Polar Shift (42 page)

Gant noticed Austin watching his horse being led away. "They'll take good care of your mount.
Nice-looking animal, by the way."

"Thanks. I borrowed her for a few hours to take a ride over here."

"I was wondering about that," Gant said. "How did you get past my security fence? I've got cameras and alarms all over the place."

"Just lucky, I guess," Austin said with a straight face.

Gant suspected that Austin made his own luck, but he didn't press the matter. He'd take it up with Doyle. His security chief was making his way toward them. He glanced at Austin, the only person not dressed for the foxhunt. "Is there a problem, Mr. Gant?"

"Not at all.
This is Kurt Austin. He's my guest. Remember his face so you'll recognize him the next time you see him."

Doyle smiled, but the eyes that studied Austin's face were as pitiless as a viper's.

Gant led Austin to a spacious patio where a crowd of red jackets had gathered. The intrepid hunters were drinking from champagne flutes and laughing as they relived the morning's kill. The gathering was exclusively male and high-powered. Austin didn't spend a lot of time in Washington, but he recognized the faces of a number of politicians, government officials and lobbyists. Gant was apparently well plugged in to the Beltway establishment.

Gant ushered him along a gravel path to a polished marble table set off by itself in the corner of an English garden. He ordered a servant to bring them a pitcher of ice water, and invited Austin to take a seat.

Austin sat down, placed his cap on the table and looked around. "I didn't know there were any private foxhunting clubs left in Virginia."

"There are no hunt clubs, at least not officially. We're simply a bunch of old friends trying to keep alive a dying old English custom."

"That's commendable. I've always felt sad that the English custom of public drawing and quartering went by the boards as well."

Gant chuckled. "We're both busy men, so let's not waste time on ancient history. What can I do for you?"

"Cancel your plans for a polar reversal."

"I'll humor you and pretend that I know what you're talking about, Mr. Austin. Why would I want to cancel this so-called reversal?"

"Because if you don't, you could be putting
the
entire world in jeopardy."

"How's that?"

"I don't know why you're interested in creating a shift of the magnetic poles. Maybe you're just getting bored with slaughtering innocent animals. But what you don't know is that a magnetic shift will trigger a geologic movement of the earth's crust. The impact will be catastrophic."

Gant stared at Austin for a moment. Then he laughed until his eyes brimmed with tears. "That's quite the science fiction plot, Mr. Austin.
The end of the world?"

"Or close to it," Austin said in a voice that left no doubt as to his seriousness. "The ocean disturbances that sunk the
Southern Belle
and one of your own transmitter ships were minor harbingers of the damage to come. I was hoping you would see reason and halt your plans."

Gant's jovial expression disappeared, to be replaced by a sardonic smile and a raised eyebrow. Pinioning Austin in a level gaze, he said, "Here's what I see, Mr. Austin. I see someone who has concocted a tall tale for reasons that escape me."

"Then my warnings haven't made a dent in your plans." Austin's question came out as a statement.

The servant arrived with a pitcher and two glasses.

"I'm curious, Mr. Austin, what made you think I was involved in some bizarre plot?"

"I heard it from the Spider's mouth."

"Pardon?"

"Spider Barrett, the man who developed the polar shift mechanism."

"This Barrett person has been telling you tales as strange as his name."

"I don't think so. He and his partner, Margrave, are geniuses who have the money and talent to prove it. I'm not sure where you fit in."

"You can be sure of one thing, Austin. You made a mistake coming here."

"I was thinking the same thing." Austin picked up his cap and put it on his lap. "You're obviously not interested in anything I have to say. I'll be on my way. Thanks for the water."

He stood and plunked the cap on his head. Gant rose and said, "I'll have someone get your horse."

Oiled by large amounts of alcohol, the boisterous conversation on the patio was becoming even louder. Gant signaled a groom and told him to bring the Arabian to Austin, who pulled himself up on the saddle. Doyle saw him preparing to leave and came over. He held on to the reins as if he were helping.

"I can find my own way out, Mr. Gant. Thanks for your hospitality."

"You'll have to come back when you can spend more time."

"I'll do that."

He nudged the horse with his knees, and it shouldered Doyle out of the way. Doyle was a city boy, and the only horses he had been close to before coming to work for Gant were the ones ridden by Boston's mounted police. He released the reins and stepped back so he wouldn't be stepped on. Austin caught the fear in Doyle's face and he smiled. He flipped the reins and galloped away from the house.

Doyle watched Austin ride away. His features were as hard as granite. "Do you want me to take care of him?"

"Not here. Not now. Have someone follow him. I'd like to find out how he got onto the property."

"I'll do that."

"When you're through I have another job for you. Meet me in the garden in fifteen minutes."

While Gant went off to hobnob with his guests, Doyle slipped a hand radio out of his pocket and barked an order to two guards who were sitting in a jeep off the main access road to the house. The driver had just finished acknowledging the order when an Arabian mare galloped by with the rider low in the saddle. The driver started the jeep's engine, jammed the stick shift into first and punched the accelerator.

The jeep was going nearly sixty miles an hour when it flew by the copse of elm trees where Austin was hiding. He watched it speed by, consulted a handheld GPS unit and set off across the meadows and fields until he came to woods bordering the property. A horse and rider emerged from the trees and rode up to meet Austin.

"Nice day for a ride in the country, old chap," Zavala said with a lame attempt at an upper-crust English accent.

"Tallyho, bangers and mashed and the rest of it," Austin said.

Taking their time, they brought their horses to a trot and came out on the other side of the woods where the trees had been cleared for a road allowed by the security patrol. There was no fence, only a number of
no trespassing
signs facing outward, each with its own motion-activated cameras.

Zavala took a small black box from his pocket and pushed a button. When a light
glowed
green, they rode between two of the signs across open land, then onto a public road. A big pickup truck with a horse trailer attached was pulled off the side of the road.

Spider Barrett got out of the truck's cab as the two men rode up. After the horses were led into the trailer and the door locked, Zavala handed the black box to Barrett. "Worked like a charm," he said.

"It's a pretty simple concept," Barrett said. "This gadget doesn't interrupt the transmission, which they'd pick up immediately. It just delays it for a couple of hours. They'll eventually get a speeded-up picture of you two guys, but it will be too late, and they won't be able to make much sense out of it. Let me show you something even more exciting."

He opened the truck door and removed a small television screen from the cab. It was plugged into the cigarette lighter outlet. He switched the set on and Gant's image appeared on the small screen, saying, "This is private property," followed by Austin's laconic "Do tell."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you were a wiseass?" Zavala said.

"Constantly."

Barrett fast-forwarded to a picture of Doyle. "This is the sonofabitch who tried to kill me," he said.

Austin removed the baseball hat and examined the tiny camera lens hiding in the Harley-Davidson logo on the crown. "Mr. Doyle would have been very surprised if he knew that your beady eyes were watching him from the grave."

Barrett laughed. "What was your impression of Gant?"

"Brilliant.
Arrogant.
Psychopath.
I was watching him after the foxhunt. He was gazing at the killing ground as if it were a shrine."

"Gant always gave me the creeps. I could never figure out why Tris hooked up with him."

"Evil doings make strange bedfellows, I guess. I didn't think he would go for my appeal to reason, but it gave me a chance to size him up, and plant a bug under the garden table before I left."

"It's working fine, but hasn't picked up anything yet."

"Do you think the Trouts will have any better luck with Margrave?" Austin said.

"I hope so, but I'm not very optimistic."

Austin thought about his encounter with Gant. "Neither am I," he said.

Here's to Arthur C. Clarke,"
Gant said, raising his glass high.

He was sitting in his study with three other foxhunters dressed in regulation red. One of them, a thickset man with a face like a bull, said, "
Who's
Clarke?"

Gant's oily smile veiled his contempt. "He is the British science fiction writer who first suggested back in 1945 putting three manned satellites in twenty-four-hour orbits over major landmasses to broadcast television signals. His vision is what brings us here today."

"I'll drink to that," said the thickset man in an English accent.

He raised his glass, and Gant and two other men in the study followed suit. One man was as gaunt as the bull-faced man was thick. The fourth man in the room was in his eighties. He had tried to stave off the inevitable advance of age and his decadent lifestyle through plastic surgery, chemicals and transplants. The effect was a hideous face that was more like the corpse of a young man.

Even Gant would admit that none of his partners would have won a competition on character, but they were incredibly shrewd and ruthless men who had become wealthy beyond belief with their multinational companies. And they would suit his needs.
For now.

"I asked you to join me so I can bring you up to date on our project," Gant said. "Things are going well."

"Hear! Hear!" said the other three men in chorus.

"As you know, the satellite business has grown incredibly fast in the last thirty years. There are dozens of satellites operated by many companies, used for television, communications, military, weather and telephone, with more service on the horizon. These satellites generate billions of dollars." He paused. "Soon, all this will be ours."

"Are you sure there can be no foul-up?" said the old man.

"None at all.
The polar shift will be a temporary disruption, but the satellite networks will all be exposed to an electronic mauling."

"Except for ours," the gaunt man said.

Gant nodded. "Our lead-shielded satellites will be the only ones still operating. Our consortium will be in a position to dominate world communications, a position that we will solidify when we absorb existing networks and launch more of our own satellites."

"Thus generating billions more," the old man said.

"Yes," Gant said. "And the delicious irony is that we will use the anarchist forces to accomplish our goal. They're the ones who will readily take credit for causing the shift. And when the wrath of the world is unleashed against them, Margrave and his people will be destroyed."

"All well and good," the old man said. "But remember, our main goal is the money."

"And there will be plenty of that," Gant said, although money was the least important thing to him. More important was the political power that would come when he had total control over the world's communications. No one would be able to make a move without his knowing about it. Millions of conversations would be monitored. Access to any records would give him ample tools for political blackmail. No army could move without his knowing about it. His television stations would channel public opinions. He would have the power to create riots and to quell them.

"Here's to that British chap," the bull-faced man said. "What was his bloody name?"

Gant told him. Then he raised his glass for another toast.

34

Trout reeled his FISHING
line in and examined the empty hook. "The fish aren't biting today," he said with disgust.

Gamay lowered the binoculars she had been using to study Margrave's lighthouse island. "Someone who grew up in a fisherman's family should know that fishhooks usually work much better if you stick a worm on them."

"Catching a fish would defeat the whole purpose of this seagoing, theatrical production, which is simply to
appear
to be fishing," Trout said.

Gamay glanced at her watch and looked up at the peppermint, red-and-white-striped lighthouse high on its bluff. "We've been here for two hours. The folks who have been watching us from the island should be convinced by now that we're harmless. That little 'bow babe' show I did a while ago must have convinced them that we're but simple fisherfolk."