him. You did a fine job of pretending to dislike the guy—and here it turns out you’re best buddies, in with him from the beginning. And then the craziest accusation of them all: All that stuff on your computer—frigging jihadist love letters almost.
“Jihadist love letters,” he said out loud.
“What?”
“That’s what the FBI agent who tried to arrest me said. That I had, quote, jihadist love letters, unquote, on my computer.”
Another long silence.
“You know,” Gideon went on, “you asked a very good question. Of course it wasn’t a mistake. I’ve been framed.”
“Oh yeah?” came the reply, in a voice laced with skepticism.
“First they tried to kill us by sabotaging our plane a few days ago. When that didn’t work, they framed me.”
“Why would anybody do that?”
“Because our investigation touched the person or group behind this.” He thought a moment. “No, not touched—we must’ve scored a direct hit. Scared the shit out of someone. Sabotaging the plane, framing me—those are risky, desperate measures.”
He paused, thinking.
“The question is, which computer of mine did they salt? I know it can’t be my personal computer at the cabin—the entire hard disk is encrypted with an RSA 2048-bit key. Unbreakable. So they must have salted my computer up on the Hill.”
“But isn’t that a classified system?”
“That’s just it. It’s jacked into a highly classified, isolated network. But because of the security, the contents of every computer are accessible in their entirety to the network security officers and certain other officials. The network automatically logs everything and everyone on the system and records every keystroke, everything they do. So if someone monkeyed with my computer up at the lab, it would have to be an insider—and it would be recorded.”
In the dying glow of the fire, he could see Alida’s eyes on him. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“Talk to Bill Novak. The network security officer. He’s the guy with access to all the files.”
“So you’re going to have a nice chat. And he’s just going to tell a wanted terrorist everything he needs to know.”
“With that six-gun of yours pressed to his head, he will.”
She laughed harshly. “You moron, it’s a stage gun, loaded with blanks. Otherwise, I would’ve blown you right out of the saddle back there.”
He slid it out of his belt, examined it, frowned. It was indeed loaded with blanks. “I’ll think of something.” He paused. “Anyway, we’re going to Los Alamos.”
“But that’s across the Bearhead wilderness, twenty miles away!”
“You wanted a plan—you got it. And Los Alamos is the last place they’ll think of looking for me.”
35
STONE FORDYCE PAUSED, swiping the sweat from his brow, and checked his GPS. They were approaching an altitude of nine thousand feet, the ponderosa pines giving way to fir trees, the forest getting heavier. The powerful halogen beams of his men’s flashlights swept through the trunks, casting stark shadows, and the pair of bloodhounds bayed their frustration at the pause. He held up his hand to listen, and all movement behind him ceased, the men falling silent. The dog handler hushed the dogs.
He knelt, examining the trail. It was getting fresher, the crumbled edges of dirt sharper and more defined. All day and through the evening they had steadily been gaining on the trail, and now they were very close: the dogs were frantic and straining at their leashes. Slowly he stood, keeping his hand up for silence and listening intently. Above the sighing of the wind in the trees he thought he could hear something else—the repeated sound of measured footfalls. The horse was moving laterally on the steep slope above them.
It was almost over.
“They’re up there,” he murmured. “Five-meter separation. Flank them on the right. Move!”
They exploded into action, the dogs baying loudly, the men fanning out and surging up the hill, weapons drawn. They were exhausted, but the closeness of their quarry gave them fresh energy.
Fordyce drew his own .45 and started up. Once again he felt a surge of self-blame. He should have seen it days ago. Gideon was a con artist par excellence—and he’d taken Fordyce for the ride of a lifetime. But all that was over now. Once they got Gideon, they’d make him talk and the plot would be blown open.
Make him talk. Screw the Geneva Convention—there was a live nuke out there. They would do what it takes.
Gasping but still pushing, they topped out on the ridge, Fordyce in the lead. The trail went right, and Fordyce jogged along it, keeping low and using the