Ark Storm (43 page)

“He won’t hear us, and his English is imperfect too, so please,” his dark eyes warmed, “do not worry.”

Gwen nodded. At that moment, if anyone were worried, she thought it was the Sheikh. A current of tension seemed to flow through him. His body was restive, his fingers made small movements, shifting on his kandoora, smoothing it down, then adjusting his headdress. His glance flickered too, from her to Ali, to the windows behind her.

“OK, you have a problem. A major problem,” said Gwen. As the Sheikh sat forward in the sofa opposite, Gwen told him all about Gabriel Messenger, about her suspicions that he was Hass/Hans, and about his plans to attempt to ramp up a big winter storm into an ARk Storm.

The Sheikh listened in perfect silence. Only the arching of one eyebrow and the shifting fingers betrayed any reaction. Only the roar of the storm punctuated Gwen’s silences. When she had finished speaking, the Sheikh’s eyes ceased flickering and locked onto her. For the first time, she felt a flicker of alarm.

120

SEVENTEEN MILE DRIVE, 11:35 A.M.

The Ducati screamed round the corners, wheels kicking up plumes of spray. In his head, Dan replayed what he had heard:

Messenger, the note of surprise in his voice. “Good Morning. What a surprise! What brings you here?”

A male voice. “Need to talk to you about something. You mind?”

“Well, I was just about to have my breakfast, but please, come in.”

Silence for a few beats, save the padding of shoes on hardwood floors.

“Sit, please.”

“I need the laptop,” said the unidentified man. His voice was brusque.

“What?” Messenger had asked, indignation sharpening his German accent.

“The laptop, with the Zeus model,” replied the man, almost conversational now. “We only have one. We need the second, the one with the authorization codes. The one you have.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Messenger. “Have you—” His voice trailed off abruptly.

“Let’s make this civilized, shall we?” drawled the other man, enjoyment in his voice.

“You point a gun at me and you want to be civilized?” asked Messenger, creditably calmly. “
What
is going on?”

“Long story. Get the laptop. Now. Don’t try anything.”

Silence, then what sounded like the rattling of a safe’s combination, a breezy whirring. Dan could imagine the wheels spinning, then there was a whoosh as the heavy door of a safe was opened.

“Here. One laptop. Now perhaps you could tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Too late for that,” came the reply. “You underestimated me. Never
saw
me. Now I’m the
last
thing you’ll see.” The mocking words were followed by a low pop and a sickening thud—Dan could visualize the scene—the shot from the silenced pistol, almost certainly to the head, instant death as it hit the cerebral cortex, Messenger’s body crashing to the floor.

Dan swore. He and Gwen had the wrong guy. Haas/Hans was someone else all together. He suspected Gwen was with him now.

He couldn’t ring her, he had her phone. He angled round the bend, his knee almost touching the slick tarmac. He slowed as he saw the ambulance and the cop cars on the road outside Messenger’s drive.

He came to a stop, pushed up his visor. Rain lashed into his eyes. He rubbed a leather-gloved hand over his face.

“What’s going on in there?” he asked a Patrolman.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Neighbor. I live at number 127.” He knew the cop’d ask him that, drew goodwill by offering it up.

“Name?”

“Dan Jacobsen.”

Cop wrote it down. “You hear anything?”

“Like what? Storm’s kinda loud.”

“Gunshot.”

He’d heard it all right. He kept his eyes bland.

He shook his head. “Gunshot? No, sorry.”

“Move on then. Get outta here. Storm’s getting worse. We’re getting evac orders coming in for coastal residents. Get in a car if you have one and head inland. And hurry. Shouldn’t be on a bike in the drive anyways.”

Dan nodded. “Can’t use my car.” That much was true. He and the patrolman glanced up at movement. A stretcher was being run out of the house, a body lying prone. Messenger. Dan said a quick prayer, slammed down his visor and roared off. The body count was rising.

121

SEVENTEEN MILE DRIVE, 11:48 A.M.

Dan needed to make a phone call, but no one would hear him over the roar of the storm. He headed for the Pebble Beach Club. He wasn’t a member, but his grandpa had been and the staff knew him. They were closing up as he arrived, boarding up.

He propped up the Ducati, jumped off, ran to one of the handymen.

“José!” he shouted. “I just need to make a few calls. Can I go in for five?”

“Go. Then get. We all gotta move.”

Dan raised his hand, called out a thank you as he ran for the entrance, let himself in. The door closed heavily behind him, sealing out some of the noise. He pulled out his cell, paused for a moment, recalled the number he had never had to use. The line rang. SOCOM, Special Operations Command, based at MacDill Air Force Base. This was the central US command for all Special Forces stateside. The underground secure Operations Center had a dedicated team to deal with non-active personnel and incoming information. They would get SOCOM himself, Dan’s old friend Jack Meade, in touch with him.

The phone was picked up at the third ring. An impassive voice said a flat “Hello.”

This was a standard security practice so that the caller would have no idea who he has rung until his identity was verified.

“Hello. 4157BQ,” replied Dan with equal flatness.

“XT279” replied the other man.

“Swordfish2” responded Dan. There was a pause. Dan could feel the pulse of interest on the other end of the line. Swordfish2 was the code that indicated information relating to terrorist activity from a currently nonoperational ex-special-ops guy who still held clearance or was at risk of reprisal action. In the world of special ops, Dan had just thrown a big bright flare into the sky.

“I need to speak to SOCOM himself. ASAP.”

“Wait out!” came the voice.

Dan hit
END
.
Cry Havoc, let slip the dogs of war
. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.

122

Dan scrolled through his contacts, made another call.

“Dr. Riley, please.”

“Dr. Riley’s a tad busy at the moment,” replied a camp but officious voice. “Can I take a message?”

This wasn’t the SEALs, Dan had no chain of command. He issued an order and Mr. Camp would hang up. He blew out a breath.

“Please tell her it’s Dan Jacobsen, that she needs to call me
urgently
.”

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s urgent today. Storm’s urgent.”

“It’s about the storm I’m calling.”

“Yeah, well, I’m her deputy. You can try me.”

“It’s Dr. Riley I need to speak to. Please get this message to her, like
now
!”

There was a pause for a moment, then the guy seemed to relent. “Okaay. Okay!” Dan heard the scratch of pen on paper. The guy writing down his number.

Dan thanked him, hung up, paced. The wind was smashing into the windows. José would be in any minute, throwing him out, and he couldn’t place or take a call in the storm. Neither side would hear a word.

He eyed the wooden furniture, the framed images hanging on the wall, old black-and-white prints of the pristine Big Sur shoreline, of the clubhouse in which he sat, of members raising glasses to celebrate victory. He wondered if the clubhouse would still be here in a day or two.

Five minutes later José blew in. “Mr. Dan, you haveta go. Now! Real sorry but we all gotta leave.”

“Just a few more minutes, José. I’m down on my knees here, amigo. I have to wait for a—”

The trilling of his cell interrupted. Dan glanced at the number. Riley!

“Just let me take this. One minute. I promise!”

Jose opened his mouth to say something. Dan took the call.

“Dr. Riley. Thank you. First up, d’you know where Gwen is?”

“She rang me this morning from the Lab. Don’t know where she is now. Why?”

“She’s disappeared.”

“Whaaat?”

“Long story. No time. Dealing with it. Listen up. You won’t believe half of what I tell you, but it’s all horribly true.”

“Art said it had something to do with the storm.”

“Everything.” Dan gave her the sixty-second version.

“Boudy told me. That’s why she rang me. I’ve told my cohead. He won’t listen to me. Says it’s science fiction.”

“
Shit!
He has to listen.”

“You’re a journalist, Dan. Pond life to him. Not a source he would ever entertain.”

Dan swore under his breath. He hated to use his past as a calling card. Now he had no choice.

“How about if you told him I’m an ex-Navy SEAL. Three tours of duty in Afghanistan.”

“Fuck me! Come on in here and tell him yourself Dan.”

123

THE SUPER-YACHT,
ZEPHYR
, 11:50 A.M.

The Sheikh got to his feet. His face was hard-planed, all the muscles tight.

“We have no time to lose. Allow me to take care of this,” he intoned, his voice grave as he took Gwen’s hand, squeezed it warmly between his. “Thank you for trusting me. For bringing this to me.”

“I really didn’t know what to do,” replied Gwen. “I thought of going to the cops. Then I reckoned if
you
can get control of the laptops,
I
can program the drones to try to reduce the rain, to lessen the storm, maybe stop it tipping over into
the
ARk Storm.”

“I’ll get my pilot to fly you wherever you want to go now, and I’ll send one of my men with him. He can go and try to find Dr. Messenger, get hold of his laptops. Then he can fly them to you.”

“Good plan,” said Gwen, getting to her feet.

The Sheikh bowed. His eyes were sharp with purpose. He called out to the man at the end of the room, Ali, gave him instructions in his rapid-fire Arabic. Ali approached Gwen. Then the Sheikh turned and walked away.

Gwen watched him go, still troubled.

She turned to Ali.

“I need to go to the can, powder room,” she added when he looked mystified. He nodded, grudgingly it seemed. He led Gwen from the stateroom, indicated another door across a corridor. He leaned back against the wall, eyes speculative.

Gwen was opening the door, was almost inside, when she heard the bustle of feet then a snatch of a song. “Losing My Religion.” Being whistled. She froze. A voice called out:

“Hassan! Wait!”

She turned, body shielded by the door, saw Peter Weiss crossing from one room to another at end of the corridor. He didn’t look her way.

Her blood beat in her ears. Hass, Hassan, Peter Weiss. The convert with the Islamic name; the drunk who hated alcohol, who abused it and rebuffed it in shame. The answer hit her like a breaking wave:
Weiss
was the builder of ARk Storm, and Sheikh Ali was the architect.

124

Weiss, carrying a laptop, sauntered into the control room, still whistling. He was followed by the majordomo, bearing a glass of Coke. Sheikh Ali turned slowly, looked at him. Weiss stopped whistling. He took the Coke, nodded his thanks.

The Sheikh turned to The Man, laid his hand on his muscled forearm. The Man looked vaguely queasy, thought the Sheikh. He was not a natural sailor, and the conditions were testing many of those aboard. It seemed to him that only he, the captain, and Hassan were truly immune.

“I would like you to escort Dr. Boudain into the helicopter. Ride with her a while. She loves the sea. Let it make a fitting grave for her. Burial at sea, like Sheikh Osama,” he added with a smile. “I see an open door, a gunshot to the head, a little push. Pfff! Game over.”

The Man nodded. “Why did she come here?”

“To warn me about Gabriel Messenger. She thinks he wants to start an ARk Storm.”

“Messenger?” The Man angled his head in disbelief. “She thinks it’s
him
?”

“She appears to. She appears to have no idea what she’s walked into.”

“So she didn’t kill our men?”

“I have to believe that Jacobsen did that.”

The Man shook his head in disbelief at their luck.

“It wasn’t luck!” observed the Sheikh, reading his mind as he so often did. “It was God’s will.”

Because he had to, The Man nodded. Only a billionaire zealot would spit in the face of luck.

“Maintain the pretense that you are flying her out of harm’s way. That way you can take her by surprise when the time comes.”

“I’ll do my best.” The Man walked from the room, feeling the thrill of incipient action for the second time that day.

He checked his weapon, hidden in the holster inside his loose chinos, concealed under the long leather jacket. He had two spare magazines concealed too. More than enough firepower to do the job. He didn’t like killing but sometimes there was no other way. And if he were to live, it was the only way. A life for a life. A fair trade.

The Sheikh turned to his protégé.

“Hassan. Our time has come. Is all ready?”

Hassan, Weiss, glowed in the look the Sheikh bestowed, in the complicity, in the momentousness of their creation. He registered the death sentence he had just heard issued on Gwen Boudain, but felt almost unmoved by it. In war, there were casualties. Jihad demanded them, welcomed them.

“Everything is
perfectly
ready,” he replied, eyes fixed on the Sheikh.

“Then get all the drones in the air. Every last one. Make sure the program is set to maximum yield.” The Sheikh smiled. “Let us give California the flood of our Holy Quran. Let us give them the ARk Storm of their nightmares.”

Hassan smiled. All it took was one click of a button. He set the laptop on the desk, sat before it. He had already wiped the blood off it, but a small smear remained. He ignored it now. He turned to the neighboring desktop, clicked in a command. A four-way split scene shimmered into life: one image showed a tarmac strip on which two runways were marked in yellow paint, another a huge hangar, the third and fourth just showed rain-sluiced sky.