The Last Oracle: A Climate Fiction Thriller (Sam Jardine Crime Thrillers Book 3)

by Christopher Hepworth

  The PowerPoint presentation disappeared from the giant screen and was replaced by a live news broadcast from Wall Street. Fox News was covering the launch of the largest energy fund in history. The seconds counted down to the opening of Wall Street. Eighty faces were riveted to the giant screen as the Zero Emissions Technology Fund opened for trading.

  CHAPTER 38

  ‘Five... four... three... two... one.’

  The opening bell of the New York Stock Exchange signalled the start of another day’s trading and the atmosphere in the Grand Ballroom bristled with excitement. Sam handed the unsigned contract back to Van der Schaft and a gasp rose among those members of the audience who were not glued to the giant screen. Van der Schaft looked stunned, then gestured for the security guards at the back of the room to take custody of Sam.

  The live broadcast of the opening of the Stock Exchange was interrupted by a newsflash. An elegant anchorwoman in her mid-twenties announced the end of the Great Methane Crisis. She explained how American engineers had conducted a controlled release of freezing meltwater into the North Atlantic that was sufficient to push the Gulf Stream southwards by thirty miles. This would result in a refreezing of the Canadian tundra and the end of the methane smog. As temperatures cooled, the North Atlantic drift would move back to its original position in a couple of years, and life would continue as normal.

  The anchorwoman introduced an eminent scientist who had been working on a complex climate science model financed by European Oil. He explained the earth had a series of self-correcting feedback mechanisms that tipped the earth back into equilibrium whenever events such as the Great Methane Crisis occurred. He reassured Fox News listeners they should feel free to use as much oil as they needed, and to lobby their local congressmen and women to stop the scandalous closure of coal-fired power stations that was so damaging to jobs and growth. He was scornful of the irresponsible environmental movement who, drunk on ideology and self-righteousness were frightening the public by perpetuating the climate change myth. The end of the Great Methane Crisis was proof the earth could cope with as much pollution and filth as humans could throw at it.

  The anchorwoman cut back to Wall Street and said a massive stock market relief rally was already underway following the end of the Great Methane Crisis, and the recent run of record lows was over. The great and the good in the Grand Ballroom applauded the news and Sir Joshua popped open a huge magnum of 1961 Dom Perignon.

  Sir Joshua flicked the channel so the financial TV station Bloomberg filled the giant screen. The ticker at the bottom of the screen was awash with green as shares soared in value across the board. The Bloomberg presenters were talking like excited sports commentators as the relief rally gathered a head of steam. Sir Joshua superimposed the Zero Emissions Technology Fund stock price in the top right-hand corner so The Brandenburg Group could keep track of their profits. It was still at fifty dollars a share.

  ‘Sometimes there’s a few minutes’ delay when a new fund is listed on the Dow Jones Index,’ Sir Joshua explained. ‘Once the Bloomberg analysts have integrated the systems, I expect the fund’s share price to open at seventy or eighty dollars—’

  Sir Joshua was interrupted as two burly security guards bounded onto the stage to collect Sam. One of them was holding a pair of handcuffs and the other brandished a taser.

  Silverwood looked at the security guards with disdain. ‘This is a gentlemen’s society,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Mr Jardine can be afforded a modicum of dignity. At least until he’s outside the hotel.’

  Van der Schaft looked at Sam with derision as the two guards each gripped an elbow in readiness to steer him off the stage. ‘Tell me, young man,’ he said. ‘Were you really able to read Sapientus’s manuscript? I must know.’

  Sam nodded.

  Van der Schaft’s eyes lit up. ‘Did he predict any major events in our lifetime?’

  Sam nodded again. ‘He predicted the Great Methane Crisis.’

  ‘What else did you learn?’

  ‘I learned that Sapientus was persecuted by a secretive group of powerful merchants and barons. They were the forefathers of The Brandenburg Group, I believe.’

  ‘Did he reveal the innermost secrets of the Temple of Sekhmet and the gift of prophesy?’

  ‘He may have done. I think that was in his last chapter, but I didn’t get time to read it all.’

  ‘No matter. You’ll have plenty of time to provide me with a full transcript while you rot in jail.’

  ‘You can read it yourself. Just look past the actual symbols so their patterns meld. Use the creative and spatial right hemisphere of your brain to see the story unfold in your head. It’s simple.’

  Van der Schaft snatched the hefty manuscript from the table and squinted at the symbols, eager to put Sam’s advice into practice. He huffed in frustration as he saw nothing but shadows.

  ‘His last prediction made fascinating reading,’ Sam said helpfully.

  Sir Joshua and Silverwood conferred at the corner of the stage. Sir Joshua pointed his remote at the computer and clicked the Enter button several times. He apologised to the audience for the technical glitch on the screen. The fund’s stock price was still frozen on the screen at fifty dollars per share. The members of The Brandenburg Group were growing impatient to see their fund take part in the massive stock rally.

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll have this fixed in a jiffy,’ said Sir Joshua as he banged the remote control into the palm of his hand.

  ‘His last prediction?’ Van der Schaft prompted Sam. His eyes widened with excitement. ‘Was I part of world history?’

  ‘In a way, yes. Sapientus foretold of a great financial catastrophe that would destroy the wealth of the richest and most powerful men and women in the world. The financial upheaval would change the nature of the old world order forever.’

  Van der Schaft turned pale.

  ‘Oh my God!’ shouted Sir Joshua at the top of his voice. Sam turned towards the giant screen. Massive profits were being made in every industry sector, but the Zero Emissions Technology Fund had turned red. The fund’s stock price had dropped to forty-eight dollars and fifty cents.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ yelled Eric Lansbury from the floor. ‘I’ve mortgaged fifty of my best properties to invest in your fund.’

  ‘I think you need to tune in to The World Today,’ replied Sam. ‘They are doing an exposé on the origins of the Great Methane Crisis and the involvement of a “powerful but secretive society”.’

  Silverwood grabbed the remote from Sir Joshua and changed the TV channel. He left the fund’s stock price superimposed in the top-right corner of the giant screen. It had already dropped below forty-eight dollars.

  Sam watched as the botoxed image of Charlotte Shaw filled the screen. In a hushed, dramatic tone she continued relaying her exclusive story: ‘…my colleagues and I were on board the doomed Citation CJ4, along with several senior executives from the oil industry, to film the infamous Greenland ice dam. The World Today has recovered its camera from the crashed Citation CJ4, and viewers, I promise that what you are about to see will shake you to your core...’

  Along with everyone else in the room, Sam watched the recovered footage of the last moments of the stricken jet as it plummeted towards the snow-covered runway. He recalled the panic he had felt during the subsequent crash-landing and watched the TV image judder as the plane slammed into the rocks. But the camera had continued recording even after the death of the cameraman. The camera had slipped to a forty-five-degree angle but still showed the mangled interior of the Citation. Sam, Cantara and Jack could be seen leaving the Citation to search for help at the rig’s accommodation hut.

  Charlotte Shaw flicked her hair and explained how Jamal and two other extremists had surrounded the wreckage and ransacked the plane. The film showed Shaw in a distressed state and Jim, the defiant co-pilot being led out of the plane at gunpoint, leaving Chuck Crawford, severely injured, talking on a satellite ph
one. The sound was fuzzy and indistinct but The World Today provided helpful captions at the bottom of the screen for viewers to follow the conversation. Crawford was holding his broken ribs and rubbing his injured leg.

  ‘Is that you, Doktor Van der Schaft?’ he said. ‘Yes, it’s me, Chuck Crawford. Is this line secure?... Look there’s been a development. The plane’s crashed and the pilot is mincemeat. The cameraman has filmed his last ever episode of The World Today but the rest are alive... What’s that?... Kill them all? Are you sure about that, Doktor? Has Silverwood been consulted?... Yes, I know you’re the new president and you think Silverwood is a spineless liberal social climber. I’ll get on with it right away... What was that?... Yes, we’re still going to nuke the dam wall. No-one will ever know the ice slip and meltwater run-off were caused by our fracking activities in Greenland... Look I don’t want to sound greedy or anything, but am I still going to get my allocation of Zero Emissions Technology Fund shares? I’ve busted my ass for twelve months in sub-zero temperatures to make this happen...’

  Silverwood had heard enough. He changed the channel back to Bloombergs and turned to face Van der Schaft. His face was a mask of fury. ‘Do you know what you’ve done with your loose talk?’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘I’m taking over as president of The Brandenburg Group with immediate effect.’

  A commotion broke out among the seated delegates and one by one they reached for their laptops and mobile phones.

  Van der Schaft, Silverwood and Sir Joshua turned to face the source of the commotion. The fund’s stock price was in a death spiral. Within a minute, the share price was below forty dollars a share and dropping like a stone. The Brandenburg Group members gawped at the screen in horror as they watched their wealth evaporate in front of their eyes. They pumped their mobile phones as they attempted to dump their stock before it was too late.

  ‘It’s all under control, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Sir Joshua, who had turned as white as a sheet. ‘I’m going to exercise our stop-loss option. It’ll only take a single click of the button.’

  * * *

  The solar superstorm unleashed its fury on the planet like a scorned goddess. With its epicentre in Edmonton, Canada, massive quantities of white-hot electrons pounded the earth’s magnetic field. The magnetosphere buckled and caved inwards. Lethal doses of X-rays and ultraviolet light pushed on the atmosphere and threatened to break through the earth’s protective magnetic field. The Edmonton power station experienced a massive surge of current that fed straight into the city’s power grid and melted the copper windings of every transformer in the region. A dozen laptops exploded and the sensitive electronics of every single device in the Grand Ballroom fried from the inside out, causing their startled owners to drop them like hot bricks. The room was plunged into darkness.

  Ten minutes later, the hotel’s back-up generators fired up and a bearded technician wheeled in a spare computer. As luck would have it, the internet was still operational. But when Sir Joshua displayed the price of the Zero Emissions Technology Fund on the giant screen, it registered two and a half cents.

  * * *

  ‘It’s quite extraordinary,’ said The Brandenburg Group’s chief psychologist Doctor Lavoisier as he studied the catatonic features of Van der Schaft. ‘In fact, I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  The Grand Ballroom of the Fairmont Hotel had emptied in disarray after the great and the good had watched the collective decimation of their net worth on the large screen. Recriminations and threats of legal action had dominated conversation as they scrambled out of the hotel to contact their lawyers and accountants.

  But on the stage, a lonely figure remained rooted to his chair clutching the four-hundred-year old Sapientus manuscript. Van der Schaft’s face was frozen in a mask of horror and sweat dripped from the end of his long nose.

  ‘What do you think has happened to him?’ Sam asked the doctor.

  ‘He seems to be suffering a form of malignant catatonic excitement known as stereotypy where the patient performs repetitive, abnormally frequent, non-goal-directed movements.’

  ‘Do you think it could be anything to do with the recent loss of his personal fortune?’

  ‘I don’t think so. In fact, I would say that something within the manuscript has set him off. He keeps pointing to a drawing of a lion-headed creature at the end of the last chapter and mumbling “Sekhmet the Avenger is among us”. It’s most peculiar.’

  ‘The last chapter is full of Sapientus’s post-apocalyptic writings about the end of the world. I could never be bothered reading that kind of nonsense. Do you think Van der Schaft can be cured?’

  ‘The standard treatment for cases like these is electroconvulsive therapy and anti-psychotics, but it may take years. In the meantime, he may repeat the same compulsive actions thousands of times over. Oh, stand back Mr Jardine. Here he goes again.’

  Van der Schaft rose from his chair like a sleepwalker in a never-ending nightmare. With a terrified expression on his face he took three steps forward. He dropped to his knees before an unseen presence. After five seconds, he pressed his forehead flat against the wooden floor like a cringing supplicant. He abased himself for a full minute before he stood and returned to his chair. For a moment, Van der Schaft looked bemused at his own actions before he lifted the manuscript from the floor and re-read the final chapter all over again.

  The doctor sniffed the air and turned towards Sam. ‘What is that strange smell?’ he asked.

  Sam and Lavoisier stared at Van der Schaft as the temperature dropped and a powerful leonine odour filled the Grand Ballroom. A long, dark shadow loomed over Van der Schaft’s chair.

  EPILOGUE

  North Yorkshire, England, spring, two years later

  The wailing of a World War Two air raid siren pierced the crisp morning air as the demolition workers waited for permission to fire the explosives. The grassy field was rock solid and covered with a thick layer of white frost. A brisk wind chilled the curious onlookers to the bone.

  ‘Siren off,’ said the burly supervisor speaking into his walkie-talkie in a broad Yorkshire accent. He stamped his feet on the hard ground to bring back his circulation. He turned to his leading hand. ‘By ’eck. They said the Arctic winters were over, but it’s still cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.’ In the background, the high-pitched wailing of the siren tailed off.

  ‘Firing warning rocket,’ he spoke again into his walkie-talkie and lit the firework-sized rocket. It flared then arched into the sky. Five seconds later, a double explosion reverberated over the heads of the throng of onlookers corralled behind the containment lines. The rocket signalled the imminent end of the doomed coal-fired power station. It had been the largest emitter of carbon dioxide in Europe for over four decades.

  The leading hand fished through the large pockets of his bright orange overalls and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He put one to his lips, lit it and took a long drag. He sighed with satisfaction as the smoke hit his lungs.

  ‘I must say, Cedric, I’ll be glad to see the back of this power station. I’ve been telling me kids for years it’s been playing havoc with me lungs.’ To emphasise his point, he put his head between his knees and coughed like a faulty starter motor on a Morris Minor.

  ‘Bloody rubbish. There’s nowt wrong wi’ coal,’ said the supervisor. ‘Me dad were a miner down t’ pit fer years. Strong as an ox he were, until he died from black lung,’ replied the supervisor as he grasped the detonator.

  The walkie-talkie burst into life as a static-distorted voice interrupted their conversation. ‘Commencing countdown. Five... four... three... two... one... fire now!’

  The supervisor pushed the red button and a series of explosions rang out from each of the twelve massive cooling towers half a mile away across the frozen field. Small puffs of smoke spread from the base of the bulbous towers. They quivered like jelly and danced a curious waltz as they lost their structural integrity. One by one, the magnificent towers collapsed
inwards under their own massive weight. A cloud of dust and concrete hovered over the scene of destruction.

  The assembled crowd were silent in respect for the passing of an era as they watched the death of another coal-fired power station.

  Two kilometres away, watching from the banks of the River Ouse, Cantara shivered in her long faux fur winter coat and nuzzled closer to Sam.

  ‘How close did the world really come to disaster, Sam?’

  Sam put his arms around her and hugged her close to warm her up. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Who knows? We were lucky the ice plug held long enough for the meltwater lake to freeze over the following winter.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the car,’ suggested Cantara. She wriggled her toes inside her black leather boots to bring back her circulation. She took Sam’s arm and steered him towards the metallic blue Sirius that was parked on the hill. In the distance, they spotted Rex Daingerfield and a lady friend who was by his side taking notes. They were talking to a dozen investors from the City of London who were financing his latest billion-dollar energy park. Daingerfield spotted the couple and waved from the top of the hill.

  The site was earmarked to be the main interconnection hub for the national energy grids of the United Kingdom and several North European countries. Daingerfield also had plans for electricity generation on the site using solar arrays and batteries from his thriving renewable energy division. He had become one of the richest men in the renewable energy industry by buying decommissioned coal-fired power stations and converting them into Daingerfield-branded green energy parks.

  ‘For someone who was on the brink of bankruptcy at the onset of the Great Methane Crisis, Daingerfield has done rather well for himself,’ said Sam, as he watched his former employer close his deal.

  ‘Who’s that elegant woman by his side? She keeps touching his arm and smiling at him every time he looks at her.’