The Alarmists (15 page)

He’d discussed it with the colonel that morning, before the rest of the team arrived. And the big problem with the idea was that, according to the colonel, there was no chatter on any of the terrorist networks that would indicate an imminent attack. Brent shared that with Rawlings now.

The man frowned. “A domestic act wouldn’t show up on the terrorist hotline.”

Brent didn’t know enough about how those hotlines worked to form an opinion, so he took Rawlings’s statement as the truth. Still, he didn’t think another Timothy McVeigh lurked out there, waiting for a signal to unleash hell. For one thing, by his understanding, no domestic group had ever shown the ability to conduct operations overseas to the extent necessary to account for the number of events in the data set. Americans had a leg up in a lot of things, but seeding terrorist cells throughout the world was not one of them.

“Look, I don’t think the methodology the government uses to locate prospective terrorists before they strike will work here,” he said. “You have to think differently. Think like some rich guy who wants to make an anonymous statement on December twenty-first.”

“It would help if we knew who the rich guy was,” Maddy said. “Or rich
person
, so as not to be sexist.”

“We’ve already been down that road,” Brent said. “You’re the one who said that investigating stock rolls was time-consuming. And we don’t have a whole lot of time.”

Maddy didn’t answer. On the flight back from Afghanistan they’d discussed how to develop a short list of candidates, and Maddy had suggested a canvassing of the stock market to find any individuals or entities who had experienced unusual growth. She quickly dismissed the thought, though, as she considered the logistics of such a thing in the eight days that remained.

Brent, who wanted to err on the side of caution, said, “That doesn’t eliminate the need to find some way to develop a list of rich men—or women—who have the wherewithal and general meanness to ravage the world for profit.”

“Meanness casts a wide net,” Maddy said. “But throw tremendous wealth in there and we should have a short list.”

“So let me see if I have this, Dr. Michaels,” Colonel Richards said. “We have eight days to not only find out who is responsible for manipulating puzzle pieces all around the world to produce a profit, but also to uncover some pending event that will cause massive destruction and probable deaths if it’s allowed to happen. Does that about sum it up?”

Were this his first experience with the man, Brent would have withered beneath the sternness of both the colonel’s words and eyes. However, ten days spent in his orbit had given the professor a better understanding of the man, enough so he could locate the slight trace of humor in the man’s words.

“That’s it in a nutshell,” Brent agreed.

The colonel harrumphed and offered a headshake. Then he sent his eyes over the rest of his team, as well as the civilian who had been brought on for a short consult but who it seemed had fused, at least temporarily, into the group.

“Maddy, I need you to work Homeland Security and get them to leverage the SEC. They can go through the stock records a lot quicker than we can. And tell the HS guys we want Level 4 security on this.”

Maddy nodded and the colonel moved on.

“Snyder, did that explosives report come in yet?”

“Yes, sir. The chemical signature of the PTEN traces back to a production facility in Vancouver.” He riffled through some pages on the table in front of him, finding one with a section circled with a highlighter. “They had a shipment go missing three months ago. They suspected the driver was in on it but couldn’t prove anything, so they canned the guy.”

“Did the shipment cross the border?”

Snyder nodded.

The colonel pursed his lips a moment and then said, “Ask Homeland Security to put some pressure on the driver. See if he can give us a name.”

Brent could almost feel the man’s distaste for having to ask for assistance from Homeland Security, but even Brent understood that the military’s ability to conduct investigations on civilians was minimal. Only HS had the clearances and the reach to push Richards’s agenda.

“The rest of you,” Richards said. “I want you to turn over every stone you can think of and find this polarizing event. If it’s going to happen in eight days, I refuse to believe that we can’t find it. You can’t hide something that big.”

After a last look around the table, Colonel Richards dismissed everyone and then stood and left the room.

December 15, 2012, 9:14 A.M.

As Dabir navigated the busy sidewalks of downtown Atlanta, he did his best to keep from succumbing to the urge to consider the sights and sounds through the eyes of a tourist. Unlike most of his countrymen, he had the benefit of having traveled a great deal, including his schooling in London, but even he was not immune to the sheer size of the city, the diversity of its people, the loudness of it all. In many ways it was like one of the many bazaars in his part of the world, except on a much grander scale. The chief benefit was that a place this size granted him the anonymity he needed.

Indeed, it was not just the size of the city that lent him that veil. He’d found that as he strode the sidewalks, people there didn’t bother to look at him, even if he passed close by. Feeling like something of a ghost, he stopped and hailed a cab.

One of the truths of any major city was that within it one could find a pocket of virtually any people group. It hadn’t taken him long to find his people, or to solicit the name of someone who could facilitate a business transaction.

Exiting the cab two blocks away from his destination offered him the opportunity to familiarize himself with this part of town, as well as avoid revealing the destination to anyone checking records for the taxicab company. While the Eritrean community in this southern metropolis paled in comparison to those in other large American cities, it gratified him to see how they had claimed a portion of the city for themselves, preserving culture and community amid a sea of influences.

The business he sought was nondescript, occupying the corner of a two-story building that ran the length of the block. When Dabir had received its name, he checked it against the Yellow Pages at the front desk of his hotel, but did not find it listed. He suspected that was because no one searching for a pawnshop would come to this neighborhood unless they lived there. And anyone who lived there would know of the pawnshop.

Before entering he took a few additional steps to glance down the cross street, only to find it an alley that met a crumbling concrete wall some fifty feet away. A battered green dumpster sat flush against the wall of the building, and Dabir saw a trio of men huddled in the far corner, where the concrete wall and the next building met.

Finally he entered the shop. There was only one other customer, a man combing through a bin of used DVDs. Looking past him, Dabir saw the proprietor. He was in Western dress, and except for the clothes could have been lifted from any street in Dabir’s more familiar world.

Dabir went to the counter and addressed the man in their common language.

“Honored sir, I come on the word of Mahmud, who says you are able to supply that which others cannot.”

The shopkeeper didn’t respond but instead called out to the other customer and ordered him to leave at once. Without a word of complaint the man hurried away, exiting out the front door. It was only after the door had swung shut behind him that the shopkeeper returned his attention to Dabir.

“And you would have?”

“A Taurus 627,” Dabir said with no hesitation.

The shopkeeper ran a clinical eye over Dabir, who was dressed in a new pair of jeans and a plain white shirt. “Eight hundred,” he said.

Dabir’s eyes narrowed at the markup for a weapon that, had he the necessary paper work, he could purchase for $450. But had he the necessary paper work, he would not be reliant on this man.

“Done,” Dabir said, and the man on the other side of the counter showed only mild surprise. “I trust you have it in stock.”

The shopkeeper returned a slow nod but did not move from his spot. He would not produce the gun until his customer handed over the agreed-upon sum.

But rather than reach for his wallet, which courtesy of Standish/Canfield, contained more than enough to meet the man’s terms, Dabir placed his hands on the countertop and leaned in closer.

“There is something else,” he said. “I require a CheyTac M100.”

At this request the shopkeeper took a step back. He studied the man in front of him and then shook his head. “I have nothing of that quality here.”

“Then you will have one sent,” Dabir said, his tone firm.

At some point during the exchange, the power had shifted from shopkeeper to customer.

After a long pause, the man nodded and said, “I can have one in three days.”

Dabir considered that, wondering if he could wait that long. “I would prefer two,” he said with something close to a smile.

“I will do my best, but I am dependent upon my suppliers for such an order.”

Dabir nodded and then asked him the price, knowing the man would weigh his desire for profit against his instincts for self-preservation, and in doing so advance a figure that would benefit them both.

“I can have one here for seven thousand dollars,” he said.

Dabir thought he could accomplish the feat for five thousand, but he did not say as much. The man deserved to profit from his work. Dabir would not hold that against him. He fished his wallet from his pants and paid for the gun he would take with him, leaving a deposit for the other.

—

In Albert’s opinion, the fact that he hadn’t worked on the Charger in almost forty-eight hours was his wife’s fault. Had she not badgered him into making some phone calls, he might have remained blissfully ignorant of the things that now bothered him about the Antarctica job.

Albert had a penchant for dismissing from his mind anything with the potential to disturb his otherwise tranquil lifestyle. A jury summons? Lost beneath the mountain of mail on the kitchen table. A planned dinner with the couple down the street, whom his wife was keen on striking up a friendship with? Forgotten in favor of a trip to the hardware store. The fact that he hadn’t yet received a workman’s comp check? Barely worth noticing.

The problem was that the more calls he made, the more this thing took on too solid of a shape to dismiss in favor of the Charger. For Albert’s concern wasn’t only about the whereabouts of Ben Robinski but the issue of his missing checks. Now that his wife had forced him to give the matter his attention, he couldn’t just forget it. Instead, it would nag at him relentlessly—that is, until he got to the bottom of things.

The big issue was that, while Sheffield Petroleum was a monstrous corporation with holdings all over the world, with drilling operations in nearly every geographical area where it was possible to set up a drill, the people he’d spoken with insisted there was no crew in Antarctica, nor had there been in quite some time. To make matters worse, it seemed no one had ever heard of Miles Standish, the man who’d recruited Albert. It was the sort of wall that Albert didn’t know how to climb. He’d expected a runaround on his compensation checks. That was only natural. But to have the company refuse to even acknowledge he’d worked for them? That was an entirely different matter, and a puzzling one at that.

The impasse forced him to do something he rarely did: he cleared enough of the junk away from the computer to reach the power button, and as the machine booted up he repeated the process until he had unimpeded access to the keyboard. It took almost five minutes before the ancient machine reached a state where he could access the Internet. Then he spent the next half hour searching for information about the company, specifically an employee directory. Soon he came across an interactive map that listed all their active drill sites. Albert noticed Antarctica didn’t have any blinking red dots on it. What he couldn’t find was a company directory. After thinking for a moment he returned to the search engine and entered the name Miles Standish. He was elated when the computer came back with several references to the mysterious Mr. Standish.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said.

It took him only a short time to realize that the Miles Standish the computer had located for him could not possibly be his man, seeing as this one had died in 1656. And that he had something to do with the pilgrims.

With a sigh Albert pushed away from the computer.

Up to now he’d given little thought to the Antarctica job—a job that, for him, was cut short as he was forced to evacuate for medical reasons. On some level he’d understood that the whole thing was a bit off, even if the mechanics of it were simple: drill a shaft, drop a charge. He just hadn’t given much thought as to why Sheffield Petroleum needed a few hundred miles’ worth of shafts, as well as enough explosives to sink the continent. Consequently, once the chopper pulled him off the ice, he’d rid himself of such questions.

In retrospect he wondered if the reason none of the Sheffield people seemed to know about the Antarctica job was because it had been a secret one, not on the list of official projects. That would explain a lot.

The problem was how to approach a company as large as Sheffield Petroleum with any hope of earning a helpful response. He gave that some thought yet nothing jumped out at him. He decided such weighty cogitation required the proper fuel, so he stood, stretched, and went to the refrigerator for a beer. It was as he was downing the first sip that the thought came to him.

“Andrea, what’s the name of our congressman?”

“Cooper,” she called from the living room.

“Cooper,” he said to himself. “Okay then. We’ll just see what those crooks at Sheffield Petroleum have to say when a congressman gets involved.”

His wife appeared over his shoulder as he found the representative’s website, located the constituency feedback form, and began to type a message. Andrea watched him for a while, and about a minute in, Albert felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I didn’t realize how computer savvy you are,” she said. When he glanced at her, he saw the same look on her face he’d seen the other day when he’d forgotten all about poor Ben Robinski.

“Not now, woman,” he said. “I’ve built up a proper righteous indignation and I don’t want to waste it.”

He turned back to typing and felt Andrea’s other hand come down on his other shoulder.

“Political activism too,” she said. “I barely know who you are anymore, love.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, especially as her fingers touched that ticklish spot on the back of his neck. He shook her off, though he didn’t put much into it.

“Hold your horses,” he said. “Or would you rather I not find a way to get those checks you’ve been on me about?”

That got her attention, but it only stopped her advances for a short time. Fortunately it was just long enough for Albert.

—

The thing that struck Brent the most as he sat in Colonel Richards’s office was that this second experience was a good deal different than his first, when the colonel had, in his own subdued fashion, wowed the visiting professor. After all, during what other job interview could the man doing the interviewing ignore a fire in order to fully vet a qualified candidate?

The thing that made this visit a bit unusual was the colonel’s body language. As Brent watched him, the way he sat, the way he put his hands on the desk and then immediately withdrew them, he seemed committed to discussing something that he didn’t want to discuss. Brent, who had taken a psychology class or two on his way to earning his degree, theorized that the colonel was caught between a sense of duty and one of profound discomfort, yet he felt convicted enough about the topic to press on anyway.

The colonel shifted in his seat again, leaning forward and placing both hands around a cup of tea with the tea bag still in evidence.

“Dr. Michaels, we’ve been so busy since you returned from Afghanistan that I haven’t thanked you for what you did for Captain Madigan,” Richards said.

The statement caught Brent off guard. Judging from the colonel’s discomfort, something like a simple thanks seemed to lack the punch necessary for the moment.

“I’m not sure thanks are warranted,” Brent said. “Without Maddy slamming my head into a table, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

That drew a hint of a smile from Richards, with Brent coming to realize that a minimal curl of the lip from this man was the equivalent of a full-blown laugh from most others. Despite that, Richards shook his head.

“According to the report—and Amy—you took out at least two of them. And a firefight on foreign soil is far beyond the terms of your consult.”

“Self-preservation will make a guy do crazy things,” Brent answered with a grin, one that failed to penetrate the colonel’s demeanor, as evidenced by the now-vanished smile.

“Dr. Michaels, I may be overstepping my bounds, but you have to realize that each and every one of these people is, for lack of a better word, family. What happens to one happens to all of us.”

The colonel stopped and surveyed Brent, as if to see if the professor was tracking with him. A nod from Brent signified he was.

“It hasn’t escaped my attention that you and Captain Madigan have become close during your time with us,” Richards said, and in a flash Brent understood the real reason for the meeting, as well as for the colonel’s discomfort. In fact, now that he knew what this was about, he felt a bit uncomfortable himself.

“I suppose that can happen when you spend a significant amount of time with someone,” Brent said.