2004 A.D.—New York City—Fire
"So you think New York City will burn?"
"Not in any normal way. It will be consumed by a fire within, like Grove and Cutforth."
"You think this can be avoided if people turn back to God?"
Von Menck shook his head. "It's too late for that. And please note, Mr. Harriman, I have not used the word God . What I'm talking about here is not necessarily God but a force of nature: a moral law of the universe as fixed as any physical law. We've created an imbalance that needs to be corrected. The year 2004." He tapped the pile of charts. "It's the big one. It's the one Nostradamus predicted, Edgar Cayce predicted, Revelation predicted."
Harriman nodded. He felt a crawling sensation along his spine. This was powerful stuff. But was it all claptrap? "Dr. Von Menck, you've devoted a great deal of time and research on this."
"It has been my overwhelming obsession. For over fifteen years, I've known the significance of the year 2004. I've been waiting."
"Are you really convinced, or is this just a theory?"
"I will answer by telling you this: I am leaving New York tomorrow."
"Leaving?"
"For the Galápagos Islands."
"Why the Galápagos?"
"As Darwin could tell you, they are famous for their isolation." Von Menck gestured at the recorder. "This time there will be no documentary. The story is all yours, Mr. Harriman."
"No documentary?" Harriman repeated, stupefied.
"If I'm the least bit right in my suspicions, Mr. Harriman, when this is over, there won't be much of an audience for a documentary—will there?" And, for the first time since Harriman had entered the room, Dr. Von Menck smiled—a small, sad smile utterly devoid of humor.
{ 30 }
D'Agosta gazed at the miserable-looking thing on his plate—long, thin, unidentifiable, swimming in a puddle of sauce. It smelled vaguely like fish. At least, he thought, it would help his diet. It had been ten days since Grove's death, and he'd lost five pounds already, what with the new weight routine and jogging regimens he'd instituted, not to mention the hours he'd put in at the shooting range, which were adding bulk and steadiness to his forearms and shoulders. Another two months, and he'd be back to his old NYPD condition.
Proctor flitted about in the background, presenting and whisking away plates with the least amount of warning gentility would allow. Pendergast sat at the head of the table, Constance to his left. She looked a little less pale than before: some sun, perhaps, from yesterday's outing. But the dining room of the ancient Riverside Drive mansion remained a dreary place, with its dark green wallpaper and equally dark oil paintings. The windows that once must have looked out over the Hudson had been boarded up a long time ago, and it appeared Pendergast was going to leave them that way. No wonder the guy was so white, living in the dark like some cave creature. D'Agosta decided he'd trade the whole dinner, and its procession of mysterious dishes, for barbecued ribs and a cooler full of frosties in his sunny Suffolk County backyard. Even Fosco's exotic picnic basket of the day before had been preferable. He gave the dish an exploratory poke.
"Don't you like the cod roe?" Pendergast asked him. "It's an old Italian recipe."
"My grandmother was from Naples, and she never cooked anything like this in her life."
"I believe this dish comes from Liguria. But never mind: cod roe is not to everyone's taste." He signaled to Proctor, who whisked the plate away and, a few moments later, returned with a steak and a small silver beaker brimming with wonderful-smelling sauce. In his other hand was a can of Budweiser, still dripping chips of ice.
D'Agosta tucked in, then glanced up to see Pendergast smiling with amusement. "Constance cooks a sublime tournedos bordelaise. I had it waiting in the wings, just in case. Along with the, ah, iced beer."
"That was decent of you."
"Is the steak to your liking?" Constance asked from across the table. "I prepared saignant, as the French prefer."
"I don't know about saignant, but it's rare, just the way I like it."
Constance smiled, pleased.
D'Agosta speared another forkful, washed it down with a swig. "So what's next?" he asked Pendergast.
"After dinner, Constance will indulge us by playing a few of Bach's partitas. She is a rather accomplished violinist, though I fear I'm a poor judge of such things. And I think you'll find the violin she plays interesting. It was part of my great-uncle's collections, an old Amati, in fairly decent shape, though its tone has gone off somewhat."
"Sounds great." D'Agosta coughed delicately. "But what I meant was, what's next for the investigation?"
"Ah! I see. Our next move, actually, has two fronts. We track down this Ranier Beckmann, and we do more background research on the strange nature of our two deaths. I have somebody already at work on the former. And Constance is about to fill us in on the latter."
Constance dabbed primly at her mouth with a napkin. "Aloysius has asked me to look into historical precedents for SHC."
"Spontaneous human combustion," said D'Agosta. "As in the Mary Reeser case you mentioned to the M.E. at the Cutforth homicide?"
"Exactly."
"You don't really believe in that, do you?"
"The case of Mary Reeser is only the most famous of many, and it is well documented. Isn't that right, Constance?"
"Famous, impeccably documented, and very curious." She consulted some notes that lay at her elbow. "On July 1, 1951, Mrs. Reeser, a widow, went to sleep in an easy chair in her apartment in St. Petersburg, Florida. She was found the next morning by a friend who smelled smoke. When they broke down the door, they found that the chair Mary Reeser had sat in was now just a heap of charred coil springs. As for Mary Reeser herself, her one hundred and seventy pounds had been reduced to less than ten pounds of ash and bone. Only her left foot remained intact, still wearing a slipper, burned off at the ankle but otherwise undamaged. Also found were her liver and her skull, cracked and splintered by the intense heat. And yet the rest of the apartment was intact. The only burning occurred in the small circular area encompassing the remains of Mrs. Reeser, her chair, and a plastic electric wall outlet which had melted, stopping her clock at 4:20 A.M. When the clock was plugged into another outlet, it worked perfectly."
"You gotta be kidding."
"The Bureau was called in immediately, and their documentation was impeccable," said Pendergast. "Photographs, tests, analysis—it ran to more than a thousand pages. Our experts determined that a temperature of at least three thousand degrees would be necessary to cremate a body that thoroughly. A cigarette igniting her clothing would never have produced that temperature, and besides, Mary Reeser didn't smoke. There were no traces of gasoline or other accelerants. No short circuit. Even lightning was ruled out. The case was never officially closed."
D'Agosta shook his head in disbelief.
"And it's not just a recent phenomenon," Constance said. "Dickens wrote an account of spontaneous combustion into his novel Bleak House . He was roundly criticized by reviewers for it, so he later defended himself by recounting a real case of SHC in the preface to the 1853 edition."
D'Agosta, who had been about to take another bite of steak, put down his fork.
"On the evening of April 4, 1731, Dickens tells us, the countess Cornelia Zangari de' Bandi of Cesena, in Italy, complained of feeling 'dull and heavy.' A maid helped her to bed, and they spent several hours praying and talking together. The next morning, when the countess did not arise at her usual time, the maid called at the door. There was no answer—just a foul smell.
"The maid opened the door to a scene of horror. The air was full of bits of floating soot. The countess, or what remained of her, was lying on the stone floor about four feet from the bed. Her entire torso had burned to ashes, even the bones reduced to crumbled piles. Only her legs remained, from the knees down; a few fragments from her hands; and a piece of forehead with a lock of blonde hair attached. The rest of the body was merely an outline in ash
and crumbled bone. It, and other early cases such as Madame Nicole of Rheims, were invariably ascribed to death by the 'visitation of God.' "
"Excellent research, Constance," Pendergast said.
She smiled. "There are several volumes devoted to spontaneous human combustion in the library here. Your great-uncle was fascinated by bizarre forms of death—but of course, you know that already. Unfortunately there are no books here more recent than 1954, but there are still many dozens of earlier accounts. SHC cases all have several elements in common. The torso is completely incinerated, but the extremities are frequently left intact. The blood is, quite literally, vaporized from the body: normal fires do not dehydrate body tissue to such a great degree. The inferno is extremely localized: nearby furniture or other items, even inflammable ones, remain untouched. Officials often speak of a 'circle of death': everything inside is consumed, while everything outside is spared."
Slowly, D'Agosta pushed away his half-eaten steak. This all sounded pretty similar to what happened to Grove and Cutforth, with one crucial difference: the branding of the cloven hoof and face, and the stench of brimstone.
Just then came a low, hollow knock at the distant front door.
"Neighborhood kids, I imagine," said Pendergast after a moment of silence.
The hollow knock came again—deliberate, insistent, echoing through the galleries and halls of the ancient mansion.
"That's not the knock of a delinquent," Constance murmured.
Proctor cast an inquiring glace at Pendergast. "Shall I?"
"With the usual precautions."
Within the space of a minute, the servant had ushered a man into the room: a tall man with thin lips and thinner brown hair. He wore a gray suit, and the knot of his tie had been pulled down from the collar of his white shirt. His features were regular, his face perhaps lined more than would be usual for a man his age, yet the lines spoke more of weariness than years. He was neither handsome nor ugly. In every way, the man was remarkable for his lack of expression and individuality. It seemed to D'Agosta an almost studied anonymity.
He paused in the doorway and his eyes roamed over the group, coming to rest on Pendergast.
"Yes?" Pendergast said.
"Come with me."
"May I ask who you are, and on what errand you come?"
"No."
A short silence greeted this.
"How did you know I lived here?"
The man continued gazing at Pendergast with that expressionless face. It wasn't natural. It gave D'Agosta the creeps.
"Come, please. I'd rather not ask again."
"Why should I go with you if you refuse to divulge your name or the nature of your business?"
"My name is not important. I have information for you. Information of a sensitive nature."
Pendergast looked at the man a moment longer. Then he casually removed his Les Baer .45 from his suit coat, made sure a round was in the chamber, replaced it in his suit. "Any objections?"
The expression never changed. "Won't make any difference either way."
"Wait a minute." D'Agosta rose. "I don't like this. I'm coming, too."
The man turned to him. "Not possible."
"Screw that."
The man's only response was to stare at D'Agosta. His features, if anything, grew even deader.
Pendergast laid an arm on D'Agosta's. "I think I'd better go alone."
"The hell with that. You don't know who this guy is, what he wants, anything. I don't like it."
The stranger turned and walked swiftly out of the room. A moment later, Pendergast followed. D'Agosta watched him go with a mounting feeling of dismay.
{ 31 }
The man drove north on the West Side Highway, saying nothing, and Pendergast was content to leave it that way. Rain began to fall, splattering the windshield. The car approached the on-ramp to the George Washington Bridge, its gleaming lights strung across the Hudson. Just before the ramp, the car veered off on a service road and bumped its way down the pitted, half-paved surface to a turnaround, hidden in a cluster of poison sumac at the foot of the bridge's enormous eastern tower.
Only now did the man speak. "Wired?"
"No."
"I ask only for your sake."
"CIA?"
The man nodded at the windshield. "I know you could ID me in a minute. I want your word that you won't."
"You have it."
The man tossed a blue folder into Pendergast's lap. Its label tab bore a single word: BULLARD. It was stamped Classified: Top Secret.
"Where did this come from?" Pendergast asked.
"I've been investigating Bullard for the past eighteen months."
"On what grounds?"
"It's all there. But I'll summarize it for you. Bullard's the founder, CEO, and majority shareholder of Bullard Aerospace Industries. BAI is a medium-sized, privately owned aerospace engineering firm. Mostly they design and test components for military aircraft, drones, and missiles. They're also one of the subcontractors for the space shuttle. Among other things, BAI was involved in developing the antiradar coating for the stealth bomber and fighter programs. It's a highly profitable company, and they're very good at what they do. Bullard has some of the best engineers money can buy. He is a very, very capable man, if hot-tempered and impulsive. But he's one of the really bad ones. Know what I mean? He doesn't hesitate to hurt, or eliminate, those who stand in his way. Civilian or official."
"Understood."
"Good. Now listen. BAI also does research work for foreign governments. Some aren't so friendly. That work is subject to strict export controls and transfer of technology prohibitions. It's watched very closely. So far, BAI has kept within the law—at least as far as its U.S. facilities go. The problem is with a small BAI plant in Italy, in an industrial suburb of Florence called Lastra a Signa. A few years ago, BAI bought a defunct factory there. It was once owned by Alfred Nobel." An ironic smile flickered across the man's face. "It's a sprawling, decaying place. They've turned its core into a highly sophisticated R&D facility."
Rain continued to drum on the roof. There was the flicker of lightning over the river, a faint roll of thunder.
"We don't really know what BAI does in this Italian plant, but we have some indirect evidence that they may be working on a project for the Chinese. Last year we monitored a string of ballistic missile tests over the Lop Nur desert testing grounds. It seems the missile in question is a new type, specifically designed to penetrate America's planned antimissile shield."
Pendergast nodded.
"What makes the missile special is a new aerodynamic form, combined with some special surface or coating, which together make it invisible to radar. It doesn't even leave a heat trace or turbulence wake on Doppler. But here's the rub: whatever it is the Chinese have done, it isn't working. Up to now, all their missiles have broken up on re-entry.
"That's where BAI comes in. This is right up their alley. We think the Chinese hired BAI to solve the problem. And we think they're solving it at the Florentine plant."
"How?"
"We don't know. The breakups seem to have had something to do with a resonance spike that occurs at re-entry. The shape of the missile is so constrained by having to remain invisible that it's almost unflyable. A similar problem occurred with the stealth bomber, but it was solved with some heavy computing power and wind-tunnel research. But here the missile is moving a hell of a lot faster, it's ballistic, and it's up against a much more sophisticated radar. The answer lies somewhere in the field of eigenvalue mathematics, Fourier transforms, that sort of thing. You know what I'm talking about?"
"At a basic level."
"The mathematics of vibrations, resonance, and dampening. It has to be perfectly aerodynamic while having a surface that's black to radar. This missile can't have any curves, hardness, or smoothness—those would cause reflection or turbulence you could see on the Doppler—and yet it has to be aerodynamic. If anyone can rise to the technical challenge, BAI can."
>
"Is this file for me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
The agent looked at Pendergast for the first time, and his mask of expressionlessness fell away. What Pendergast saw was the face of a very, very tired man. "It's the same old story. The CIA is subject to partisan political pressure. Bullard has friends in Washington. I was told to deep-six the Bullard investigation. After all, he's raised millions for the reelection campaigns of a half dozen key senators and congressmen, as well as the president. Why, we're asked, is the CIA harassing a fine, upstanding citizen when there are so many foreign terrorists out there? You know the refrain."
Pendergast simply nodded.
"But screw it, this bastard is selling America down the river. He's a traitor, just like those good old American companies that sell dual-use technology to Iran and Syria. If Bullard gets away with this, the U.S. will have laid out a hundred billion dollars developing an antimissile system that will be obsolete on deployment. And if that happens, it's the CIA that's going to get hammered. The administration will experience sudden and complete amnesia as to how they deliberately shut down our investigation. The Congress is going to demand an official inquiry on the so-called intelligence failure. We'll be everyone's whipping boy."
"Something we at the FBI know a little about."
"I spent eighteen months investigating Bullard, and I'll be goddamned if I'm going to let it go. I'm a patriotic American. I want you to nail Bullard. I don't want a nuclear missile to take out New York because some American businessman paid off a few congressmen."
Pendergast put the folder to one side. "Why me?"
"I've heard you're pretty good, even if you are FBI." The man allowed himself a cynical smile. "And I liked the way you dragged Bullard down to headquarters like a common criminal. That took guts. You really pissed some people off. Big time."
"Regrettable. But I fear it is not the first time."
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