Blasphemy (3 page)

“If that doesn’t work?”

“Neutralize Begay’s influence.”

“How?”

“Dig some dirt out of his past, get him drunk, photograph him in bed with a mule—I don’t care.”

“I’m going to consider that a feeble attempt at humor.”

“Yes, yes, of course. You’re the anthropologist; you’re supposed to know how to handle these people.” Lockwood’s smile was bland, generic.

Silence gathered. Ford finally asked, “So what’s the real assignment?”

Lockwood clasped his hands and leaned forward. The smile widened. “Find out what the hell’s really going on out there.”

Ford waited.

“The anthropology bit is your cover. Your real assignment must remain absolutely secret.”

“Understood.”

“Isabella was supposed to be calibrated and online eight weeks ago, but they’re still messing around with it. They say they can’t get it to work. They have every excuse under the sun—bugs in the software, bad magnetic coils, leaky roof, broken cable, computer problems. You name it. At first I bought the excuses, but now I’m convinced I’m not getting the real story. There’s something wrong—I just think they’re lying about what it is.”

“Tell me about the people.”

Lockwood leaned back, inhaled. “As you certainly know, Isabella was the brainchild of the physicist Gregory North Hazelius, and he leads a hand-picked team. The best and the brightest America has to offer. The FBI vetted them thoroughly, so there’s no question of their loyalty. In addition, there’s a senior intelligence officer assigned by the Department of Energy, and a psychologist.”

“DOE? What’s their involvement?”

“One of the major research goals of the Isabella project is to look for exotic new forms of energy—fusion, mini black holes, matter–antimatter. DOE’s nominally in charge, although—if I may be frank—I’m running the show at this stage.”

“And the psychologist? What’s his role?”

“It’s like the Manhattan Project out there—isolated, high security, long hours, no families permitted. A high-stress environment. We wanted to make sure nobody went nuts.”

“I see.”

“The team went out there ten weeks ago to get Isabella up and running. It was supposed to take two weeks maximum, but they’re still at it.”

Ford nodded.

“Meanwhile, they’re burning a hell of a lot of electricity—at peak power, Isabella eats up the megawattage of a medium-sized city. They run the damn machine at a hundred percent power again and again, all the while claiming it isn’t working. When I press Hazelius for details, he has answers for everything. He charms you and cajoles you until he convinces you black is white. But something’s wrong and they’re covering it up. It could be an equipment problem, a software problem—or, God knows, a human problem. But this comes at a terrible time. It’s September already. The presidential election’s in two months. This would be a hell of a time for a scandal.”

“Why the name Isabella?”

“The chief engineer, Dolby, the guy who headed the design team, nicknamed it that. It sort of stuck—sounded a lot better than SSCII, the official name. Maybe Isabella’s his girlfriend or something.”

“You mentioned a senior intelligence officer. What’s his background?”

“Tony Wardlaw’s the name. Former Special Forces, distinguished himself in Afghanistan before joining the DOE’s Office of Intelligence. First-rate.”

Ford thought for a moment, and then spoke. “I’m still not sure, Stan, what makes you think they’re not telling the truth. Maybe they really are having the problems you mentioned.”

“Wyman, I’ve got the best bullshit meter in town, and that’s not Chanel Number Five I’m smelling out in Arizona.” He leaned forward. “Members of Congress on both sides of the aisle are sharpening their long knives. They lost the first time around. Now they smell a second feeding.”

“Sounds just like Washington: build a machine for forty billion dollars and then kill the funding to run it.”

“You got that right, Wyman. The only constant in this town is its yearning for imbecility. Your assignment is to find out what’s really going on and report back to me personally. That’s it. Don’t take any action on your own. We’ll handle it from here.”

He went to his desk, pulled a stack of dossiers from a drawer, and smacked them down beside the phone. “There’s one here for each scientist. Medical records, psychological evaluations, religious beliefs—even extramarital affairs.” He smiled mirthlessly. “These came from the NSA, and you know how
thorough
they are.”

Ford looked at the top dossier, opened it. Stapled to the front was a picture of Gregory North Hazelius, an enigmatic look of amusement dancing about in his brilliant blue eyes.

“Hazelius—you know him personally?”

“Yes.” Lockwood dropped his voice. “And I want to . . .
caution
you about him.”

“How so?”

“He has a way of focusing on a person, dazzling him, making him feel special. His mind burns with such incredible intensity that it seems to throw a spell over people. Even his most offhand comment seems charged with hidden importance. I’ve seen him point out something as common as a lichen-covered rock and speak about it in a way that makes you feel that it’s extraordinary and filled with wonder. He showers you with attention, treats you as if you’re the most important person in the world. The effect is irresistible—something a dossier can’t capture. This may sound odd, but it’s . . . it’s almost like falling in love, the way the man draws you in and lifts you out of the humdrum world. You have to experience it to understand. Forewarned is forearmed. Keep your distance.”

He paused, looking at Ford. The muffled sounds of tires, car horns, and voices from the street seeped into the silence. Ford clasped his hands behind his head and looked across at Lockwood. “The FBI or the intelligence arm of the DOE would normally conduct an investigation of this kind. Why me?”

“Isn’t it obvious? There’s a presidential election in two months. The president wants this thing fixed fast, on the quiet, with no paper trail. He needs speed and deniability. If you screw up, we don’t know you. Even if you succeed, we don’t know you.”

“Yes, but why me
specifically
? I’ve got a B.A. in anthropology and that’s it.”

“You’ve got the background—anthropology, computers, ex-CIA.” He pulled a dossier out of the pile. “And you have another asset.”

Ford didn’t like the sudden shift in tone. “Meaning?”

Lockwood pushed the folder across the table to Ford, who opened it and stared at the photograph stapled to the inside cover—a smiling woman with glossy black hair and mahogany eyes.

He slapped it shut, pushed it back at Lockwood, and rose to go. “You call me in here on a Sunday morning and pull a trick like this? Sorry, I don’t mix work with my personal life.”

“It’s too late to withdraw.”

A cold smile. “You going to stop me from walking out?”

“You were CIA, Wyman. You
know
what we can do.”

Ford took a step forward, towering over Lockwood. “I’m trembling in my boots.”

The science adviser looked up, hands clasped, smiling mildly. “Wyman, I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing for me to say. But you of all people should know the importance of the Isabella project. It’ll open the doors on our understanding of the universe. Of the very moment of creation. It could lead us to an unlimited source of carbon-free power. It would be a huge tragedy for American science if we flushed that investment down the toilet.
Please
do this—if not for the president or for me, then for your country. Isabella, quite frankly, is the best thing this administration has done. It’s our legacy. When all the political sound and fury has passed, this is the one thing that will make a difference.” He passed the folder back to Ford. “She’s the assistant director of Isabella. Thirty-five now, Ph.D. from Stanford, a top string theorist. What happened between you and her was a long time ago. I met her. Brilliant, of course, professional, still single, but then I don’t suppose that’ll be an issue. She’s an entrée, a friend, someone to talk to—that’s all.”

“Someone to pump for information, you mean.”

“The most important scientific experiment in human history is at stake.” He tapped the dossier, then raised his eyes to Ford. “Well?”

When Ford returned the gaze, he noticed that Lockwood’s left hand was nervously caressing a pebble that had been sitting on the desk.

Lockwood followed his eyes and smiled sheepishly, as if having been caught. “This?”

Ford could see a sudden guarded look in Lockwood’s eyes. “What is it?” he asked.

“My lucky stone.”

“May I see it?”

Lockwood reluctantly passed the stone to Ford. He turned it over to see a small fossil trilobite embedded in one side.

“Interesting. Any special meaning?”

Lockwood seemed to hesitate. “My twin brother found this the summer we turned nine, gave it to me. That fossil is what started me on the road to science. He . . . drowned a few weeks later.”

Ford fingered the stone, polished by years of handling. He had found the inner man—and, unexpectedly, he liked him.

“I really need you to take this assignment, Wyman.”

And I need it, too
. He laid the rock gently on the desk. “All right. I’ll do it. But I work in my own way.”

“Fair enough. But don’t forget—no action on your own.”

Lockwood rose and pulled a briefcase from his desk, shoved in the dossiers, shut and locked it. “In there you’ll find a satellite phone, laptop, orientation packet, wallet, money, and your official cover assignment. A helicopter’s waiting. The guard outside my office will escort you. Your clothing and sundries will be sent separately.” He locked the briefcase and gave the dial a twirl. “The combination is the seventh to tenth digits of the number pi.” He smiled at his cleverness.

“What if we don’t agree on the meaning of ‘no action on my own’?”

Lockwood shoved the briefcase across the desk. “Remember,” he said, “we never knew you.”

BOOKER CRAWLEY LEANED BACK IN HIS Grundlich CEO chair and studied the five men seating themselves around the bubinga-wood conference table. In his long and fruitful lobbying career, Crawley had learned that you can indeed judge a book by its cover, at least most of the time. He looked at the man opposite him with the preposterous name of Delbert Yazzie, taking in his watery eyes and sad face, the off-the-rack suit, the belt buckle sporting a half pound of silver and turquoise, the cowboy boots that appeared to have been resoled several times. Yazzie, in short, looked manageable. He was a rube, a hayseed Indian playing cowboy who had somehow found himself the newly elected chairman of the so-called Navajo Nation. Previous employment: school janitor. Crawley would have to explain to Yazzie that in Washington, people made appointments. They didn’t just show up—especially on a Sunday morning.

The men seated to Yazzie’s left and right formed the so-called Tribal Council. One looked like a real live Injun, with a beaded headband, long hair tied up in a bun, velvet Indian shirt with silver buttons, and turquoise necklace. Two wore JCPenney suits. The fifth man, suspiciously white, sported a tailored Armani suit. That would be the guy to watch out for.

“Well!” said Crawley. “I’m delighted to meet the new leader of the Navajo Nation. I didn’t know you were in town! Congratulations on your election—and to all of you, members of the Tribal Council. Welcome!”

“We’re pleased to be here, Mr. Crawley,” said Yazzie, his voice low and neutral.

“Call me Booker, please!”

Yazzie inclined his head, but did not offer to be called by his own first name.
Well, no wonder
, thought Crawley,
with a name like Delbert
.

“Can I offer anyone a drink? Coffee? Tea? Pellegrino?”

Everyone wanted coffee. Crawley pressed a buzzer, gave the order, and a few minutes later his man came in pushing a cart loaded with a silver coffeepot, creamer, sugar bowl, mugs. Crawley watched with a shudder while teaspoon after teaspoon of sugar crystals slid into the blackness of Yazzie’s coffee, five in all.

“It’s been such a pleasure for me personally to work with the Navajo Nation,” Crawley continued. “With Isabella almost up and running, this is truly a moment of celebration for all of us. We value our relationship with the Navajo people and look forward to working with you for a long time to come.”

He leaned back with a friendly smile and waited.

“The Navajo Nation thanks you, Mr. Crawley.”

Nods and murmurs of approval went around the table.

“We’re grateful for all you’ve done,” Yazzie continued. “The Navajo Nation feels a great satisfaction in being able to make such an important contribution to American science.”

He spoke in a slow, deliberate way, as if he had rehearsed the words, and Crawley felt a small, cold place harden in his gut. They might want to chisel his fees. Well, they were welcome to try—they had no idea who they were dealing with. What a bunch of sand monkeys.

“You’ve done an excellent job getting Isabella sited on our land and negotiating fair terms with the government,” continued Yazzie, his sleepy eyes raised toward Crawley, but somehow not quite on him. “You did what you said you would do. This is something new in our experience in dealing with Washington. You kept your promises.”

Was that all this visit was about? “Thank you, Mr. Chairman, that’s most kind. I’m delighted to hear it. We certainly do keep our promises. I have to tell you quite frankly that the project involved a lot of hard work. If I may be forgiven a little self-congratulation, this was one of the most challenging lobbying projects I have ever been involved in. But we pulled it off, didn’t we?” Crawley beamed.

“Yes. We hope the compensation you received was a sufficient return for your work.”

“As a matter of fact, the project was far more expensive at our end than we anticipated. My accountant has been in a foul mood these past weeks! But it’s not every day we can help American science while bringing jobs and opportunity to the Navajo Nation.”

“Which brings me to the subject of our visit.”

Crawley sipped from his mug. “Fine. Love to hear it.”