what was happening. Freeman seemed in the grip of some reckless obsession or force larger than life that was dragging him down, despite all Corso could do.

The promotion meant he'd finally have the money to break his lease, kiss his security deposit good-bye, and find something better. No problem there; Pasadena wasn't like Brooklyn and there were thousands of other apartments for rent. Having been there a year, he was familiar enough with the area to know where to look and which areas to avoid.

In the middle of these thoughts a timid knock came on the door. Corso turned from the window, peeked through the eyehole to see the building super standing with something in his hand. He opened the door and the rotund little man stuck out a hairy arm with a small cardboard box. "Package."

He took it, thanked the man, shut the door. Something from Amazon, it seemed . . . but then he looked more closely and felt a sudden freezing of his spine. The box had been reused; the package was from Jason J. Freeman.

For a crazy moment Corso thought maybe Freeman wasn't dead after all, that the old reprobate had gone to Mexico or something, but then he noted the cancellation date, which was ten days old, and the media mail stamp on the box. Ten days . . . Freeman had mailed the package two days before his murder and it had been in transit ever since.

His heart racing, Corso took a paring knife from the kitchen and slit open the box. He removed wadded newspaper to expose a letter and, nesting underneath, a high-density hard drive stenciled with the Mars mission logo. As he lifted it out, he saw, with a sudden feeling not unlike nausea, that it was classified.

#785A56H6T 160Tb

CLASSIFIED: DO NOT DUPLICATE

Property of NPF

California Institute of Technology

National Aeronautics and Space Administration

With a trembling hand Corso placed it on the coffee table and slit open the envelope with his fingernail. Inside was a handwritten letter.

Dear Mark,

I'm sorry to burden you but there's no other way. I don't have much time to write, so I'll be blunt. Chaudry and Derkweiler are arrant fools, they are political animals through and through, and they're incapable of understanding the significance of what I've discovered. This is huge, unbelievable. I'm not about to hand it to those bastards, especially after the way they've treated me. It's a serpent's den over there at NPF with all those self-important hemorrhoidal shit-encrusted assholes. Everything is political and nothing's about science. I just couldn't take it any longer. It's impossible to work there.