"S. Andrew Swann - Zimmerman's Algorithm" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swann S Andrew)

He remembered his brother's death, and his mind wouldn't let go of the image.
Conroy shook his head, attempting to be sympathetic, and the sight only made Gideon angry. He tried to
yell at him to get out, to leave him alone, but all he managed was a painful cough. All the anger and
frustration balled up in Gideon's gut with no way out. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, and it felt as if the
acid in his stomach would burn a hole in him all the way to the floor.
His vision blurred, and he closed his eyes.
Gideon felt Conroy's hand on his good shoulder. Gideon wanted to pull away, roll over, but he didn't
even have the strength to flinch.
"I know," Conroy said. "It's an awful mess."
Gideon shook his head. He felt a wave of resentment for Conroy. Who the fuck was he to sympathize?
Conroy must have sensed Gideon's sentiment, because he withdrew his hand.
Mess? Gideon thought. It was a disaster. What happened? He stared at Conroy, trying to will an answer
from the man. What the hell happened?
Conroy took out a business card, and placed it on the nightstand next to Gideon's bed. "You can call my
office if you need anything."
Gideon stared up at Conroy's face and felt a burning, unreasoning hatred. He wanted Conroy to feel
just a little of what he felt right now.
Conroy turned and walked around the front of the bed and spoke. Gideon felt as if Conroy was talking
through him, rehearsing a speech. It intensified Gideon's feeling that he wasn't completely here with
Conroy, that he was watching everything from a great distance.
"What happened to you and your brother was a disastrous case of mistaken identity." Conroy looked up,
past Gideon. The loss of eye contact made everything seem even more far away. "Apparently the Justice
Department had custody of the Daedalus thieves about twenty-four hours after the computer was stolen.
They kept their capture, and the recovery of the supercomputer, under wraps because the Secret Service
wanted to run a sting operation to nab the 'terrorists' who contracted the theft." He shook his head. "I'm not
surprised nobody informed our department about it, but I don't have any idea why no one apprised the
Bureau."
Gideon felt his gut tighten in a knot. It was one thing to get taken down by the bad guys. That was a
risk that he, and Rafe, accepted as going with the territory. The idea that this had happened because of
some interdepartmental screwup was worse than infuriating.
"The papers are already talking about this in the same breath as Waco and Ruby Ridge. The Secret
Service has promised me its own internal investigation, and there's talk on the Hill of a Congressional
hearing."
Gideon closed his eyes. He wanted Conroy to leave. He didn't want to hear anymore. All he wanted to
do was find that little corner of unconsciousness he had before these men had awakened him.
He heard Conroy say, after a moment, "We better leave him to rest."
Gideon was gratified to hear the Police Chief and his entourage leave the room. He was left mired in
his own thoughts about himself, and Rafe, and the Secret Service, and what the hell went wrong.
After that, his only other visitor was a uniformed cop stationed outside his door to keep out reporters.
He came in and ate what passed for dinner and told Gideon what a raw deal the Feds had given him.
Gideon just shut his eyes until the man went away.
There was no one else. Rafe was his only real family since his dad had died. There was his
sister-in-law, Monica, but Gideon hardly knew her. They'd married after Raphael had moved to New York.
Now she was burying her husband because he'd come down to "visit." Gideon suspected that she would
blame him for Raphael's death.
Gideon found it pretty easy to blame himself. It had been his call, his tip. It should have been him taking
the fatal shot. Rafe was the one with a decent career, a wife, a family . . . Who the hell would miss the
fuckup, Gideon Malcolm?
He couldn't sleep. He spent most of the time drifting through a haze of semiconsciousness. During one
particularly lucid moment, when his self-loathing had reached a momentary nadir, he could hear a television