The Fool's Run

all sounds nuts. You know, whacky. Like something one of those right-wing fascist weirdo groups would fantasize about.”
    “Yeah, but they’d do it in tree-bark camo,” I said. “The main thing is, nothing has happened. Ratface is still off in Jersey.”
    Maggie snuggled up on my shoulder and I looked at the ceiling, feeling her there, and neither one of us said anything for a few minutes. Then her hand crept down my stomach and she said, “Hmm.”

    “IT’S GOING TO work,” she said a half hour later. I was a little confused and wondered for a second if that was a personal comment. I thought it did work. “Dillon did a risk evaluation on this job. We had a hard time evaluating the first phase, the burglaries, because we didn’t know what kind of personnel you’d have. That’s why Rudy kept me out of it until now.”
    I’d caught up with her. “How about the second phase, going into the company?”
    “That was easier to evaluate. We know you and your work, and there have been studies of this kind of attack by the National Security Agency and the FBI. Dillon thinks this will be the least risky phase. But after we hit, and the news reports start coming out, the risks escalate. The key is picking the time to get out. If you wait too long . . . zut.” She drew a finger across my throat.
    “And if we get caught? What happens then?”
    “That depends. It’s absolutely critical to keep your name and face, everybody’s name and face, out of the media. The biggest danger is that you would be arrested, and processed, before we could interfere. Once something is on paper, it gets much harder,” she said. “If you can keep things private and give Rudy time to operate, we should be okay.”
    “So we keep things informal.”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Jesus, I wish I still smoked.”
    “Why?”
    “I could use a cigarette.”
     
    THE NEXT DAY, while Maggie took care of last-minute business at Anshiser’s, I went into Chicago and stashed my share of the extra money in a second safety-deposit box. I mailed the key to Emily in St. Paul, along with a note telling her that everything was fine.
    We flew out of Chicago in the early afternoon and got to Washington in time to catch the evening crush on 1-395. When we arrived at the apartment, I unlocked the door and pushed through, carrying my own overnight case and Maggie’s three-suiter. Dace and LuEllen were working in the office. LuEllen was wearing jeans and her white, tassled cowboy boots; Maggie was in one of her blue power suits.
    “Dace and LuEllen, this is Maggie Kahn, and Maggie . . .” I gestured at the other two.
    “Pleased to meet you,” LuEllen said cheerfully, sticking out a hand. Maggie shook it, smiling, and said, “My pleasure. I’ve heard something about your work from Kidd. I’d like to hear more.”
    LuEllen glanced sideways at me, then back at Maggie. “What did he say?” Her tone was light, but her eyes were dark and serious.
    “Well, he told me that LuEllen might not be your real name, that he doesn’t know your last name or where you live, and he doesn’t know what you do when you’re not working, but that he does know you’re good when you are working.”
    LuEllen relaxed. Her security was sound. Dace shook Maggie’s hand and offered to show her around. She looked at the office, tapped on the keyboard of one computer, and glanced through the letters between Whitemark and the generals. “I’d like to look at those administrative formats you worked out. Maybe I could help run through their files,” she said in her executive voice.
    “Any time you want to see them,” Dace said. “We can take you through the sign-on routine tomorrow.”
    “Thanks,” Maggie said. She glanced around the office again, then stepped outside and looked down the hall.
    “Where’s our room?” she asked. “I want to get out of this suit.”
    “Uh, right over here.” I pointed at the door. “I’ll bring your suitcase.”
    She disappeared into the bedroom, and as I picked up the heavy case in the living room, a grinning LuEllen slapped me on the butt and whispered, “Way to go, José.”
    I may have blushed.

Chapter 13
    C OMPUTER PROGRAMMING CAN be as beautiful and complicated as a tree, as compelling as the best painting. Programmers admire each other’s code. They talk like rock climbers: that was a very difficult pitch, and look how he did it—with style. A good programmer uses a computer’s potential to create worlds where other