Douglas Preston - Impact

Chaudry nodded.

Ford went on to describe the book in enthusiastic detail, the layout, what it would cover, and of course all the beautiful photographs it would contain. Abbey was amazed at the transformation from his usual dry and cool manner to a bubbling enthusiasm. Chaudry listened politely, hands tented in front.

Ford finished up. "I understand that because this is a NASA project, the photographs are in the public domain. I'd like access to all your images, at the highest resolution."

Chaudry unclasped his hands and leaned forward. "You're right that the images are in the public domain--but not at the highest resolution."

"We're going to be running double trucks and gatefolds and we'll need the best resolution we can get."

The director leaned back. "The high-res images are strictly classified, I'm afraid. Don't be concerned--we can get you all the images you need at a resolution more than adequate for a book."

"Why classified?"

"Standard operating procedure. The imaging technology is highly classified and we don't want our enemies knowing just how good that technology is."

"Just how high is the highest resolution?"

"Again, I can't talk about specifics. Generally, from orbit, we can see something on the ground as small as fifty centimeters. And with our SHARAD radar we can look as much as a hundred meters under the surface, too."

Ford whistled. "Seen anything unusual?"

Chaudry smiled, showing very white teeth. "Just about everything we see is unusual. We're like Columbus setting foot in America."

"Anything . . . not strictly natural?"

The smile faded. "And what do you mean by that?" he asked coolly.

"Let's say you were to see something on the surface that wasn't natural--say, an alien spaceship." Ford chuckled lightly. "What would you do then?"

Now the smile was completely gone. "Mr. Ford, please don't even joke about that. We get a lot--and I mean a lot --of nuts in here pushing crazy theories. We've actually had demonstrations in front of the buildings by groups demanding we release pictures of the alien civilizations we've discovered." He paused, and then added: "You are joking, Mr. Ford? Or do you have some specific reason for asking the question?"

"Yes," said Ford. "I was joking."

Abbey spoke. "You're right, Dr. Chaudry. I read somewhere that almost forty percent of Americans believe in the existence of intelligent life somewhere else in the universe. Imagine being that dumb!"

Chaudry shifted uncomfortably.

"Well," said Ford briskly, casting a sharp eye on Abbey. "You've been most helpful, Dr. Chaudry."

Chaudry rose with evident relief. "Mr. Ford, we'd be glad to cooperate with your book. All the pictures are online at our Web site. Just pick out the ones you want and my press office will be glad to get you a DVD of the images at the highest legal resolution." He gave a rather forced smile and eased them out of the office with a practiced hand.

"That was a waste of time," muttered Abbey, as they walked down the long halls.

Ford rubbed his chin and looked about, then turned a corner and headed down a wrong hall.

"Yo, Einstein," Abbey said. "You're going the wrong way."

A smile crept onto Ford's face. "Darn. This is such a big, confusing place. Easy to get lost." He continued on, turning another corner, going down another hallway.

Abbey tried to keep up with his long strides.

"Just follow my lead," said Ford. He turned another corner and Abbey realized he already seemed to know the layout of the place. They came to an office door, which was shut. Ford knocked and a rather irritated voice sounded within, "Come in."

Ford opened and door and entered. Abbey saw a large man with an unpleasantly fleshy face, wearing a short-sleeved shirt with hammy arms. It was hot and the place smelled of sweat.

"Dr. Winston Derkweiler?" Ford rapped out.

"Yes?"

"I'm with the Agency," Ford said, then nodded toward Abbey. "My assistant."

Derkweiler looked at her, then back at him. "Agency? Which agency?"

"About a month ago," Ford continued as if he hadn't heard, "one of your scientists was murdered."

Abbey was surprised. This was all new to her. Ford played his cards close.

"That's right," said Derkweiler, "but I understood the case was closed."

Ford turned to Abbey. "Ms. Straw, would you please shut the door?"

"Yes, sir." Abbey shut the door, and then turned the lock for good measure.

"The case may be closed, but the security breach is still under investigation."

Derkweiler nodded. "Security breach? I'm not sure I understand."

"Let us just say Dr. Freeman was indiscreet."

"It doesn't surprise me."

"I'm glad you understand the problem, Dr. Derkweiler."

"Thank you."

Ford smiled. "I was told I could count on you for help. Now then, I'd like a list of the staff in your department."

Derkweiler hesitated. "Well, speaking of security, I . . . I'd need to see your pass or ID or something."

"Naturally! My apologies." Ford removed a well-worn badge, on which Abbey could see a blue, white, and gold seal with the legend, Central Intelligence Agency.

"Oh, that agency," said Derkweiler.

The badge swiftly disappeared back into Ford's suit. "This is just between us--understood?"

"Absolutely." Derkweiler delved into his files and removed a piece of paper, handing it to Ford. "There it is: personnel in my department--names, titles, contact info."

"And ex-personnel?"

Derkweiler frowned, rummaged through some files. "Here's a list as of last quarter. If you want to go further back, I'd suggest checking with the personnel office directly."

They were out of the building in five minutes, in the vast parking lot to the side of the building. It was brutally hot in their rental car, the seat like a skillet. Abbey had never been to Southern California before and she hoped never to return. How could people stand the weather? Give her Maine in January.

Ford started the car and the AC came on in a blast of hot air. Abbey looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Good job, Special Agent Ford."

"Thank you." Ford slipped the lists Derkweiler had given him out of his pocket and handed them to her. "Find me a disgruntled former employee, preferably someone who was fired."

"You think they're covering something up?"

"A place like that is always covering something up. That's the nature of the beast. All large bureaucracies, no matter what they do, are dedicated to controlling information, expanding their budgets, and self-perpetuation. If they've found anything unusual about Mars, you can bet it's been hidden. God bless the disgruntled employee--no one does more to bring openness to government."

49

Mark Corso let himself into the dingy brownstone, riffled through the stack of mail on the side table, tossed it back in disgust, and went into the parlor. He flopped down on the sofa and fired up the Xbox running Resident Evil 5. He had to go to work at Moto's in another hour and he wanted to kill some time.

As the game started, the small parlor shook with the sounds of weapons fire, explosions, and ripping meat. He played for ten minutes but it wasn't any good. He paused the game and set the console aside, silence descending. It just wasn't fun anymore, he couldn't get back in the groove. Not with this discovery still up in the air, waiting for Marjory to call, waiting, waiting, waiting. He was taking the drive to the Times first thing tomorrow morning.

It had been only two days since his call to Marjory but she was still cautioning him to keep quiet about it. Maybe she was buying time while looking for the machine herself. Good luck--she'd never find it on the surface of Mars.

He thought back to the journalist who'd called him that morning. He'd been cautious, circumspect, but he gave her enough information, he hoped, to light a fire under Chaudry's ass. Give him a scare when the piece came out. Although, in thinking back over the conversation, he felt a little uneasy, wondering if he should have been a little less forthcoming. But she had assured him it was off the record, background only--his name would never come up.