"Get on the horn, Carrington. Find out how we stand in relation to the rest of the county. There'll be damage all up and down the coast."
Now that the crisis at the plant was over, everyone was starting to wonder about their homes and families. A quake of the magnitude which had jolted the plant would be powerful enough to level schools and houses, even in tremor-conscious California. He dialed Scripps Institute at La Jolla. Assuming the telephone lines were still working, that was the nearest place likely to have a full report ready. They had their own seismographic station. So did the plant, but the quake had busted it.
His call went through smoothly, without any hiss and crackle. He asked his questions fast. He listened to the reply for a long time before hanging up.
Everyone was staring at him. "Don't keep it all to yourself, son," Boseler prompted him.
He looked up at The Old Man, then over at Rogers and Charlie and the other citizens of the control room. "That was Scripps."
"We didn't think it was Jack-in-the-Box," said Boseler curtly.
"They say—they said there wasn't any earthquake. None at all."
Fossano spoke first. "Fifty years I've lived in this state. All my life. I've been through plenty of quakes, most small, some big. That was the biggest. A seven at least."
"Maybe their seismograph's out," someone suggested.
"Yeah, but their behinds ought to be functional," snapped Rogers. "They should have felt that good down there."
"Don't fool around with those jerkoffs," said Charlie. "They're only interested in fish anyway. Call the Richter Center at Caltech."
Carrington nodded, turned dazedly back to the phone, and worked the push buttons. You could hear everyone breathing and they could hear his questions as he asked them.
"Yes, I see. You're sure? Yeah, well, it is pretty weird. No, everyone here felt it. Lifted the whole installation." A long pause. "Of course we'll all testify."
He hung up, turned to his friends and co-workers. "There was a quake, all right." Relieved sighs from around the room.
"Then we aren't going crazy?" Fossano was sitting down now.
"No, but the folks at Caltech are," Carrington said grimly. "They say we experienced a seven point eight tremor. The epicenter was about ten miles directly below the plant. I mean smack under us."
"Only ten miles?" Rogers frowned. "That's awfully shallow for a disturbance of that magnitude."
"That's what the people at 'Tech said." Carrington looked around. "There's no earthquake fault ten miles under San Onofre. Everybody knows that. The nearest fault of any size is thirty-five miles inland, and it's minor."
"The survey teams couldn't have missed anything that obvious." Boseler looked acutely uncomfortable. In a little while he was going to have to deal with the press. "They couldn't have."
"Caltech agrees. There's no fault under this plant. Therefore there shouldn't have been any earthquake, much less one that strong and localized. El Toro hardly felt it at all." Everyone sat silently, trying to absorb the disturbing implications of this new information. The big Marine base at El Toro was less than half an hour's drive inland. The tremor should have knocked it on its collective ear. Should have.
Hell, a 7.8 quake ought to have registered strongly as far north as San Francisco, let alone thirty miles up the road. The pre-construction geological research had been exhaustive at San Onofre. There was no earthquake fault beneath the plant.
"So what happens now?" Rogers wondered aloud.
Boseler spoke as though mentally ticking off the relevant points on mental fingers. "We experienced a quake here, we know that. Caltech confirms it. Seven point eight. Nobody but us seems to have felt it. That makes no sense. We also know there is no earthquake fault beneath us or anywhere close by."
"Which implies?" murmured Fossano.
Boseler stared at him. "That something other than Mother Nature is responsible for what happened here less than an hour ago. No natural phenomenon is better documented in this part of the world than the earth tremor, and what occurred here this afternoon doesn't fit any of the documentation. Caltech's already as much as said that. La Jolla's mystification only serves to confirm it."
"I know something that could cause it." Everyone turned toward Rogers. She looked as though she didn't want to say what was on her mind.
"Say it, Sallyanne," said Boseler.
"A bomb. A big-enough bomb. It wouldn't have to be ten miles down to give the impression that it was when it went off, either."
The Old Man nodded, turned back to Carrington. "Punch up a seven-sixteen number for me, will you, Steve?"
The snowman recognized the D.C. number. So did one or two others in the room. They were all lost in their own thoughts. A few yellow lights still glowed. Nothing that couldn't be dealt with by the automatics. The rest of the telltales continued to glow green—but for how long? When would another earthquake that wasn't an earthquake strike? And what might it be like the next time? An eight? If that happened, a magnificent if underutilized section of California coast might be rendered permanently uninhabitable.
Washington would want to know two things foremost. How, first of all. Second and more important—who?
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12
Heathrow International
Airport, England—21 June
The closest thing Merry Sharrow had ever seen to the organized hysteria that filled the International Terminal at Heathrow Airport was the minor riot which had taken place following a closely contested championship football game her senior year in high school. No world traveler himself, Josh looked equally frazzled. That made her feel a little better. Only Olkeloki appeared relaxed amidst the multiethnic rush of people bound hither and yon. He knew exactly where he was going. She and Oak tagged along behind, lugging their backpacks through the crowd. Merry bounced off Savile Row suits and chadors, positive that if she lost sight of the old man she would be swept away by the babbling tide of humanity, to be washed up later that evening in some backwater eddy next to the gift shop or the Thirty-One Flavors ice cream stand.
Four women of unknown age slipped past her like the oil of their homeland, their eyes alive and searching while the rest of their bodies were concealed beneath thick black veils. A gaggle of Japanese businessmen waddled by, so many chattering geese dressed in interchangeable three-piece suits. They formed an island unto themselves, a small piece of stable Nippon holding firm against the surge of undisciplined humanity. Of course, compared to the evening rush hour in Tokyo or Kyoto or Yokohama, the anarchy that was the airport would seem no worse than normal.
The backpack wasn't getting any lighter and she was glad Olkeloki had insisted they bring as little as possible in the way of baggage. Incongruous enough that she found herself on her way to East Africa with a fifth of what she'd taken from Seattle to Washington, D.C. Most of her clothing lay in Oak's bedroom dresser awaiting her return. Olkeloki told her she would need little. Tanzania in winter was not unlike D.C. in summer.
Like the signposts indicating the conclusion of a marathon, the numbers of the various check-in gates loomed overhead. Since they were carrying tickets, reservations, and all their luggage, they had actually managed to avoid the worst of the crowds on the ground floor. They could proceed straight to the waiting lounge. Then she could rest.
"It is just as well that you are tired," Olkeloki told her. "You will both sleep on the plane. It is a long flight from here to Nairobi. A shame no Concorde plies this route. We must travel instead by fat plane."
"That's jumbo jet," Oak corrected him.
"Is it? I do not travel often enough to keep up with all the colloquialisms. They are both a joy and a curse to English." He led them down a glass and steel maze toward the promised land, Gate 42, where they would finally be able to rest.
Olkeloki looked thoughtful as he strode along clutching his battered old suitcase in one hand and the omnipresent walking stick in the other. "The last time I flew out of Nairobi the pla
nes had propellers. Jets are infinitely better. We will make the journey nonstop, whereas the last time I went from London to Rome, Rome to Cairo, Cairo to Khartoum, and thence to Nairobi."
"No wonder you really know your way around here," said Merry. "What were you doing in England?"
The old man smiled at her. "Going to school. I am a graduate of Oxford University. As a leader of my people, I feel it incumbent upon myself to update and modernize my education from time to time, so I try to get back to the old school as often as possible."
That explained a great deal, Oak mused. Olkeloki's poise in strange surroundings, his excellent command of the language, and his ability to adapt to customs radically different from his own. Cattle herder and witch doctor he might be, but he was an educated cattle herder and witch doctor. Oxford, no less.
"When did you do your undergraduate work there?"
"Let me think a moment. It was some time ago. I finished in thirty-eight, I believe. Why do you wish to know?"
"Just curious," Oak replied, "and I also need for you to keep talking."
"Certainly. About what?"
"Anything. So we don't alarm the man who's following us."
Merry Sharrow reacted admirably, keeping her voice even and not turning sharply to look behind them. "Shetani?"
"How should I know?"
"It would be most unusual," said Olkeloki casually, likewise resisting the urge to let his gaze wander over the crowd that filled the concourse behind them. "It is difficult for them to mimic human beings."
"You're sure we're being followed?" Merry asked him.
"Pretty much so. I keep seeing the same figure too many times. When we stop, he stops. When we go, he follows. That's about as conclusive as you can get. How subtle are these shetani of yours?"
"Where shetani are concerned," said Olkeloki gravely, "all that is certain is that nothing is certain."
"That's reassuring. I could've sworn someone was watching us when we passed that first gift shop, and again when we went through security. You two stay here. I'm going back for a doughnut or something. Here, hang on to this." He handed his backpack to Merry. "Just keep talking like everything's normal."
He turned and made his way back against the tide of expectant passengers. Their conversation was inconsequential and he was able to ignore it without much trouble. Most of them were tourists going to Africa for the first time. They babbled endlessly about the great adventure which lay ahead of them and who had the better hotel. The children wanted to know when they were going to see the animals, the women argued about whether they would be able to handle the heat and the food, and the men were already beginning to regret the expense.
Oak's eyes flicked over each of them like a customs' inspector on the hunt for illegal ivory. A good inspector could pick out a smuggler with a single glance. Would he be able to spot a disguised shetani as easily? Or was he getting jumpy, starting to imagine things? A crowded terminal struck him as an unlikely place in which to encounter the shy, malevolent spirits. Certainly Olkeloki thought so. But the old man didn't know everything there was to know about their adversaries, and Oak knew from experience what it was like to be under surveillance. Someone was watching them. Hadn't Olkeloki claimed Oak was sensitive to their presence?
Horsepucky. Oak was sensitive to everyone's presence. That was what had kept him alive the past ten years. As for being jumpy, there'd been three times when he'd jumped without provocation during the preceding decade. Twice he'd come off looking like a prize fool. The third time he would have come off looking dead. Wiser to play the fool every now and again.
He walked quickly past the gift shop without feeling alien eyes on the back of his neck, stopped at the tiny snack bar beyond, and ordered coffee and a plain doughnut. While chewing he checked his watch. It was a dual time zone job, full of cheap chips and useful functions, so he hadn't had to change the time when they'd left Dulles. Their 747 would start boarding in less than half an hour. He didn't have much time to check out his feelings.
He was a little uneasy about leaving Merry to the care of Mbatian Olkeloki. The old man seemed harmless enough, but harmlessness was one thing and trustworthiness another. In spite of what had happened on the highway between his house and the airport he still wasn't quite ready to swallow the old man's nightmare whole. His right leg throbbed where something that had been a piece of truck rubber one second and a piece of a bad dream the next had tried to amputate his foot. There had to be another explanation for what they'd seen and experienced this morning, but he was damned if he could think of it. Just because he couldn't think of it, however, didn't mean it didn't exist.
He froze, reflexively sipped at his coffee to maintain the appearance of normalcy. There were two of them, he was sure of it, and they were both very good at not wanting to be seen. Oak, whose perceptions had been honed by a decade of dealing with dangerous radicals and extremists, saw them nonetheless.
Just a glimpse of two tall shapes, then the crowd swallowed them up. Leaving his coffee behind but for unknown reasons hanging on to the rest of the doughnut, Oak went after them in time to see one disappearing into the men's room off on the left. That made him hesitate. There was no familiar, comforting bulge beneath his left arm. FBI or not, the local authorities would have taken a dim view of any attempt to bring a handgun into England, much less onto an international flight. His unease was balanced by a burning desire to know what was shadowing their progress. He couldn't imagine how spirits or anything else could have tracked them across the Atlantic. Olkeloki claimed some shetani were capable of flight, but flight at Mach 2? Oak doubted it. The most likely explanation was that he was imagining things and that they weren't being followed at all, but he was a firm believer in the instincts which had kept him alive while working for the Bureau and he had no intention of abandoning them now.
Another glance at his watch indicated he had barely enough time to take a leak. If he hung around here any longer the plane would leave without him. That decided him. He pushed his way into the restroom.
It wasn't crowded. His gaze went immediately to an Englishman who was washing his hands. He held them beneath a dryer, then turned and left. Oak was alone in the men's room.
Cautiously he paced the line of urinals, bending low to check the empty stalls opposite. There was another row of each on the other side and as soon as he finished with the first aisle he walked around to inspect the second. He kept his back to the urinals and bent over no farther than was necessary to see under the swinging doors.
The exit door rattled as someone went through in a hurry. Whoever it was must have been standing on one of the toilets on the first aisle. Oldest trick in the book. Cursing silently, he whirled and raced back the way he'd come. As he drew even with the first aisle, his eyes intent on the doorway, something like a lead pipe caught him behind his haircut. Afterward he couldn't tell for sure if he'd been hit from the front or from behind, much less what with, but he knew he hadn't run into the wall. There was a brief, watery glimpse of a tall figure, though whether man or spirit he couldn't tell.
He didn't black out completely. The light from the naked overhead fluorescents was painful. Somewhere close by, a little boy was saying clearly, "Daddy, why is that man lying on the floor?" Then another figure leaning over him, sounding concerned.
"Say, friend, are you all right?" Heavy accent, Oak thought. The man sounded Italian.
Water on his face had him sitting up fast and blinking. By now several men had gathered around him in addition to the father with his kid. None of them were cops, for which Oak was grateful. He wondered what might have happened if Daddy hadn't arrived to take a piss when he had.
More than anything else he was furious with himself. It would never have happened back home. He'd let down his guard and received a cheap lesson in return.
"I'm okay. I slipped and hit my head, that's all." Willing hands helped him to his feet. "I'll be all right now." He managed a smile as he staggered to the door and out into the
bustling concourse beyond.
Outside he paused long enough to check directions and the back of his skull. There was nothing spiritual about what had clobbered him. He had a feeling it had been a man. A shetani would have taken out his throat instead of going for the head. What a pretty mental image that made; him lying spread-eagled on the dirty tile with his jugular vein severed and blood spurting all over the place. The little boy screaming instead of questioning.
A glance at his watch cleared his mind fast. It felt like he'd lain on the bathroom floor only for a minute or two, but it had been a lot longer than that. If he didn't move his ass fast he'd miss the plane. Suddenly he found he wanted very much to be on that flight, not only to look after Merry Sharrow and to help Olkeloki, but because when the old man gave the shetani the evil eye or whatever it was he planned to do, Josh wanted to be there when he did it.
And if men were somehow behind all that had happened in the past couple of days, he was looking forward to meeting them again, too.
He relaxed once he joined an anxious Merry and Olkeloki on the plane. "Somebody clobbered me when I wasn't looking, in the men's room."
"Did you get a look at them?" Merry asked. "Are you okay?"
"No I didn't get a look at them and yes I'm okay."
"I don't understand how anyone could follow us all the way from Washington."
"Neither do I. It makes absolutely no sense, which means it fits right in with everything else that's happened."
"The ways of the shetani are not the ways of men."
"You don't say?" Oak said. "Now that's profound." His hand went to the lump forming on the back of his head. "Whatever hit me was a lot solider than any spirit."
They were interrupted by standard interminable preflight safety instructions in the form of a film displayed on the movie screen. It provided a respite for him to gather his thoughts. The flight should be a comfortable one, he mused. The first class compartment in the nose of the big plane was barely half full. He never got to fly first class. The Bureau was reluctant to lavish such extravagances on mere field agents and it would have been out of keeping with his various undercover personae. Only once had they sprung for the fare. That was the time up in Idaho when he'd been severely wounded. Before long they would start serving dinner. He was looking forward to the obligatory hot fudge sundae.
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