She shrugged. “You knew that when you took this job. Like us, you opted to make the best of a bad situation. There will be survivors when this is all over. We intend to be among them. Ultimate evolution, don’t you think?”
Mark’s eyes narrowed. He had no idea what she was talking about.
She read it. “Mark, like the Big Man, you are an ultimate pragmatist. Why else would you have left your wife and children behind? They don’t fit in the coming world order and you know it. We do.”
He glanced down at his plate, unsure what to say.
“Relax. Don’t take this so seriously. You are among like-minded friends here. The best time for saints is when civilization is building, when there is optimism for the future. If you had been a saint, Mark, we would have found someone else.”
“I suppose.” He was thinking of Anika.
“A toast.” She lifted her champagne glass. “To those who are unafraid to seize the future.” The glasses clinked.
“Have I sold my soul to the devil?”
“Absolutely.” She gestured toward the plates. “But there are nice perks associated. And, once the dominoes begin to fall, what would you rather be doing? Eating ECSITE’s lobster by candlelight or scrambling around some village in Asia, desperate for a handful of infected rice?”
Attempting to quote from the movie Casablanca, he said, “It appears that you are the only person with less scruples than I.”
“Kindred souls,” she agreed, her eyes seeming to enlarge into violet pools. “All you have to do is build ECSITE the kind of predictive model that will help us to anticipate the best way to survive your coming collapse.”
Mark chewed a bite of lobster, then said, “It will be a little more difficult without French. I’ve been working with her for years.”
Her eyes literally danced. “Don’t panic yet.”
“It’s not panic. I’m just accustomed to having her input while I run variables and—”
“Forget about Anika French for the moment. Let’s set tonight aside for exploration.”
“Exploration?”
“Curiosity always leads to exploration, doesn’t it? Come on.” She stood, offering her hand.
He took it, letting her lead him up the stairs to the bedroom. She crossed to the console that controlled the holographic wall, accessed the menu, and selected the tropical waterfall. As the sound of cascading water and birds filled the air, she turned, stepping up to him and placing her hands on his shoulders. “I did some research. This was recorded on a Caribbean island called Dominica. I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.”
He stared down into her eyes, aware that her lips had parted. “Me either.”
He kissed her, her tongue sliding past his lips, darting and teasing. Moments later, he felt her peel his coat back and unbutton his shirt. As he shrugged out of the sleeves, her nimble fingers undid his belt and fly. Artfully, she pushed his pants and underwear down to pile around his feet.
By the time he kicked off his shoes and extricated himself, she was barefoot, her skirt fluttering down those shapely, athletic legs.
Heart pounding, he unbuttoned her blouse and reached around to unsnap her bra. As the clothing fell away, his breath caught. She stood proudly before him, head cocked, eyes sparkling. Framed by the waterfall, the plunge pool at her feet, she’d become mythic: A Venus that stopped the breath in his lungs.
“Damn,” he barely whispered.
She stepped forward and slipped her arms around his neck. Her body pressed against his and she playfully bumped his straining penis. “We’ve both sold our souls to the devil. Now let’s see what kind of demonic pleasure we can conjure.”
Chapter Twenty
Maureen watched the Secretary walk out the door and turned to Amy Randall who had her gaze fastened on a half-panicked Anika French.
“How was Dr. Schott supposed to contact you?” Randall asked.
“I don’t know, ma’am. He just said he would.” Anika swallowed hard. “He’s in trouble, too, isn’t he?”
Randall barely nodded. “ECSITE has reputation for disposing of individuals who have served their purpose. Call it a way to keep the competition from reproducing or even understanding their methods.” She leaned toward Anika. “You’ll inform us the moment he tries to get in touch, understand? Meanwhile, can you test the model on a modern society?”
“The pertinent data and statistics…” Her face dropped. “…are in my stolen notes.”
“But you know a lot of it from memory, correct?”
A subtle communication passed between Randall and Maureen.
Anika nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“I’ll see that you have a place to work, computers, data. Tell me what you need, I’ll see that you get it. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How soon will you have an answer for me?”
“Working by myself, I don’t—”
“We don’t have time to fool around. Dr. Cole will be your go-to person. Anything you need, anyone you need, just ask her. Recruit anyone you want.” Randall shifted uneasily and her brow furrowed. “If you have to move heaven and earth, get me an answer by Friday.”
Anika looked like fish gasping for air.
Maureen reached out to touch Anika’s arm. The young woman’s eyes were fixed on infinity.
“Anika? Do you want Fred Zoah?”
“Yes. He—he’ll immediately understand the archaeological model.”
Randall said, “I’ll have him on a plane tonight.”
“He’s a little eccentric,” Maureen said. “You might have to gag him and haul his entire office with him.”
“Not a problem.”
“How about data?” Maureen asked Anika. “What kind do you need?”
Anika frowned. “This is happening so fast. Landsat images. Economic reports, water quality, population densities, cumulative world energy production figures, infrastructure analyses, diverse stuff. In Laramie, I had a whole library at my disposal.”
“We’ve got one down the street,” Randall said dryly. “They call it the Library of Congress. And the Pentagon has runners who can fetch anything you need. As to farm production, hectares of cropland, infrastructure analyses, that’s what the State Department does. If they don’t have it, Langley can get it.”
“What about security?” Maureen asked. “If I have any say in this, I want Skip Murphy. There’s no one else I’d trust.”
Randall looked at Hart. “Get Murphy.”
“Understood.” Hart turned and strode from the conference room.
Maureen watched Anika’s eyes widen. The woman’s dry swallow sounded loud in the quiet room.
Chapter Twenty-One
The melody of Nancy Griffith sweetly relating the woes of a forty-acre farm issued from the battered stereo atop the tool-cluttered workbench. The garage door was open, adding bright spring sunshine to the output of the overhead fluorescents as Sean “Skip” Murphy bent over the valves on his BMW RT motorcycle. Religiously, every six thousand miles, he unbolted the crash guards, pulled the spark plugs, and loosened the aluminum rocker box covers.
Real mechanics undid the complex bodywork, took off the timing cover, and rotated the engine to top dead center with an allen wrench. Skip, unwilling to undertake the effort, put the transmission in third gear, turned the back tire, and watched while a vernier rod was pushed out by the piston.
That done he used thickness gauges to test the clearance in the valve tappets, adjusting intake down to .15 mm and exhaust to .30.
He was in the process of fiddling with the adjusting screw and lock nut on the left exhaust when his cell phone chirped.
Growling, he found a shop rag, wiped his fingers as best he could and pulled out his phone. “Skip Murphy.”
“Hey, Skip. It’s Phil Hart. Are you available?”
“Got a Saudi family coming in at the end of the week but I can assign that job to one of my people. What are we talking about?”
“It’s high p
rofile. I’d prefer to tell you in person. When can we meet?”
Skip chewed his lip for a moment, then said, “I’m out in Manassas. Give me about an hour. Where do I meet you?”
“An escort will be waiting at the main entrance.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Through the Pentagon’s glass doors, Anika watched Skip Murphy walk up. He wore brown dockers, athletic shoes, a tan sports coat that did little to hide his broad shoulders, and a blue shirt with matching tie. The sunlight played on his black hair and neatly trimmed beard. Even walking, the man communicated competence, his step springy, back straight, head shifting as his alert brown eyes absorbed the surroundings.
“That him?” she asked Agent Hart.
“That’s him.”
Skip met her eyes through the glass, giving her a crooked smile. After passing the second set of glass doors, he walked up, and Hart said, “Thanks for coming, Skip. This is Dr. Anika French.”
Skip nodded to Anika. “Good to meet you, Dr. French.”
Hart stopped in front of the security station, and Anika watched Murphy surrender his pistol and permit, knife, flashlight, and keys, then pass the metal detectors and body scan. He was issued a coded visitor’s badge. They kept his pistol.
“If you’ll both come this way, please.” Hart turned and led the way toward the conference room where Anika had spent most of the day trying to absorb the sudden traumatic changes in her life.
“What do you do, Dr. French?” Skip asked as they followed Hart down the hall.
“I’m an anthropologist.”
“Got it. I’ve acted as security for anthropologists before so I know a little about your field.”
Anika gave him a sideways glance. “I guess I’m in trouble, Mr. Murphy.”
He gave her a warm smile. “Anthropologist, huh? Figures. Just what kind of trouble are you in, anyway?”
Anika folded her arms protectively over her chest. “I developed a model that describes how and why ancient civilizations collapsed.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Not if you only apply it to prehistoric cultures. The problem is that it can be applied to the modern world.”
Skip’s brows lowered while he considered that information. “I gather this model of yours is considered a national security threat?”
“I guess.”
Murphy walked quietly at her side for a few seconds, then said, “Starting to wish you were off digging up Neandertals or futzing around stealing the Ark of the Covenant?”
Anika smiled despite the anxiety running wild through her veins. “Unfortunately, I’d be out of my league there, too. I’m not a field person. I’m a kind of library anthropologist, more of a mathematician.”
When they stepped into the elevator and Hart pressed the button to the second floor, Murphy turned to look at him. “Who’s in charge?”
“Secretary of Defense. She’s off briefing the president as we speak.”
Murphy blinked. “That resets my switches when it comes to understanding the stakes.”
“We’re going to set you and Dr. French’s team up in a safe house where she can work and just disappear for a while.”
“A team? How many people?”
“Not sure yet. Maybe six or seven.”
Anika watched Murphy’s face go dark before he replied, “No safe house, Phil. I want the St. Regis, sixth floor. One block of contiguous rooms. The building is freestanding, used to the needs of security, and we can cover access with three people. Nice circle drive out front with a good field of view. From 16th and K streets, we’ve got unlimited routing options. If we use early and late travel times, we can avoid rush hour traffic.”
“Defense isn’t going to spring for the St. Regis, Skip.”
“Let me speak with the Secretary. I’m sure I can explain the security situation to her.”
Hart gave Murphy a skeptical look, then led the way to the conference room and held the door open for Anika and Murphy to enter.
Anika walked around the table and dropped into the same chair where she’d been sitting for hours. She noticed that Randall was watching Murphy with narrowed eyes. When she looked back at him, he was still standing in the doorway staring at Maureen Cole with a surprised expression.
Murphy said, “Hey, Doc! They didn’t tell me I’d be working with you. How ya been? Where’s that scruffy archaeologist you hang out with?”
Maureen replied, “Digging up a pueblo in New Mexico. Have a seat, Skip. This is going to be a complicated briefing.”
Anika asked, “Are you two friends?”
Given the way Maureen and Skip embraced, there was a lot more to their relationship than “just friends”.
Nevertheless, Maureen’s simple, “Murphy’s saved my life a time or two,” was clearly an understatement.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Amy Randall announced. “This is Sean Murphy. He’ll be providing security. Sit down, Skip.”
Randall waited until Skip and Hart retreated to the end of the table and seated themselves, then she said, “The Secretary wants this done fast and quiet. And people, that’s how it’s going to be handled.”
But the butterflies in Anika’s stomach just got worse.
It’s just a model. Why is this happening to me?
Chapter Twenty-Three
The black limousine pulled up at the St. Regis’s main entrance, and Skip took one last look around. This early in the game, the threat level should still be low. The only people who knew Anika French’s location had been in that Pentagon conference room.
The doorman opened the Lincoln’s rear door and Maureen stepped out, followed by a haggard Anika French.
Skip stepped forward, giving Anika a hand. “Everything’s set.”
He led them through the ornate lobby to the elevators. Inside, he pressed six. “Sixth floor isn’t the most expensive real estate, but it’s the most secure. Your luggage is already in the rooms.”
Anika yawned and he had the feeling the young woman hadn’t slept in days.
Skip led them down the hall, going to Anika’s room first. Inside, he flicked on the lights and inspected the room, checking the closet and bathroom, before he said, “Dr. French, please sit down and let me explain how this works.”
“Okay.” Anika dropped into the chair.
Skip crouched to meet her eyes. “One. No phone calls. None. Period. If you absolutely have to call someone, you find me. I’ll work something out. Two. Until we’re totally secure, you don’t answer the door for anyone. Not police, not maids, nor room service. If someone knocks, you call me before you even look out the peephole. If you need room service, you call me. If you need personal items, you call me. Even if you think it’s silly, I’ll get anything you need. No matter what you’ve asked for, you don’t open the door unless you see my cheery face staring through the peephole. Understand?”
“Sure. Got it.”
“Rule Three. You don’t leave this room for any reason unless you’re in my charming company. Even if the hotel’s on fire. You stay put until I come to get you. Four. Stay away from the windows. Do not open the shades. Ever. Understand?”
Anika swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
Skip stood up. “Lock your door after we leave.”
“Yes, sir.”
Skip led Maureen out and waited until he heard the lock click, then he turned to her but before he could speak, she said,
“Yeah, Skip. I know the drill.”
“Good.” Skip followed her into her room, made his check, and paused at the door to stare hard into her eyes. “Good to see you again, Doc. You’re looking good. How have you been?”
“Good, Skip. Even the nightmares have faded and I’ve stayed as far as I can get from motorcycles, bombs, and snipers.” She paused, “And until today, bodyguards who might lead me astray.”
“I’ve got no regrets, Doc.”
“I was sorry to hear about Jenn. Heard that she really came through at the end. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah.” He squelched the pain, took a breath. “Be honest with me, Maureen. What aren’t they telling me?”
Maureen’s mouth tightened. “You mean what secrets are they keeping that might compromise your ability to protect Anika?”
She walked a few paces to the middle of the hotel room and looked at the small desk and chair in the corner. When she turned back, her expression had turned dire. “Let’s just say the situation would be very bad if someone took Anika alive.”
Skip paused to consider the ramifications. “The things in her head are like unexploded bombs?”
“Nukes, Skip. Nukes.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Dad, I’m safe but I can’t tell you where I am,” Anika said. “It’s classified.”
“Classified? How does an anthropology student—”
“I’ve got to hang up, Dad. They won’t let me talk too long.”
“They’re afraid your calls are being traced?”
She glanced at where Skip Murphy stood on the other end of the conference room, arms crossed, checking his watch, while Anika’s team filed into the room. “Don’t forget that I love you very much and don’t worry about me.”
“Can’t stop that, sweetheart. I love you, too. You watch your six, understand?”
“Loud and clear, sir.”
She hung up the phone and stared thoughtfully at it. Skip had allowed her the call, figuring that if anyone was cagey enough to be listening in, they’d have already figured she was in DC.
“All right, people,” Amy Randall called, clapping her hands. “Let’s be seated.”
Anika found her chair. My team. The notion still left her dumbfounded. Dr. Fred Zoah, a man whose work she’d admired for years, sat across from her in a rumpled sweater—never mind that it was seventy-five degrees in here. He nervously peered around through his thick glasses like a demented owl.
Beside him sat Maureen Cole. Next to her was Gale Wade, perhaps the finest modeler of climate change in the world. Gray-haired, dumpy, she looked more like she should be knitting and raising cats than predicting droughts halfway around the world.
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