by David Klass
“I was getting plenty of work done till you dropped by. But since you’re here, I take it our profile didn’t get any hits?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if it had, you’d be on your triumphant way to Washington,” she said. “I know how you guys operate. You need help, and when it works, you disappear.”
“I said I’d come with the results, and I’m here,” Tom told her. “You couldn’t have been more helpful working through the night, and I really appreciate it. We got four hits on our profile.” He hesitated. “But are you really sure this is a good time?”
“A good time for what?” Her black eyes blazed. Was she angry with him? Flirting? They were alone in a mansion, and she was in pajama bottoms and a skimpy top. Her long raven hair was uncombed and spilled wildly over her shoulders and T-shirt as if in challenge to the curated order of the garden beneath the window.
“Look, I’m here to share the preliminary results and because I value your opinion going forward. But I don’t want to disturb you, Dr. Ronningen.”
“Lise, for Christ sakes, I’m not that much older than you. Sit down and stop apologizing. You want coffee? Booze? My husband is a fan of sherry in the afternoon, and he keeps more bottles than most restaurants. I’ve already had a glass.”
“Nothing for me. I don’t drink much. But thanks.”
“Aren’t you fun,” she said. “Okay, I take it the four hits weren’t promising?”
“I had hoped for more and better,” Tom admitted, “but I still believe in our profile. This search was just a first try.” He powered up his computer. “It was very limited in scope—the top ten engineering grad programs going back thirty years. Brennan said I was making a mistake limiting it to the best schools. He thinks I’m an elitist.”
“You’re a sober, self-effacing elitist, which is the worst kind of snob,” Lise said, and poured herself a generous glass of sherry. He noted that after pouring, she deftly concealed the half-empty bottle beneath a chair. He wondered how many glasses she’d had and if her eyes were red from crying rather than from lack of sleep. “Give me that,” she said, grabbing his laptop, and she studied the names and the biographical information he’d quickly pulled together. “I thought you said four names. There are only three.”
“We had four hits. But one of them, Paul Sayers, is long dead, which means we only have three possibilities.”
She was speed-reading and ignoring him. “This Miura guy is a stud. He crosses all kinds of disciplines, and his educational background exceeds our profile.”
“Yeah, he’d be terrific. Too bad Miura lives in Japan.”
“Maybe he travels to America when he feels like blowing something up.”
“He consults all over Asia—especially in China—but he hasn’t been to America in five years. Which rules him out and leaves us only two. One is a female academic—”
“Oh, let’s just discount all female academics,” Lise said angrily. “Surely the brilliant and dynamic Green Man can’t possibly be a passive and weak female professor.”
“Actually, I always considered that a real possibility,” Tom told her. “Until we found a cop in Nebraska who we think pulled Green Man over—”
“But you’re not one hundred percent sure the guy that cop pulled over was Green Man, right? So how can you completely rule out Professor Fiona Harvey? She was a rock star at Cornell engineering. Strong professional credentials, and she’s published tons.”
“Because she lacks the freedom to do what Green Man does. For the last decade Dr. Harvey’s taught at Auburn, and she rarely leaves Alabama.”
“How do you know? She wouldn’t need to fly across the Pacific like Miura. Dr. Harvey could covertly get in her car—or van—and drive wherever she wants.”
“True, but she’s battling stage four cancer. She’s spent a lot of the past two years in a hospital in Birmingham, right when Green Man was striking.”
“Which leaves us with only one,” Lise admitted grudgingly. “Alec Petrov.”
“Alec’s got it all,” Tom said. “A brilliant mechanical engineer from Rice who dazzled his professors and jumped right into a stellar career. But he’s too high-flying—the managing partner of an electric car company that went public and is valued at more than a billion dollars. If there’s one thing I can tell you that Green Man is definitely not, it’s high profile. Alec is on every business news show that will have him. He’s been busy launching his company twenty-four seven. There’s no way he’s also been running around blowing up factories and sinking yachts.”
Lise reluctantly shrugged. She clearly didn’t like to admit defeat in anything. “I did my job. The profile’s damn good. You did the computer modeling, and you decided the parameters of the search, so it’s your problem.”
“Absolutely,” Tom agreed, standing up. “I’m gonna search much wider. And look, I know I’m not supposed to apologize, but whatever’s going on here, I’m sorry to have barged in at the wrong time, and I hope it works out. I should go now. I may have to fly back to DC on very short notice, but I’ll text you if I get any other hits.”
He tried to take his laptop back, but Lise didn’t let the computer go. “What makes you think something’s wrong here?”
“Nothing,” Tom said, avoiding her eyes. “I just really need to go now.”
“What’s the big emergency in DC?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“I have a higher security clearance than you do. Ask Brennan.”
“I know you do.”
“Then come on, FBI Agent Smith. Tell me the truth.”
He met her gaze. “I think something’s wrong here because that’s at least your second glass of sherry and it looks like you’ve been crying. You’re pissed off about something, and I’m sure you have good reason to be, but it’s nothing that I did.”
Lise took a sip of sherry and gave him an appraising smile, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of him but she was starting to like him. “I meant tell me the truth about what’s going on in DC.”
“I know you did.”
She poured a second glass of sherry and held it out to Tom, and he hesitated and then took it. “I warn you, I’m not a strong drinker. My father considered it a sign of weakness. One of many that he saw in me.”
“Spare me your family tsuris. Let’s hear about DC.”
He tasted the sherry and found it warm and cloying. “They’ve got someone in custody.”
“Who they think is Green Man?”
“There’s some circumstantial evidence.”
“Which you don’t buy?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You don’t buy it. How strong is the circumstantial evidence?”
Tom hesitated for several seconds. “This is not public knowledge.”
“My security clearance is fully invoked, and my lips are sealed.” And she ran her tongue over her full lips.
“They searched his house, in Michigan. In a small pond in the back of his property they found traces of the explosive used to blow up the chemical factory near Boston.”
“Sounds like they got the right guy,” she said.
Tom couldn’t keep his voice from swelling louder with doubt and anger: “Green Man would never be stupid enough to walk out his back door and dump explosives in a pond in his own backyard.” He got himself under control, took a bigger sip of the sherry, and met her eyes. “Okay, your turn. Why were you crying?”
“Because I got a call from my husband,” Lise told him. “Ernst has accepted a distinguished guest professorship at a university in Paris for next semester.”
“Paris is a nice place to visit.”
“Yes, it’s a lovely and romantic city,” she agreed, and her eyes suddenly glistened. “But I don’t think I’d be welcome. You see, his mistress lives in Paris.”
Tom
handed her a tissue from a box and said, softly and almost shyly, “I thought your husband was supposed to be smart. He must be dumb as well as blind.”
She gave him a smile as she dabbed at her eyes. “It’s a very sad story. There was a young woman who everyone said was the smartest around and she won all the prizes—her brilliance was unquestioned. Her father was a cold, austere, older, philandering scientist in Norway who gave her no love when she was young, so what did she do? She married a cold, austere, older, philandering mathematician from Germany who also gives her no love. Have you ever heard anything so stupid?”
Tom’s head was swimming with the sherry. “Matter of fact, I have,” he told her. “A young man who was a bit of an environmentalist grew up with a father he hated, who mocked everything about him. The father was an FBI agent and toted around a gun and a badge. He pretended to be a moral paragon, but he was really abusive and narrow-minded and beat the shit out of his kid. When the boy grew up, he broke away and he could have done anything. But he ended up an FBI agent, toting around a gun and a badge, and he’s helping to hunt down someone who may be the last hope of saving the planet.”
She studied him with interest. “Do you know why you’re doing it?”
“Something has a hold on me that I can’t shake. You?”
She raised a glass. “Pure masochism. Fuck it. Here’s to getting bombed in the afternoon.” They clinked glasses and drank. “You’re unexpectedly complex for a Tom Smith,” she said. “Tell me something about yourself that I wouldn’t guess.”
“I almost became a pianist. My dad was against it. But I was really good.”
“Prove it.” She led him out of the study to the living room, and he found himself sitting at the grand piano. It was a Blüthner, hand-crafted in Germany.
He hadn’t practiced in months, so he played something he loved and knew well, a Chopin piano concerto. He got caught up in the emotion of the music, and when he finished, he saw that Lise was sitting very still and that a tear was sliding down her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be.” She wiped the tear away with a thumb and covered the display of emotion by changing subjects quickly. “Why do you think he had that explosive in his pond if he’s not Green Man? Do you think he’s being set up?”
“That wouldn’t make sense. We know too much about Green Man. The truth will come out, and he’ll be cleared. I don’t trust it, but I don’t pretend to understand it.” He turned on the piano bench to look at her. “Your turn. Tell me something about you that’s fun and embarrassing.”
Lise hesitated and then shrugged and said, “One night at Oxford I took some pills and ended up dancing naked in a fountain and this snarky blog voted me the sexiest Rhodes scholar since Kris Kristofferson and also labeled me a total nutcase.”
Tom laughed and said, “Nutcase or not, that’s pretty good company.”
“I guess,” she said, chuckling despite herself. Then she asked him, “Why do you think Green Man may be the last hope of the planet?”
“You read his letters and manifesto. You’re a scientist, so you recognize hard facts. The last seven years have been the hottest on record. The ice sheets are melting, the oceans are rising, and there are freak weather events all over the globe. Species are dying off, and there’s precious little time to turn things around, but that’s what he’s trying to do. He’s focused world attention on the most critical problems—”
Lise emphatically shook her head and cut in: “Every terrorist thinks he has to do what he does, that God has assigned him that mission.”
Tom replied by asking the question that he’d carried around with him—one that had tortured him for months. “You’re absolutely right, and I couldn’t agree more. Every terrorist thinks his cause justifies his actions. No one has the right to take the law into his own hands, and especially to spill innocent blood. Anyone who does that must be stopped.” He paused and then asked softly, “But, Lise, what if in this single very unique case, Green Man happens to be one hundred percent right?”
There was a deep seriousness in her face when she answered. “I served two years mandatory military service in Israel. I’ve been to bomb sites, from attacks on opposite sides of the same issues. I’ve used tweezers to pick up the blown-apart little pieces of women and children. Nothing justifies fanatical extremism. Nothing. Never.” She broke off and studied Tom as if she couldn’t quite make him out. “I can’t believe they picked you of all people to hunt this guy down.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t seem to be doing a very good job of it. Do you have anything else to drink?” Tom asked her. “Preferably not so damn sweet.”
“How about some chilled red wine? And I can show you the rest of the house.”
She carried the red wine and two glasses as she led the way up to the second floor and opened a door to an enormous bedroom. “Ernst’s bedroom.”
“You guys sleep separately?”
“He likes privacy. I think he brings his students here. The lucky ones.” The bitterness in her voice was palpable. She led him a short distance down the hall. “Here’s where I hang out.”
He peered into a smaller bedroom and saw the canopy bed and gorgeous view. “It’s lovely.”
She was standing next to him, so closely that their hips and shoulders brushed. “Why don’t you come in and we can drink the wine?”
“I’d like to,” Tom said, “but . . .”
“You have a girlfriend?”
“No, but you have a husband. And I’ve never been with someone who’s married. I’m not sure I believe in that.”
Lise stepped in front of him and leaned so close that he could feel her breath on his cheeks. “I thought your family business was punishing bad guys?”
“It is.”
“My husband is a real bad guy,” Lise said softly, looking into his eyes. “I want you to punish him.” Somehow her hands had gone to his belt and with one deft flick of her fingers had undone the clasp. “You see, I really am a good engineer.” She looked both vulnerable and ferocious. “Now, not a word more.” She kissed him on the lips and drew him into the bedroom, and step by step Tom followed her in.
THIRTY-SIX
“How sure are you that the stuff you found in the pond is the same stuff Green Man used when he torched that chemical company?” the president asked as Marine One descended toward the White House.
“C4 is a powerful plastic explosive, sir, composed of several component parts, so even small traces are very distinguishable,” Brennan told him. “There are the explosives themselves, a plasticizer, a binder, and a chemical marker, and the composition of those ingredients can vary considerably. For example, the C4 that our military uses has a ninety-one percent explosive component that’s RDX and a five-point-three percent dioctyl sebacate binder—”
“Jim, this isn’t a chemistry class,” the attorney general cut in. “The president just wants the big picture.”
Brennan nodded and said simply, “The traces of C4 that we found in Barris’s pond match the potent but slightly unusual formula that was used in Massachusetts. It was home brewed, sir, so it’s like a fingerprint or even a retina scan—extremely distinctive.”
“Home brewed, eh? How good was the match?” the president asked.
“Perfect, sir.”
“Can’t do much better than perfect,” the president noted, and smiled smugly. He turned quickly to an assistant: “I don’t want the First Lady too close when we come down. She always does that. The rotor wash messes up her hair for the photos.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the assistant said, and whispered urgently into a mouthpiece. The White House helipad was now visible below, with a growing crowd waiting.
“DOD’s top people have done their own analysis of the C4, Mr. President,” the attorney general chimed in. “They concur. It’s definitely the same stuff.”
“But the bas
tard still claims he’s innocent?” the president asked.
“Vociferously. And he’s retained top counsel, who are limiting our ability to question him.”
“So he’s lawyered up,” the president said. “Meg, needless to say, I want our very best people on this.”
“They are, sir. I handpicked them myself.”
“Good, I want them to stick a spike up his ass. You know that King of England who got spiked in the ass?”
There was silence except for the loud drone of the helicopter. A scholarly looking aide named Harburg said hesitantly, “Edward II, sir.” And he cautiously added, “It was actually a red-hot poker. . . .”
“Love it,” the president said. “The fucking Brits. They pretend to be so hoity-toity and then they shove a hot poker up their king’s keister.”
Brennan hesitated, but they were less than two hundred feet above the emerald lawn, and he knew he only had seconds. “Mr. President, I’d like to emphasize that we’re still in the information-gathering stage and no charges have yet been filed—”
“Jesus Christ, Brennan,” the president erupted at him, looking very serious and even a little angry. “You know what you just did?”
“Not exactly, sir.”
The chief executive broke into a broad grin. “You just knocked this one out of the fucking ballpark.”
“Thank you, sir, but what I’m trying to emphasize is the necessity to still be cautious—”
“So when you knock one out of the fucking park, you let yourself enjoy it. Right? Do you think when Reggie Jackson clubbed those three home runs against the Dodgers he was walking around the dugout second-guessing himself?”
“No, sir,” Brennan said. “I bet he was pretty happy, but the salient point here for us now is prudence—”
“I was at that game, by the way. Front-row boffo box seats. Fucking Mr. October bangs three out. Stan, damn it, she’s way too close. Her hair is gonna be a tumbleweed.”