Ground Zero Read online

  “If they are separate, if they were murdered by another person, what will that do to my conspiracy members? That's what I'm thinking now,” Procell said. He spread the refried beans over the tortillas and folded the eggs inside. He took the cheese from Eileen and filled the tortillas with the shredded cheese. Then he poured the green Chile sauce on top and put the huevos into the oven to warm.

  “This is going to be good,” Procell said. “I mean, let's say we have Person X, who murdered Terry and Art. Then we have Organization Y, which has murdered a bunch of scientists on missile defense. What is Organization Y doing right now? If Person X is some clumsy amateur, Organization Y may be revealed simply because X is out there. I hope this happens. You know that somebody is killing us.”

  “Maybe two somebodies. Maybe two groups of somebodies.”

  “So maybe Organization Y panics? Maybe they make a mistake. Like killing Art.”

  “So you're saying Terry was killed by Person X, for reasons unknown, so Y responds by taking out their next victim early.”

  “Right. Art Bailey. Smartest man in defense simulations. Breakfast is done. Want some juice? Milk?”

  “Milk would be fine,” Eileen said. She smiled wryly at Procell. “You get this detachment from your job, don't you?”

  Procell looked at her in surprise. He was carrying the hot plates with two oven mittens. They were shaped like cartoon sharks.

  “Detachment?”

  “Yes. We're talking about murder, you know.”

  Procell put the plates down and went back for the milk. He flushed a little.

  “Well, we're all used to talking about death. In the large sense. Casualties, millions of them. We put together this one briefing for a Senator from a state I won't name. The bastard wanted to cut our black funding. We showed him a War Game where a submarine from -- “ Procell paused. “Well, from a place. This sub launched a missile and took out one city. Los Angeles. We calculated the casualties. Deaths from the blast wave at ground zero. The overpressure drops exponentially as you move outward from ground zero. So some people survive, the ones quite a way from the blast and behind big buildings. You have hundreds of thousands who won't survive, blinded and burned. We showed him the graphs. Came up with a dollar figure. Every burn unit in the country would be filled by the ones who just might make it. Damn, we even calculated burial costs for the dead. Added up to our funding for five years. If we stopped one bomb that would equal our funding for five fiscal years. Talk about cheap insurance. Bastard still voted to cut funding.”

  “You're used to death, in other words.”

  “Yeah, I am. Not so much my own, though. I'm not very brave. I've been sitting here all morning waiting for some Bond assassin to come through my door and tell me we're taking a ride.” He gestured to the table. “Let's eat.”

  The meal was as good as it looked. Eileen dug in, relishing the taste of homemade food. She was an indifferent cook and didn't spend much time at home as it was. Procell was neat and quick.

  “This is very good,” Eileen said, after half her tortilla was gone. She felt more tired but better able to handle it. A quick nap in the early afternoon and she could go all night. She would have to.

  “Thanks. I'm glad you came over. Not just because I feel safe. But because I want to help.”

  Eileen straightened in her chair at that. “Art wanted to help, too,” she said grimly. “I think he figured out something. And I think that may be what got him killed.” She told Procell about seeing the lines “FOUND” before the screen went dark. She did not tell Procell any other details.

  “Found,” Procell said slowly. “Art must have thought about something. I don't know what he did. It was the computer, you said, not the video tapes?”

  “The computer terminal. That's what said 'Found'.”

  “Well maybe he did,” Procell said. “If so, then perhaps my Organization Y is sitting tight, maybe even going underground.”

  Eileen kept from sighing by taking a mouthful of tortilla. Procell was on a single track about his pet theory.

  “That means we have Murderer X who has killed twice. Why? I can come up with all sorts of reasons why Organization Y would kill scientists. Money from powerful governments, political goals, even environmental extremists who want to keep mankind out of space. But why one murder? Why Terry?”

  “Terry was a girl that made people hate her,” Eileen said. She glanced at Procell, who was finishing his milk. Procell looked mild and innocent. “Why did you want to murder her?”

  The shot went home so easily Eileen felt ashamed. Procell paled instantly.

  “Me? I didn't. You know I didn't!”

  “I didn't say you murdered Terry. I just want to know why you wrote her code for her.”

  Eileen trusted her instincts. They weren't wrong this time. Procell looked as though he'd been punched in the stomach.

  “Why -- How did you know?” he said finally, after swallowing a few times. There was a green tint to his face. Eileen hoped Procell wasn't going to lose the excellent breakfast he'd just eaten.

  “I found out. Terry couldn't have written good code. Not the stuff she magically started turning out. Why did you do it?”

  Procell slumped in his chair. He put a hand over his eyes. Eileen leaned forward intently. What did Terry do to this man? She could still see the image of the young, defeated 'Berto in her mind. She could still hear the baffled hurt in his voice.

  “She was blackmailing me,” Procell said quietly behind the hand. “We went to the same college together. She knew she couldn't keep up on the project but she wanted to stay on. I don't know why. Maybe because Game Days are so fun. Maybe she liked to walk around with all the military officers looking at her. I don't know why.”

  “What did she have on you?”

  “I had a love affair with the wrong person,” Procell said. He didn't meet Eileen’s eyes. “She knew about it.”

  “A love affair? How could she blackmail you with that?”

  “Security clearances are touchy things,” Procell said wearily. “You have financial problems, you're out. You have relatives in some foreign country the government doesn't like this year, you're out. Anything in your past that could be a blackmail risk, and you’re out.”

  Cherry wandered over to her master and nudged at his hip with her nose, hoping for a treat. Procell caressed her head absently.

  “So what was her blackmail?”

  “An affair with the wrong person.”

  “Stop stonewalling,” Eileen said. Procell looked at Eileen’s face and paled even more.

  “You going to write this down? Could you not write this down?” There was naked appeal in Procell’s voice. “This is my life you can ruin. Terry was the last one who knew. I thought I was okay once she was dead --”

  He stopped. Eileen looked at him.

  “I didn't, though! I would never. I'm --”

  “So what was the blackmail?”

  “I did her code for her,” Procell said, looking at the carpet, “So she wouldn't let slip that I had an affair with a professor at college.”

  “A proff--”

  “A male professor,” Procell said, and looked at Eileen.

  There was a silence.

  “Oh,” Eileen said. There didn't seem to be much else to say.

  “I'm not even bisexual now,” Procell said. “I think I got fooled into it for a while. I'm not one of those closet gays who marry and raise a family. I wasn't sure of my identity and so I experimented, and then I met Janet right after I graduated. That was it for me. I love her more than my life, Miss Reed. She's everything.” Procell looked down at his hands as his voice broke. “She's everything. And we have Martha. If I were an attorney too, then it wouldn't be a big deal, maybe. But I'm in Defense. I'd lose my job in a snap. I will lose my job. They don't give gays security clearances, even if they aren't gay.”

  “That's a damn good motive for murder,” Eileen said. She felt fresh outrage at the military, at the whole c
learance system. Eileen supposed you could murder to keep your clearance, if it was that hard to keep. Although she wasn't quite sure. Murdering someone over a piece of paper? But Procell was the proof, sitting in a devastated silence at his own dining room table. Nelson Atkins, with his pale freckled face. Major Blaine, with his endless report writing. The security clearance was the means of earning a living. Without that paper, the good life would be lost. Would someone do murder to keep from losing their livelihood, their job, their self respect? Eileen didn't have to think about that one for long. And Terry knew the weaknesses of the people she worked with. What was Joe Tanner’s Achilles heel? How about Sharon Johnson? Nelson Atkins?

  “If I was going to murder her I would have done it a year and a half ago,” Procell said bitterly. “I haven't spent an entire weekend at home for almost two years because I've been doing two jobs. Terry never leaves late, she takes weekends and holidays, and she would smirk at me and flip her narrow little hand at me as she got into her coat and left, while my two year old daughter is being fed at home and I'm working on Terry's code. Writing her name instead of my own into the computer code! I wish you knew how that felt. Like painting a picture and having someone else sign their name to it. I would have done it long ago, if I was going to do it.”

  “She wasn't a good person, was she?” Eileen said gently.

  “She was a monster. She's owned my life for the past two years and now she's going to ruin me forever after she's dead.”

  “No, she won't,” Eileen said impatiently. “What do you think I am?”

  Procell looked up and Eileen had to look away from the expression in his eyes.“There's no reason to take any of this down unless you turn up as the murderer,” Eileen said. “Sure you've got a motive, and you're still a suspect, but I don't compare notes with Major Blaine.”

  Procell put his head in his hands for a moment, his long fingers squeezing his skull through the thick handsome hair. Then he took a deep breath and sat up straight.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I don’t know how else to say it. Thank you.”

  “Don't thank me,” Eileen said. “This was another lead that I've followed down to the proverbial blank wall. Should something break on this case, however, that points your direction, all the huevos in the world won’t keep you out of jail.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Procell said, his voice light and dizzy with relief. “You won't. I mean, it won't. I promise. I swear it.”

  “I'm going to have to be going,” Eileen said. She balled up her napkin and tossed it on the table. “I really appreciate the breakfast. If you think of anything --”

  “I'll call,” Procell said eagerly.

  “Don't try anything, all right?” Eileen said sternly. “If your conspiracy group Y isn't out there, you know we have Mr. X. Or Miss X. Whoever it was, they killed Art.”“Yes, ma’am,” Procell said, trying to look sober but failing. He was euphoric. Eileen felt chilled again as she walked to the door. Procell looked like a victim. The Gamers looked as if they were all marked for death.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Pentagon

  “What's going on?” Lucy asked Mills. They were in one of the briefing rooms at the Pentagon, the one that was set up like a small movie theater. They'd been escorted there by a Navy lieutenant and asked to wait. That was an hour ago. Lucy itched to be back at her computer, finding out more about Muallah.

  “I don't know. The Chief told me I had to come over here, and bring you. He said he'd be with us but he's got something too hot to leave. I hope I'm not in trouble.”

  Lucy smiled wryly. What a total asshole Mills was.

  “You want some cookies? I have to eat or I'm going to be sick again.”

  “No,” Mills said nervously. Then he glanced over at her as she opened a package of chocolate chip cookies. “Well, maybe one,” he said

  The cookies made them both feel better but the sugar increased Mill's nervousness. Lucy stretched out in the comfortable chair and closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at him.

  “This has to do with the missile defense homicides, I'm sure of it,” he said.

  “You've been pushing me pretty hard on it,” Lucy said, her eyes still closed. “Did you know Fouad Muallah has a master’s degree?”

  “The guy you think killed Tabor in Paris?”

  “Yes,” Lucy said, pressing her lips together to keep back a sigh. “He did his thesis on an eighth century Islamic poet, who was supposed to be some sort of Arab Nostradamus, or something.”

  “I wonder why they wanted to see us here at the Pentagon?” Mills asked worriedly.

  “So this terrorist was interested in the missile defense system,” Lucy continued, wishing she were talking to anyone but Mills. “Why? Why would anyone at less than a governmental level want access to that information? Missile defense isn’t a terrorist kind of thing. You can’t use it to bomb someone, or threaten someone. So why was he so interested?”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” Mills said.

  “I’m sure you haven’t,” Lucy said soothingly, suppressing another sigh.

  “I decided to give you the homicide project,” Mills said thoughtfully, his knees bouncing to the nervous tapping of his feet. “The DDCIA wanted me to give it to Felix, but I thought you'd be a better man -- er, analyst for the job.”

  “Thanks,” Lucy said, and looked over at him in surprise. Felix was only slightly younger than Bob. “So did you tell the DDCIA you gave the file to me instead of Felix?”

  “I did yesterday. He didn't like it and I don't know why.”

  “Maybe that's what we're about to find out,” Lucy said. Mills stilled his feet with an obvious effort when the door opened.

  “Admiral Kane,” Mills said, leaping to his feet. “Steven Mills. This is Lucy Giometti.”

  “Hello,” the Admiral said. There were lines in his face that were sagging with weariness, but the uniform was sharply creased. “This is my aide, Lieutenant Jefferson.” Lucy and Mills nodded at Jefferson, whose face was impassive above the white of his uniform.

  “So you’re the girl who has the BMD homicide file,” the Admiral said with a charming, grandfatherly smile. Lucy, who was looking at his eyes, was not fooled by the smile.

  “Yes, sir,” she said politely.

  “Any new developments on the case?”

  “Not so far,” Steven Mills said, as Lucy opened her mouth. She looked over at Mills in amazement. Mills gave her a warning glance, as though to tell her to keep quiet and let him do the talking. Did he think she would suddenly turn into his little 50’s mouse now?

  “Except for the Fouad Muallah connection,” she said smoothly, watching Mill’s face flush out of the corner of her eye. “We believe he is the contact for Tabor’s information, and probably his murderer.”

  “--But we don’t have proof for that, yet,” Mills broke in quickly.

  “And we’re not sure why,” Lucy said. “I’m working on some information right now, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

  “What about the local murders, then?” the Admiral asked.

  “The local detective hasn’t made any breaks in the case,” Lucy admitted. “I don’t have any information other than the police and autopsy reports.”

  “I hear you're quite an arrogant analyst,” The Admiral said pleasantly, and for a moment Lucy thought she must have heard him incorrectly. Then she saw the glitter of his eyes.

  “You hear right, I suppose,” she said, and kept her face pleasant and inquiring. It took an effort. Behind Admiral Kane's shoulder she could see Jefferson, standing quietly. Her heart felt like someone had just dumped a gallon of adrenaline into her system. She felt the beginnings of a completely unexpected attack.

  “You're arrogant, opinionated, and I question your commitment to your job. You leave early, you always take lunch, and you never come in on the weekends.”

  “And I always get my work done,” Lucy said, still calmly.

  “I find that astoni
shing, considering the amount of hours you put in on the job.”

  “I find it astonishing that some people stretch an eight hour day into a twelve hour day without getting anything done,” Lucy said. But she could feel her face flushing with emotion. She was itching to track down Muallah and figure out what he was doing, and her time was being wasted with this?

  “Did you bring me all the way over here to chew me out? Don't tell me about commitment to a job, Mr. Admiral sir.” She tried to keep from spitting out the words, noticing Mill’s white and desperate face and ignoring it. “Commitment doesn't mean spending time at work or brown nosing the boss. Commitment means applying your mind to your work, which I do. I can get my job done in forty hours, and I do. I love my job. But you can't destroy my life just because I love my job. You can't ransom my brain and my skills. You don't like my work, tell Steve to fire me. It won't even disturb my sleep.” There was a silence in the tiny room. Lucy could see Jefferson's broad and delighted grin behind the shoulder of his boss. She tried to calm her racing heart. She sat down without permission and crossed her legs deliberately. She'd learned in a thousand family arguments that the most infuriating position to take was one of calm superiority. It worked on her brothers, anyway.

  “You question my commitment?” she said, and closed her eyes as though she were bored of the conversation. She clenched her hands against the arm rests of her chair to keep them from trembling. “You're the Missile Defense Commander-in-Chief and you've got fourteen dead scientists. Now you’ve got a dead spy. What are you doing about that? The same nothing you've been doing for years?”

  The Admiral laughed aloud.

  “Just checking, Mrs. Giometti,” he said. “You're about to become one of a few dozen people in the world to know this particular part of history, and I wanted to make sure you were up to the task.”

  Lucy opened her eyes, and saw the changed face of the Admiral smiling tiredly at her. He looked grandfatherly and kindly. Mills, at her other side, was still pale and shocked.