Shot Clock

by Mark Parragh

  To her, it was all just “news.” It was another day’s haul of distant, irrelevant events. Tomorrow, they would be forgotten, and there would be more headlines just like these. He knew what she would say if she woke up and saw him like this. She would encourage him to put away the phone, ignore the chaos of the outside world, and live in the moment. Wasn’t that why people came to the North Shore in the first place? Soon, he would see that none of it really mattered. It was nothing but a distraction. It was just news.

  But Crane couldn’t see it the way she did. Now he understood what it all meant. Swift’s forces and Turnstone’s were at each other’s throats, like two knife fighters bound together at the wrists. In each new story, Crane saw the cut and thrust of a brutal war. It wasn’t just news anymore. Maybe it had never been.

  He knew he wasn’t the only one who felt things going off the rails. Here was another opinion piece, this one in the Los Angeles Times. Those who made a living watching the news could sense that somehow this wasn’t business as usual. Even if they didn’t understand the reasons for it, they saw the pace of the news speeding up, the impact of events growing stronger, buffeting the world around them.

  Not to mention the collateral damage.

  Unrest was spreading. People were getting hurt. The phone number Chris Parikh had once given him had stopped working. Things were bad and getting worse. They needed to get back into it, Crane knew. Josh wasn’t going to be able to just stay on his boat forever.

  Crane let the phone topple forward onto his chest, and then leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to go to sleep. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he felt the phone vibrate against his breastbone.

  He picked it up and saw a new e-mail from Josh.

  “Meet me in Johannesburg,” Crane read. “Big. Really big.”

  It said nothing else, but that was enough. A flight itinerary was attached. It had him leaving from Honolulu in…Crane glanced over at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. In not quite six hours.

  Crane smiled. They were back in business. He rolled out of bed and quietly began gathering his things.

  Chapter 44

  The Lesotho Highlands

  “It looks like they made the whole place out of Legos,” Josh shouted over the noise of the helicopter.

  Crane smiled and nodded at him. They were flying up the Malibamat'so River, between a bright, cloud-studded blue sky and rugged deep-green slopes. Over endless years, the river had carved its way down through layer after layer of level sedimentary rock, creating a steep landscape with a highly terraced, almost artificial appearance.

  “Why are we here again?” Crane shouted back. Josh had explained some of it on the way, but they’d been moving fast, and Josh insisted on keeping much of it to himself. “Redpoll gave you some mysterious message before he died—one which you didn’t tell Swift about, by the way. Or me.”

  “I didn’t know if I could decipher it!” Josh protested, but Crane wasn’t sure he believed him. Josh was subtly different now, Crane had noticed. It was to be expected that the experience at the Cambie would affect him, but it was more than that. Something had passed between Josh and Redpoll in that car, and Josh hadn’t been quite the same since.

  “But you did, and you’re supposed to find somebody here?”

  “Makama!” said Josh. “I called ahead. He’s waiting for us there.”

  “What the hell is there?”

  “That!” Josh nodded at something over Crane’s shoulder, and Crane turned to look.

  Ahead of them, the Katse Dam rose from the river, a curving cement wall six hundred feet high. Beyond it, a massive reservoir curved away through the grass-green mountains.

  The helicopter climbed sharply up toward the top. “International water project!” Josh was shouting. “Hydropower for Lesotho, and it delivers water by pipeline to South Africa. Major source of revenue for the kingdom. Built by an international consortium. Guess who really owns all those engineering and construction firms.”

  It was an impressive achievement, Crane had to admit, especially here in the remote highlands, surrounded by little more than a few twisting, unpaved access roads. They cleared the top of the dam, and the helicopter descended toward a landing pad outside the small building complex at one side of the lake.

  Men were waiting, Crane saw as they landed, and the engine slowly spun down. There were dozens of them, most of them wearing coveralls and holding hard hats. It looked like the entire staff had turned out to see them. One man in a short-sleeved white shirt and black slacks stepped forward as they climbed down from the helicopter.

  “Welcome to Katse,” he said with a slight bow. “I am Chief Engineer Thamae. You are here to see Mr. Makama?”

  Josh offered his hand, and they shook. “That’s right. Can you take me to him?”

  “He is here, sir,” said the Chief engineer. He turned and led them toward the waiting formation of men. Mr. Makama wasn’t hard to pick out. He was older than the others. Crane guessed he was in his sixties. He didn’t wear work clothes. Unlike most of the other workmen gawking at them, it wasn’t immediately clear why he should be there at all. He looked like a local who’d just wandered in from the hills.

  “You are Mr. Makama?” Josh asked him.

  “I am,” he said.

  Josh looked around at the crowd. “I have a message for you,” he said. “It should be delivered in private.”

  Makama nodded and said something to the chief engineer, who immediately shooed the others away, gesturing with his hands and shouting orders. The men were a good fifty feet away before Makama was satisfied. He gave Crane a brief look, but didn’t object to his presence.

  “The message, sir?”

  Josh took a deep breath and then spoke. Crane could tell he’d been rehearsing the syllables.

  “O tlamehile ho ba phetoho eo o batlang ho e bona lefatseng.”

  Makama beamed. “I have waited a very long time.”

  “What is it?” Crane asked.

  Josh turned to him. “Sesotho. The local language. It means you must be the change you want to see in the world.”

  He turned back to Makama for a moment. “By the way. Seriously? Gandhi?”

  Makama just shrugged.

  Josh shook his head. “Can’t say Redpoll didn’t have a sense of humor. So what happens now?”

  “Come with me, sir,” said Makama. “I will show you some of the many interesting features of the dam.”

  “Well, okay, then,” Josh replied. “Let’s go see the dam.”

  Josh nodded politely and acted impressed as Chief Engineer Thamae pointed out the turbines and the tunnels that carried lake water some forty-five kilometers to South Africa using only gravity flow. But his mind was racing.

  What the hell have you done?

  You have no idea what the message means. Did you even get the whole thing? What are these people expecting you to do now?

  This is Redpoll’s world. What good thing did you think was going to come from this?

  Can you just turn around and get back on the helicopter? What would they do?

  He noticed Crane had picked up the thread of conversation at some point.

  Since you’re busy trying to hide how much you’re freaking out.

  “What do you do here, Mr. Makama?” Crane asked.

  “I wait,” said Makama.

  “For someone to say the words to you. Has it ever happened before?”

  Makama smiled and shook his head. “From time to time, someone comes to see that all is well and I’m still here. But no one else has come until today. That’s why the workers are so curious. It’s been a long time.”

  “But you’re not one of them. You don’t have any official job duties here at the dam?”

  “Mr. Makama is paid from a separate budget line,” said Chief Engineer Thamae. Then he went back to explaining the function of each of the large pipes they walked beside.

  This guy has his own slush fund? Just to wait here for
Redpoll to someday pass the torch? Or whatever this is? And I thought I hit the jackpot.

  Wait, no, there has to be more to it. What’s expected of him?

  “And here is what you have come to see,” Makama said suddenly, yanking Josh back to the present. They were on a long walkway that curved along the arc of the dam. On one side was a railing overlooking a rat’s nest of heavy pipes painted with color codes and ID numbers, manual and motor-operated valves sticking out at random intervals. But Makama was on the other side of the walkway, where a single door was set into the featureless poured concrete wall. It was painted a dull industrial gray that nearly blended into the wall. At eye level, the legend “I-Y-1109-J” had been stenciled in yellow paint. There was a simple knob beneath a round brass lock plate.

  “Your friend must wait here,” said Makama. “Do you agree?”

  Josh gave Crane a nervous glance.

  “I’ll wait here,” said Crane. “I’m sure Chief Engineer Thamae has a great deal more to tell me about the dam.”

  “Okay, then.” Josh nodded to Makama, who reached inside his collar and produced a large brass key on a chain around his neck. He carefully inserted it into the lock on the door and turned it. There was a heavy thunk from inside, and Makama pulled the door open.

  “After you, sir.”

  Oh shit, what if he’s supposed to kill anybody who shows up and gives him the password?

  Dear King of England, the fellow bringing you this note is my nephew, Hamlet. He’s becoming bothersome. Would consider it a great personal favor if you’d have him promptly put to death. Thanks a million. Your pal, King Claudius of Denmark.

  No. Don’t be ridiculous. Why would he have something like that? Besides, he didn’t need some Rube Goldberg device to kill you. The smart money was betting you wouldn’t make it through the night.

  You came this far…

  “Thank you,” Josh said softly. Then he stepped around Makama and into the darkness. He saw steps descending deeper into the dam and stopped as Makama followed him in and closed the door. Lights clicked on overhead. They were old, low-wattage incandescent bulbs strung along the ceiling on exposed power cables. Other wiring trunks led down, threaded through eyes bolted into the cement on one side. On the opposite side was a black metal handrail.

  He realized Makama was snickering. He showed Josh the inside of his wrist, where a green LED blinked dimly through his skin. It blinked a few more times and then stopped.

  Makama patted his chest. “The key does nothing,” he whispered, happily sharing a secret he’d held on to for years. “It’s a trick. The true key is in my arm.”

  Josh forced a smile. “That’s very clever.”

  “There’s more! The letters on the door, they mean nothing. This place isn’t on the blueprints of the dam. It’s hidden very well.”

  “Yes,” Josh agreed. “We should go.”

  They started down the stairs, footsteps echoing off the cement. The stairway descended into gloom below.

  Oh, hell. Again with the tunnels and the stairs.

  Going to have to come back up all these, you know.

  This better be good.

  He kept trudging down. More lights came on as they descended. Finally, he saw the stairway end and open into some kind of chamber below. Suddenly, Makama stopped and put a hand on Josh’s arm.

  “This is as far as I am to go,” Makama said quietly, almost reverently. “From here, you go alone. I will wait and guide you back up when you return.”

  Well, it’s a tube full of stairs. I could probably find my own way back.

  But look at him. He’s been waiting his whole life to play his part here. Least you can do is play yours.

  Josh nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Makama.”

  They exchanged a brief smile, and then Josh turned and continued the final fifty feet or so down the stairs. He stepped into a small, featureless chamber, as plain and roughhewn as the stairway. He could see the texture of the wooden planks that had held back the poured cement to form the space.

  The room was square, perhaps thirty feet on a side, and lit by the same flickering overhead bulbs. Along the wall where he entered was a wooden bookcase that held nothing but a smallish leather suitcase. In the center of the room stood a plain wooden table and a simple chair, the sort he would have expected to find in a library study area. On the table were two monitors, and between them, what had to be a computer of some kind, though there was no keyboard or mouse. Josh stood in the doorway and looked over the room carefully. There was nothing else.

  The suitcase was lying on its side on a shelf at chest level. Josh flipped up its brass latches and opened the lid. It was empty. There was a foam insert with a cutaway for some rectangular object. But Josh saw nothing in the room that would fit inside.

  Not so much as an eerie glow. Well, so much for that.

  He closed the case and walked carefully and quietly to the desk. The computer had no input devices, or even any ports where one might be plugged in. There was no indication of who made it. It seemed to have been custom-made by hand. There were three buttons on one side. The leftmost button slowly pulsed with an icy white light.

  Power. So what are the other two?

  Josh sat down in the chair and found himself looking directly into the two screens. The power button was convenient to his right hand. He reached forward, hesitated for a moment, and then pushed it.

  He immediately heard the machine power up and saw the screens turn on, though they remained black for a long moment. Then the screen on the left lit up, and Josh found himself looking into the smiling face of Redpoll.

  Redpoll was younger here, perhaps in his fifties. He was in a room Josh didn’t recognize. It might have been aboard the boat he’d heard so much about from Swift, or perhaps at Redpoll’s presumed family estate in Afghanistan.

  Doesn’t matter. Pay attention.

  Redpoll cleared his throat. “Well. How to begin?” he said. “I suppose the traditional way would be to say that, if you are watching this, then I am dead.”

  Yeah, that would be the cliché here.

  “Whoever you are, I’ve chosen you as my successor, the person to carry on my legacy and take over control of our formidable resources. You’ve probably already been given direct control of our military assets.”

  No, that would be your girl, Swift.

  “You may have been surprised to discover just how extensive they are, the level of power we can project. You may believe they represent the greater portion of our strength. But our true power is not military, nor is it in our immense financial resources. The true source of our strength is in the secret knowledge we possess. What you’ve already been granted is great. But here I will grant you the power to literally destroy the world as we know it.”

  Oh boy…

  Redpoll smiled at him. “So we have a lot to talk about.”

  Chapter 45

  “The information in this room represents the most significant intelligence resource in the world,” Redpoll’s recorded image said. “Beyond governments, beyond even those of the superpowers.”

  Josh still had a hard time connecting this younger Redpoll on the monitor to the man he’d met. It was like seeing pictures of his grandparents in their youth. He could tell it was the same person, but it didn’t match the mental image of the man he’d imprinted on his memory.

  Whoa. Uncanny valley.

  “You may doubt this,” the onscreen Redpoll continued. “How could we know more than the CIA or KGB with all their reach and expertise? But a government follows a different agenda. Its intelligence apparatus serves many masters, and its intentions toward its targets are confused. Seldom does one country want to truly destroy another. It accepts them as legitimate parts of the same system that grants its own legitimacy. If they undermine the legitimacy of another nation, they weaken their own as well.”

  You jackass! You’re dead, and you’re doing it again, aren’t you? You’re arguing philosophy at me from beyond the grave, on
camera where I can’t argue back! That is such a lousy thing to do!

  “So their ultimate purpose is not to destroy but to predict, to manipulate, to constrain the opponent’s choices within a set of rules that all players accept. We reject those rules. The purpose of our intelligence gathering is simple and pure. We seek vulnerabilities in other organizations—states, corporations, any group able to exert power against us—that will allow us to destabilize and destroy them. At this specific goal, we are unmatched.”

  The other screen came to life and began scrolling information. Josh watched it go by in astonishment. There were balance sheets, bank account numbers, organizational charts, ownership papers for shell companies, copies of secret agreements. And on all of them were names Josh recognized. He found himself wondering what they had on him.

  “These are just examples,” Redpoll was saying. “There are damaging, even ruinous secrets here covering every government on Earth, multinational corporations, transnational criminal syndicates, labor unions, charitable foundations, investment funds, and much more. If anything blocks your path, here you will find the power to destroy it, completely and utterly.”

  Josh watched the images roll by. He shook his head in amazement. Ever since Crane had brought back Branislav Skala’s secret archive, they’d been trying to understand it. He’d sent Crane out to get more data, to map out the secret networks Skala had uncovered.

  What a waste of time.

  It was all here. Skala’s archive was a children’s book by comparison; this was the Encyclopedia Britannica. And it was all spelled out, the connections made plain. And Josh realized that he believed Redpoll completely. He wasn’t making an empty boast. The information he’d hidden away here, beneath a dam in remote Southern Africa, really could bring down political systems. It could create financial chaos or civil unrest anywhere. With this knowledge, someone really could destroy the world.