The Devil's Code

they wouldn’t be suing him. They wouldn’t go public.
    So he went with them. He and the escort drove in his car—“So we don’t have to drag your ass all the way back here,” the security guy said—while the second security agent said he’d be following. He hadn’t yet shown up.
    So Morrison stood, nervously, shoulders slumped, like a peasant dragged before the king, as Corbeil pushed an audiotape into a tape recorder. He recognized the voice: Terrence Lighter. “John, what the hell are youguys doing out there? This geek shows up on my doorstep . . .”
    Shit: they had him.
    He decided to tough it out. “I came across what I thought was anomalous work—nothing to do with Clipper, but it was obviously top secret and the way it was being handled . . . it shouldn’t have been handled that way,” Morrison told Corbeil. He was standing like a petitioner, while Corbeil sat in a terminal chair. “When I was working at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, I was told that if I ever found an anomaly like that, I should report it at least two levels up, so that it couldn’t be hidden and so that security problems could be fixed.”
    “So you went to Lighter?”
    “I didn’t think I had a choice. And you should remember that I did talk to Lighter,” Morrison said. “Now, I think, we should give the FBI a ring. See what they say.”
    “You silly cunt.” Corbeil slipped a cell phone from a suit pocket, punched a button, waited a few seconds, then asked, “Anything?” Apparently not. He said, “Okay. Drop the disks. We’re gonna go ahead on this end.”
    Corbeil’s security agent, who’d been waiting patiently near the door, looked at his watch and said, “If we’re gonna do it, we better get it done. Goodie’s gonna be starting up here in the next fifteen minutes and I gotta run around the building and get in place.”
    Corbeil gave Morrison a long look, and Morrison said, “What?”
    Corbeil shook his head, got up, stepped over to the security agent, and said, “Let me.”
    The agent slipped out his .40 Smith and handed it to Corbeil, who turned and pointed it at Morrison.
    “You better tell us what you did with the data or you’re gonna get your ass hurt real bad,” he said quietly.
    “Don’t point the gun at me; don’t point the gun . . .” Morrison said.
    Corbeil could feel the blood surging into his heart. He’d always liked this part. He’d shot the Iraqi colonels and a few other ragheads and deer and antelope and elk and javelina and moose and three kinds of bear and groundhogs and prairie dogs and more birds than he could count; and it all felt pretty good.
    He shot Morrison twice in the chest. Morrison didn’t gape in surprise, stagger, slap a hand to his wounds, or open his eyes wide in amazement. He simply fell down.
    “Christ, my ears are ringing,” Corbeil said to the security agent. He didn’t mention the sudden erection. “Wasn’t much,” he said. “Nothing like Iraq.”
    But his hand was trembling when he passed over the gun. The agent had seen it before, hunting on the ranch.
    “Let’s get the other shot done,” the agent said.
    “Yes.” They got the .38 from a desk drawer, wrapped Morrison’s dead hand around it, and fired it once into a stack of newspapers.
    “So you better get going,” Corbeil said. “I’ll dump the newspapers.”
    “I’ll be to Goodie’s right. That’s your left,” the agent said.
    “I know that,” Corbeil said impatiently.
    “Well, Jesus, don’t forget it,” the agent said.
    “I won’t forget it,” Corbeil snapped.
    “Sorry. But remember. Remember. I’ll be to your left. And you gotta reload now, and take the used shell with you . . .”
    “I’ll remember it all, William. This is my life as much as it is yours.”
    “Okay.” The agent’s eyes drifted toward the crumbled form of Morrison. “What a schmuck.”
    “We had no choice; it was a million-to-one that he’d find that stuff,” Corbeil said. He glanced at his watch: “You better move.”
    L arry Goodie hitched up his gun belt, sighed, and headed for the elevators. As he did, the alarm buzzed on the employees’ door and he turned to see William Hart checking through with his key card.
    “Asshole,” Goodie said to himself. He continued toward the elevators, but slower now. Only one elevator ran at night, and Hart would probably want a ride to the top. As Hart came through, Goodie pushed the elevator button and found a smile for the security