Death Wave (33 page)

“Okay.”

“I can imagine … well, if someone set off a nuclear explosion on the west side of that wall, a lot of the blast would be reflected toward the west.”

“What the military calls a force multiplier.”

“Exactly. That might push the whole west side of that ridge up, out, and into the Atlantic very quickly. But that’s a worst-case scenario, and it depends on that basalt wall being there. We don’t know for sure that it is.”

“But it’s possible?”

She nodded. “It’s possible. There are lots of basaltic extrusions along the top of that ridge—odd-looking rock formations, towers, exposed cliffs, things like that, things that suggest a much larger mass of basalt underground.”

“I see. How could we find out if that wall exists?”

“Geological surveys. Ground-penetrating radar, maybe. I happen to know there are a couple of tunnels running through the Cumbre Vieja. I don’t think the tunnel engineers encountered anything like a solid wall of basalt. Of course, the tunnels are up at the north end of the ridge. The basalt wall, if it’s there, would be farther south, probably.”

“Well, thank you, Katie. I appreciate your time.”

“Not a problem. But … Bill?”

“Yes?”

“When the deputy director of the NSA calls me up and asks about one-kiloton nukes causing landslides and tidal waves on the East Coast … I have to ask. Is it time for me to sell my house and move to Denver?”

“I can’t discuss the details, Katie. I’m sorry. As I said, there
is
a threat, yes. We don’t know how serious a threat it is, but we’re evaluating it now. Should you move to Denver?” He smiled. “Probably not. You might want to buy some extra flood insurance, though.”

“Georgetown is at an elevation of around forty meters above sea level, Bill.”

“Perfect. You may find yourself owning high-priced beachfront property. Thanks again, Katie. I’ll be in touch.”

PLAYA DE PUERTO NAOS
LA PALMA, CANARY ISLANDS
SATURDAY, 1520 HOURS LOCAL TIME

When Lia saw him walking up the beach toward her, she was furious. CJ had called from the airport hours before, saying she hadn’t seen him at the airport, that a surreptitious check of the airport’s passenger lists had not turned up his name. Clearly, Vince Carlylse had not gotten on the flight for Madrid as planned, but where he’d gone on the tiny island instead had been a complete mystery.

After walking a couple of miles north along the beach, Lia had turned around and was well on her way back toward the hotel when she’d seen his lanky frame coming toward her across the black sand. He’d stood out. Only a few other people were scattered along the beach, bright splotches of swimsuit colors lying on towels or wading at the edge of the incoming surf. Tourism on the island was light; the beach at Alicante had been packed by comparison.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Lia demanded. She looked at her watch. “You were supposed to be on that commuter flight out of here and back to the mainland over two hours ago!”

“I decided,” Carlylse replied with an easy grin, “that I didn’t want to go.”

“What’s the matter with you? Is this some sort of death wish thing?”

“Frankly, Lia, I’m not sure I believe all that stuff. I write fiction for a living, you know. I don’t know what your game is … but I’m having a little trouble believing in this cloak and dagger stuff, or terrorists out to get me because of the books I write.”

She sighed. “So would you believe me if I told you little gray aliens from Atlantis were out to get you instead?”

“
That
I might believe!”

Lia was angry, but she found the anger evaporating fairly quickly. Carlylse, when you thought about it, had no reason to trust her, or to believe anything that she’d told him, in fact.

“You are a world-class idiot,” she told him. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“No, actually. I find your candor refreshing.”

“Are you still in the same room at the Sol? The one we switched you to last night?”

The evening before, Lia had asked the Art Room to intercede for her, having them contact the front desk and see if there
had
been a complaint about a woman with a gun. There hadn’t been, thank God. A Spanish-speaking handler from the Art Room pretending to be Vince Carlylse had gotten a different room for him at the hotel and the solemn promise that
no one
be told where he now was staying. It was one way to stay ahead of any potential assassins until she could get him on a plane bound for the United States.

“Still there. It does have a better view than the other one.”

“
Fuck
the view! We need to get you someplace safe.”

“Okay, you’re trying to track down these assassins of yours, right? What better way to get them into the open than to use me as bait?”

Eyebrows raised, Lia didn’t answer that. Part of the discussion with the Art Room the day before had revolved around exactly that possibility—using Carlylse to flush out al-Wawi. She’d argued that it would be better to get him off the island and back to the United States, suggesting that he would be useful in figuring out just what it was about his tidal wave book that had turned him into a target.

When Lia didn’t reply, Carlylse went on, changing the subject. “At least Carmen doesn’t appear to have caused a problem with the front desk,” Carlylse told her. He sounded almost disappointed. “God knows what she thinks of me now, though.”

“You can always tell her I was your crazy ex-wife,” Lia told him.

He laughed. “I might just do that.”

After getting him a new, assassin-proof room last night, the Art Room had booked him on a local flight out of La Palma back to Madrid. From there, he was supposed to catch a flight to Dulles International. A couple of U.S. Marshals were to have met him in Spain to provide security for the rest of the trip back to the States.

Instead, he was still here.
Damn
the man, and damn his arrogance!

“I should have ridden to the airport with you this morning,” she told him, “but I assumed you were an adult, that you could follow some simple directions! I didn’t think you needed a babysitter!”

“Look, Lia,” he said. She’d told him her real name the night before, a concession to his sharp curiosity. “You might as well know that I don’t respond well to the heavy hand of authority. Trying to make me do one thing is a great way to make me do something else.”

“Look, do you even understand that we’re trying to help you? That you’re in danger if you stay here?”

“What are you doing down here with those binoculars? Looking for me?”

“Doing some scouting,” she told him.

Unable to do anything about finding Carlylse, Lia had come down to the beach from the hotel earlier that afternoon with a pair of binoculars and had walked slowly north for over an hour, taking time now and again to scan the looming ridge of the Cumbre Viejo looking for signs of activity on the crest. She’d already decided that she was going to need to rent a car and drive up there herself.

“Scouting what? I know the island pretty well. Maybe you could use a friendly native guide.”

“Not if you can’t follow simple instructions.”

“I saw you looking at the mountains up there, though. With your binoculars. What are you looking for?”

“I’ve heard there are trails and bike paths up there,” Lia said. Stopping, she raised the binoculars to her eyes again, focusing on the top of the ridge. The looming slope was thickly forested with what looked like pine trees, but the highest peaks were bare, raw, and volcanic. Directly east of Puerto Naos was Pico Berigoyo, with upthrust slabs of black basaltic rock at the crest some four and a half miles inland and six thousand feet above the beach.

“There are,” Carlylse said. “There’s something like a thousand miles of trails back there. The one I really wanted to see was La Ruta de los Volcanes. It runs along the whole length of the Cumbre Vieja, past all of those volcanic craters. But it’s been closed since I got here.”

“Closed? Why?”

He shrugged. “Some sort of test drilling operation. The signs say the area is closed to tourists, by order of the Scientific Institute of Geological Research.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Isn’t it? La Palma is pretty much self-sufficient—it doesn’t depend on tourism to keep going—but those trail closures must be putting a hell of a bite on their tourist income.”

She turned away from him. “Jeff? Did you hear?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You might want to check out this scientific institute. Is it here on the island? Or back on the mainland?”

“We’re on it, Lia.”

“Are your, um, friends
always
listening in?” Carlylse asked her.

“Yup. When I’m on duty, anyway.”

“So when are you
off
duty? I’d kind of like to get to know you better. Maybe over dinner?”

“Mr. Carlylse, are you making a pass at me?”

“Of course!”

“My only interest in you is getting you back to the States in one piece. Some of those friends you mention want to talk to you about your book—the one about megatsunamis.”

“I won’t be able to tell them much that isn’t already in the book.”

“They’d be interested in your sources, your research. Where you got your information about La Palma and giant tidal waves, that sort of thing.”

He chuckled. “Most of that came from a BBC television program a few years ago.
Horizon
, I think the show was called. And there was a disaster program on American cable later about megatsunamis that went into La Palma a bit.”

“They’d still like to interview you.”

“Maybe you could interview me? Then I wouldn’t have to go back to America.”

“There are people here who want to kill you, Mr. Carlylse. Doesn’t that worry you at all?”

“Not really. So far, the most dangerous person I’ve seen is you.”

She ignored the jibe, raising the binoculars once again. “You’ve been up there, then?”

“Sure was. Wednesday morning. I rented a car in Puerto Naos, drove up to the village of Fatima, then rented a bike and tried to get up there.” He pointed to the left of Pico Berigoyo, indicating another peak. “That’s Montaña Rejada.”

She looked him up and down. “You’re in better shape than you look.”

“Thank you
so
much. Anyway, I got to a point just below the top of the ridge when the guards stopped me. They had the path blocked off with yellow tape, and there was that geological institute sign.”

“Guards? How many?”

“Two.”

“What kind of guards? Spanish Army?”

“I don’t think so. Might have been a private security group. They were wearing mostly civilian clothing, but the vests and hats looked military. Canteens. Boots. Maybe military surplus. Otherwise, they were wearing sports shirts and blue jeans, that sort of thing. But they had guns.”

“What kind of guns?”

“AK-47s.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“I’ve written about military stuff. A little, anyway. Yeah, I’m sure. They were either AK-47s or AK-74s. I’m not sure of the difference. But Russian assault rifles, anyway. They told me I was trespassing and that I should go back down the mountain unless I wanted to be arrested.”

“So you did?”

“Not immediately. I rode a little ways back down the hill into a stand of pines, parked my bike, and then looked around a bit on foot. I was curious about those guys.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw a helicopter land.”

“What? Where?”

He pointed again. “It’s kind of tough to see from here, but Rejada Mountain has three volcanic craters, side by side, in a kind of V formation. I was on a bike path just below the rim of the middle crater, maybe a hundred feet from the crest. I saw a helicopter fly up over the top of the ridge from the east side of the island, then disappear down inside that crater.”

“What kind of helicopter?”

A shrug. “I don’t know. I didn’t see any markings. It was pretty big, though, like a transport. I figured they must be using choppers to get all their gear up there.”

“Did you see any of the drilling rigs or equipment?”

He shook his head. “No. I heard some of the guards up on the slope above me, so I hurried on back to where I’d stashed my bike.”

“I think I’d like a closer look.”

“I could take you up there.”

She gave him an appraising look. “Maybe. It would
not
be a date. You understand that?”

“Absolutely!” He raised his hand. “Scout’s honor!”