Zimmerman's Algorithm Read online

  "Yes, he is—" Gideon sucked in a breath. "Was my brother."

  The prosecutor nodded. "Why was he with you, and not some other FBI Agent? There is a liaison that the DC Police Department normally works with, isn't there?"

  "Yes." Gideon felt cold, the sweat under his shirt had become like ice on his skin. Were they going to accuse him of causing Rafe's death, here? What could he say if they did? Could he deny it? He couldn't even deny it to himself. "I went through my brother because I thought I'd have a better chance of getting an expedited hearing. I had a specific date, after which the Daedalus was going to be gone, who knows where. I couldn't wait for the liaison to sift through his priorities and kick it upstairs when he felt like it."

  "What was the Bureau's reaction?"

  "There wasn't one. They felt the same as the department. The tip I was working off of wasn't credible enough to assign the manpower I requested."

  "But they assigned you Agent Malcolm?"

  Gideon nodded.

  "Why did they do that?"

  "He—" Gideon's voice caught a bit. "He requested the assignment."

  "So it was you and Agent Malcolm, your brother, alone on this stakeout?"

  "Yes."

  "You had managed to get a warrant to do this?"

  "Yes, Judge Bachman, based on an informant's tip."

  The prosecutor nodded again, as if he was making some sort of point. "Who was this informant?"

  "His name is Kareem Rashad Williams, his street name is Lionel. A small-time drug dealer."

  " 'Small-time drug dealer?' But you believed him when he gave you information on a theft worth fifty million dollars?"

  "Based on my prior experience with him, I thought he was credible. He had no reason to make up something like that."

  "No one else seems to have shared your view."

  "That was why we were alone—"

  "Why didn't you call for backup when you decided to go into the building?"

  "By then I suspect we didn't believe Lionel either. It was after midnight and since no pickup had shown for the computer, we didn't expect to find anything."

  "Now let me see if you can walk us through what happened, step by step—"

  That was what they did, in excruciating detail. Gideon felt as if every step he took had half a dozen questions attached— Why did he do this? Why didn't he do that?

  It seemed to be hours before they reached the ambush that had taken Rafe's life.

  "Now," the prosecutor asked Gideon, "what were Agent Malcolm's words as he turned toward the light?"

  "He said, 'FBI, freeze.' "

  "He was holding his gun at the time?"

  "Yes."

  "It was then that the shooting began?"

  "Yes."

  "As he spoke?"

  "Maybe during, things were going fast—"

  "During?"

  Gideon nodded.

  "Did you both return fire?"

  "I did, I'm not sure about Raphael. I think the first shot hit him before he could do anything."

  The prosecutor shuffled his papers and looked back up at Gideon, "I think that's about it."

  "But—"

  "Thank you," said the prosecutor.

  Gideon didn't have a chance to object; they were already bringing in the next witness. He stood up, and seemed to feel the world lurch underneath him. The prosecutor hadn't asked him anything about the men who'd shot at them. Gideon had no chance to mention silenced weapons. . .

  As he walked out of the room, he couldn't help thinking that there was something very wrong going on.

  A gentle snow was drifting down on Washington as Senator Daniel Tenroyan was taking his regular lunchtime stroll around the Mall. It had been three years since a triple bypass, and he had become religious

  about his exercise. Every day that Congress was in session, he made two complete circuits around the Mall during his lunch hour.

  He was passing the baroque pile of stone that housed part of the Smithsonian when he noticed someone sitting on a bench about thirty feet away, watching him intently. At first Tenroyan thought it was one of the homeless people that dotted the landscape in D.C. But as Tenroyan approached, and the man stood, Tenroyan recognized him.

  "D'Arcy?" Tenroyan said.

  Another step and he was certain. He was facing Emmit D'Arcy, President Rayburn's national security advisor. The last time he had seen D'Arcy, it had been from across the table at a Senate Intelligence Committee briefing.

  The short man pushed his glasses back on his nose and said, "Let's walk for a while."

  Tenroyan felt uncomfortable next to D'Arcy. The man had the reputation of being the most active proponent of black covert operations since William Casey. Tenroyan had gained a deep distrust of such things back when he was a Congressman and had served on the House-Senate Committees for Iran-Contra. That had left a bad taste in his mouth ever since. He felt that it was that bungled intelligence operation that kept Ronald Reagan's presidency from achieving what it might have.

  Tenroyan walked next to D'Arcy, but he refused to start a conversation with the man.

  "I understand that you're having a press conference this Friday."

  "Yep," Tenroyan said. He looked up to watch the flags snapping around the base of the Washington Monument. Tenroyan had a Coolidge-like reputation for being laconic, and it came in handy when dealing with hostile reporters, and anyone else he didn't trust. He had a motto, don’t engage the devil in conversation.

  "I understand you're going to chair this committee on the Secret Service incident."

  "Yep."

  "The Administration wishes to cooperate with the investigation."

  Then what are you doing here? Tenroyan thought.

  D'Arcy continued as if he heard Tenroyan's thought. "I just wanted you to know that there are some sensitive issues tied up in this. If the hearings turn into a fishing expedition, some uncomfortable things could be made public."

  Tenroyan stopped walking and turned to face D'Arcy.

  D'Arcy kept going. "I don't know if you remember Operation Firewall—"

  Tenroyan nodded. He did. It was just a few years ago, when the Internet was a big new thing, and people on the Hill were running around terrified of it, passing blatantly unconstitutional legislation like the Communications Decency Act. That atmosphere bred the largest "sting" on the Hill since Abscam.

  The little-reported "Operation Firewall" was a Secret Service project to test the security of the computer networks run by Congress and a half-dozen other civilian agencies. Their forays broke into most of those systems, revealing gaping security holes, as well as nearly fifty Congressional aides who were using government computers for illegal purposes from credit-card fraud to child pornography.

  "I'm breaking security by telling you this," D'Arcy said, "but the NS A had a hand in the operation—"

  Tenroyan snorted and shook his head. That news ranked up there with the fact that Bill Clinton had improper sexual relations in the White House—ugly, somewhat disgusting, but no real surprise.

  Tenroyan didn't like the idea, but as a member of the Intelligence Committee he knew that the ubiquitous nature of the net made it nearly impossible to impose restraints on domestic espionage when it came to computer traffic. The Internet was a giant web spanning the globe, and the NSA was the giant spider straddling the network. Legend had it that every signal on the net passed through the NSA's computers at least once.

  "I'm telling you," D'Arcy continued. "Because I have access to all the Firewall data that wasn't made public."

  "Get to your point." Tenroyan was losing patience with the man.

  "I just wanted you to know that there are thousands of gigabytes of data that would be embarrassing to many people still sitting on the Hill, especially those in the leadership."

  Tenroyan took a step back, feeling anger building. "Son, are you threatening me?"

  D'Arcy was an incredible actor. He actually looked shocked at the accusation. "No, no—I j
ust want you to know that there are probably areas that would be better left unquestioned, or you might inadvertently open all of Firewall to public scrutiny. It would be as much of an embarrassment to the Administration and the NSA as it would be to Congress."

  "I see," Tenroyan said.

  "I'm glad you do," D'Arcy slipped off his glasses and Tenroyan was struck by the thought of how much the man resembled Peter Lorre. "I want you to know that I'll always be available to help steer you away from any embarrassing revelations." D'Arcy wiped off his glasses and replaced them. "It's been a pleasure talking to you, Senator."

  "I wish I could say the same."

  D'Arcy left the Mall, walking down Fourteenth, where Tenroyan saw a black Ford Taurus idling behind the concrete traffic barriers. He watched as D'Arcy got into the car and it drove off.

  What do they have on me? Tenroyan thought. Pornography, certainly. At one point or another Tenroyan had downloaded smut off the net. It wasn't all that much, and it was all normal and heterosexual—but anything pornographic related to the net was the kiss of death. In the public's mind, it was all child pornography or bestiality. . .

  Worse than that was the possibility that they had his e-mail. He had, years ago when e-mail was still a new thing, carried on a torrid written relationship with a woman who wasn't his wife. It was all virtual, he had never even met the woman. But he knew that if any of those letters were made public, his personal life would disintegrate, and his political life would become impossible.

  He had ambition, but he wasn't a Bill Clinton. He couldn't see himself pressing forward inexorably, not caring what scandals turned up in his personal life.

  For the first time since his triple bypass, Tenroyan didn't complete his circuit around the mall. He turned his back on the Washington Monument and walked back past the Smithsonian, toward the Capitol Building.

  1.06 Tue. Mar. 3

  A T eight in the morning, Kareem Rashad Williams, aka Lionel, walked down Twelfth Street in Brookland. He walked with an exaggerated swagger, staring at each passerby, as if daring anyone to make something of him. He looked at everyone as if he wanted them to start trouble, trouble he'd enjoy finishing. It was Lionel's crazy look, and he always used it when he was scared shitless.

  He hadn't slept more than six hours in the past week. He hadn't gone home—hadn't even gone back to The Zodiac. He'd been walking the streets of Washington since he'd found Davy.

  Now Davy's cash was almost gone. What the fuck was he going to do?

  It was one thing knowing that he'd tipped a cop—a cop and a Fed—into a world of shit. He could care less about what happened to Detective Gideon Malcolm and his brother, that was the cop's own lookout.

  But Davy, that was too fucking close to home.

  Davy had been a little guy who'd boosted cars for a living. He and Lionel had been buddies since they'd shared a six-month stretch together. They'd been released the same day with fifty other small-timers that the District couldn't afford to house. The two of them had been tight since then.

  Davy had been the ambitious one. While Lionel had been nickel and diming as a street-level dealer, turning to the cops for extra scratch, Davy had been moving up and out. He'd gone from boosting cars and chopping them, to boosting heavy equipment and truck hijacking. Davy had been talking lately about becoming a regular wiseguy. He had talked about taking down loads of everything from cigarettes to VCRs. He had talked about the special job that was going to land him a hundred grand all for himself.

  Lionel thought Davy just talked too damn much.

  But Lionel was beginning to think that God was getting him back for ratting on Davy. Christ, why did Davy have to tell him about that one job? Why'd he have to keep repeating the fact that he was going to make a hundred grand just for delivering a refrigerated truck—

  Lionel had felt all too justified in giving the whole deal over to Detective Malcolm. Davy hadn't needed to rub his face in the hundred grand, more money than Lionel was going to see in his entire street-peddling life. The one concession that Lionel had made for friendship's sake was he'd held out for an extra fifty bucks before he gave over the address.

  Then things had gone to shit.

  First, Davy had come over the night before the job and gotten drunk on Lionel's couch telling him how the Doctor with the hundred grand had pulled out of the deal thinking there was some sort of setup. Lionel had spent the entire evening in a panic thinking that he'd blown the job and not only was Davy going to find out—and maybe have his mob friends put a hit out on his good friend Lionel—but Detective Malcolm was going to show up for his fifty bucks because nothing'd been going on at the address Lionel had sold him.

  Then the next day, he'd heard about the mother of all setups. He had heard about the whole damn thing on the news, Davy there with him hungover and staring at the TV screen. For fifteen minutes, all Davy could do was shake his head. Lionel had gotten the gut feeling that Davy had known, that he was going to draw down on him right there while Lionel's gun was on his bed under a pile of underwear. But all Davy had said was, "Guess it was a good thing they canceled the job, huh?" Then he had turned to Lionel and grinned at him. It was such a fucking irritating grin that Lionel'd wanted to cap him right there.

  But he hadn't.

  It wasn't long before Lionel's little tip-off began haunting him. For a while he was crashing at friends and at The Zodiac trying to keep a step ahead of them. It lasted a while. Then his money dried up, and with it, most of his friends. It was in desperation that he tried to lean on Davy for some cash, maybe enough to get out from under this heat he was feeling.

  When he'd gone to Davy's to see him about the money, he'd almost turned around and left before he entered the building. There was something about the whole setup he didn't like. The more he had thought about it, the more he didn't like the way Davy had sounded on the phone. He'd stood out on the street, paranoia gripping him for the better part of an hour.

  Lionel knew then that Davy knew. He could feel it in his gut that Davy had seen through him and was waiting up there with his chromed Magnum to blow his old friend Lionel away.

  For half that hour, Lionel was going to leave, find a way to split town broke. The second half, the hard ass in him took over and he decided he wasn't going to let any assholes, Davy and cops included, put the fear on him.

  When the street had cleared of the last occupied car, an idling Dodge pickup, Lionel raced into Davy's building, his hand on the butt of his nine millimeter.

  Lionel had decided that Davy was not going to get the drop on him.

  Davy hadn't.

  Lionel had his gun out before he'd reached Davy's floor. He took the steps slow, expecting an ambush at every landing. He made it fine to Davy's door . . .

  The first sign that something had happened to Davy—the door hung open, spilling dead-blue light into the hallway.

  Lionel pushed the door open with his gun, still worried that Davy might be waiting to whack him.

  "Davy?" he called, pointing his gun into the apartment. "You all right in there?"

  No answer.

  Lionel stepped slowly into Davy's apartment until he could see the whole living room—the TV on, showing a blank digital-blue screen. Across from it—the couch. On the couch—Davy.

  Lionel knew what had happened the moment he saw

  Davy's rolled eyes and the rubber hose around his right bicep. The smack was rank in the room, the kit strewn across the table in front of Davy.

  Davy had shot himself up a bit farther than he'd been ready to go.

  Lionel stood in the center of the living room, pointing a gun at Davy as if it was all a trick, as if his old friend was about to jump up and whack him for selling him out.

  Davy didn't move, didn't breathe.

  The fucker was stone dead.

  It took a few minutes to register.

  Afterward, after Lionel lowered his gun and took a step or two into the apartment, the real nasty part of it had begun to sink in.
>
  Davy'd never done heroin before. Something Lionel knew. Lionel would've been selling the shit to him otherwise. Just looking at Davy lying there, Lionel could see that there weren't any tracks on the arm with the hose. The kit on the table was brand-fucking new. The spoon didn't even have soot marks.

  Two words in Lionel's mind, "Set up."

  Someone else shot Davy up. Not Davy's wiseguy friends. Phony ODs were too fucking elaborate for the mob. It began coming down on him. Detective Malcolm shot down, Davy dead with a needle in his arm—

  Took no genius to figure who was on the short list to be next. Lionel stayed around only long enough to liberate what cash was immediately obvious, then he got the hell out of there, making sure the door was closed and locked behind him.

  Afterward, he'd hit the streets and tried to think.

  His thinking had involved at least three liquor stores. Lionel's memory was a little fuzzy on that point right now. He was close to the end of his rope.

  What the fuck was he going to do?

  The words kept running through his mind. He couldn't get rid of them. He thought of leaving town, but Davy's money was just about gone now. There was a grand or two back in Lionel's apartment, but he knew if he stepped near the place, he'd end up with a needle in his arm like Davy. He thought of going to the cops, but, Christ, the cops might want to whack him for what happened to Malcolm.

  He passed a news vending machine. In it was a copy of the Post with the headline, " Wounded Detective Testifies Before Grand Jury." Lionel caught sight of a picture of Detective Malcolm.

  He stopped and thought, Maybe this shit's still worth something.

  Enough to get out of town.

  Gideon was doing one of a set of half-dozen exercises that were supposed to help rehabilitate his injured leg. The flesh had healed into a mass of tissue that left a long concave scar where a large strip of the calf muscle had been chewed by shrapnel.

  The muscles in that leg were weak, barely strong enough to support his weight more than a few minutes at a time.

  He was lying on the floor, his bad leg angled above him and shaking with fatigue as he counted to ten. On five he was about to give up.