by Ken Follett
"No. According to this report, a lot of people are saying Robson should give in and negotiate with the Hammer of Eden, but he refuses to comment."
"This is no good," he said. "I've got to find a way to talk to him."
*
When Judy woke up she could not remember why she felt so bad. Then the whole ghastly scene came back in a dreadful rush.
Last night she had been paralyzed with embarrassment. She had mumbled an apology to Michael and run out of the building, burning with shame. But this morning her mortification had been replaced by a different feeling. Now she just felt sad. She had thought Michael might become part of her life. She had been looking forward to getting to know him, growing more fond of him, making love to him. She had imagined that he cared for her. But the relationship had crashed and burned in no time.
She sat up in bed and looked at the collection of Vietnamese water puppets she had inherited from her mother, arranged on a shelf above the chest of drawers. She had never seen a puppet show--had never been to Vietnam--but her mother had told her how the puppeteers stood waist deep in a pond, behind a backdrop, and used the surface of the water as their stage. For hundreds of years such painted wooden toys had been used to tell wise and funny tales. They always reminded Judy of her mother's tranquility. What would she say now? Judy could hear her voice, low and calm. "A mistake is a mistake. Another mistake is normal. Only the same mistake twice makes you a fool."
Last night had just been a mistake. Michael had been a mistake. She had to put all that behind her. She had two days to prevent an earthquake. That was really important.
On the TV news, people were arguing about whether the Hammer of Eden might really be able to trigger an earthquake. The believers had formed a pressure group to urge Governor Robson to give in. But, as she got dressed, Judy's mind kept returning to Michael. She wished she could speak to her mother about it. She could hear Bo stirring, but this was not the kind of thing to tell your father about. Instead of making breakfast she called her friend Virginia. "I need someone to talk to," she told her. "Have you had breakfast yet?"
They met at a coffee shop near the Presidio. Ginny was a petite blonde, funny and honest. She would always tell Judy exactly what she thought. Judy ordered two chocolate croissants to make herself feel better, then related what had happened last night.
When she came to the part where she burst in with her gun in her hand and found them screwing, Ginny practically fell down laughing. "I'm sorry," she said, and got a piece of toast stuck in her throat.
"I guess it is kind of funny," Judy said, smiling. "But it didn't seem that way last night, I can tell you."
Ginny coughed and swallowed. "I don't mean to be cruel," she said when she had recovered. "I can see it wasn't too hilarious at the time. What he did was really sleazy, dating you and sleeping with his wife."
"To me, it shows that he's not over her," Judy said. "So he's not ready for a new relationship."
Ginny made a doubtful face. "I don't necessarily buy that."
"You think it was like a good-bye, one last embrace for old times' sake?"
"Maybe even simpler. You know, men almost never say no to a fuck if it's offered to them. It sounds as if he's been living the life of a monk since she left him. His hormones are probably giving him hell. She's attractive, you say?"
"Very sexy looking."
"So if she walked in wearing a tight sweater and started making moves on him, he probably couldn't help getting a hard-on. And once that happens, a man's brain cuts out and the autopilot in his dick takes control."
"You think so?"
"Listen, I've never met Michael, but I've known some men, good and bad, and that's my take on the scenario."
"What would you do?"
"I'd talk to him. Ask him why he did it. See what he says. See if I believed him. If he gave me a line of bullshit, I'd forget him. But if he seemed honest, I'd try to make some kind of sense of the whole incident."
"I have to call him anyway," Judy said. "He still hasn't sent me that list."
"So call. Get the list. Then ask him what he thinks he's doing. You're feeling embarrassed, but he has something to apologize for, too."
"I guess you're right."
It was not yet eight o'clock, but they were both in a hurry to get to work. Judy paid the check, and they went out to their cars. "Boy," Judy said, "I'm beginning to feel better about this. Thank you."
Ginny shrugged. "What are girlfriends for? Let me know what he says."
Judy got into her car and dialed Michael's number. She was afraid he might be asleep and she would find herself talking to him while he was in bed with his wife. However, his voice sounded alert, as if he had been up for a while. "I'm sorry about your door," she said.
"Why did you do it?" He sounded more curious than angry.
"I couldn't understand why you didn't answer. Then I heard a scream. I thought you must be in some kind of trouble."
"What brought you here so late?"
"You didn't send me that list of earthquake sites."
"Oh, that's right! It's on my desk. I just forgot. I'll fax it now."
"Thanks." She gave him the fax number of the new emergency operations center. "Michael, there's something I have to ask you." She took a deep breath. Asking this question was harder than she had anticipated. She was no shrinking violet, but she was not as brash as Ginny. She swallowed and said: "You gave me the impression you were growing fond of me. Why did you sleep with your wife?" There. It was out.
At the other end of the line there was a long silence. Then he said: "This is not a good time."
"Okay." She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
"I'll send that list right away."
"Thanks."
She hung up and started the engine. Ginny's idea had not been so great after all. It took two to talk, and Michael was not willing.
When she reached the officers' club, Michael's fax was waiting for her. She showed it to Carl Theobald. "We need surveillance teams at each of these locations, watching out for a seismic vibrator," she said. "I was hoping to use the police, but I don't think we can. They might talk. And if local people find out that we think they're a target, they'll panic. So we have to use FBI personnel."
"Okay." Carl frowned at the sheet. "You know, these locations are awful big. One team can't really watch an area a mile square. Should we put on multiple teams? Or could your seismologist narrow it down?"
"I'll ask him." Judy picked up the phone and dialed Michael again. "Thanks for the fax," she said. She explained the problem.
"I'd have to visit the sites myself," he said. "Signs of earlier earthquake activity, such as dried-up streambeds or fault scarp, would give me a more precise fix."
"Would you do that today?" she said immediately. "I can take you to all the locations in an FBI helicopter."
"Uh ... sure, I guess," he said. "I mean, of course I will."
"You could be saving lives."
"Exactly."
"Can you find your way to the officers' club in the Presidio?"
"Sure."
"By the time you get here, the chopper will be waiting."
"Okay."
"I appreciate this, Michael."
"You're welcome."
But I'd still like to know why you slept with your wife.
She hung up.
*
It was a long day. Judy, Michael, and Carl Theobald covered a thousand miles in the helicopter. By nightfall they had set up round-the-clock surveillance at the five locations on Michael's list.
They returned to the Presidio. The helicopter landed on the deserted parade ground. The base was a ghost town, with its moldering office buildings and rows of vacant houses.
Judy had to go into the emergency operations center and report to a big shot from FBI headquarters in Washington who had shown up at nine o'clock that morning with a take-charge air. But first she walked Michael to his car in the darkened parking lot. "What if the
y slip through the surveillance?" she said.
"I thought your people were good."
"They're the best. But what if? Is there some way I can get notified real fast if there's a tremor anywhere in California?"
"Sure," he said. "I could set up on-line seismography right here at your command post. I just need a computer and an ISDN phone line."
"No problem. Would you do it tomorrow?"
"Okay. That way, you'll know immediately if they start the seismic vibrator someplace that's not on the list."
"Is that likely?"
"I don't think so. If their seismologist is competent, he'll pick the same places I picked. And if he's incompetent, they probably won't be able to trigger an earthquake."
"Good," she said. "Good." She would remember that. She could tell the Washington big shot that she had the crisis under control.
She looked up at Michael's shadowed face. "Why did you sleep with your wife?"
"I've been thinking about that all day."
"Me, too."
"I guess I owe you some kind of explanation."
"I think so."
"Until yesterday I was sure it was over. Then, last night, she reminded me of the things that had been good about our marriage. She was beautiful, fun, affectionate, and sexy. More important, she made me forget all the things that were bad."
"Such as?"
He sighed. "I think Melanie is drawn to authority figures. I was her professor. She wants the security of being told what to do. I expected an equal partner, someone who would share decisions and take responsibility. She resented that."
"I get the picture."
"And there's something else. Deep down, she's mad as hell at the whole world. Most of the time she hides it, but when she's frustrated she can be violent. She would throw things at me, heavy things, like a casserole dish one time. She never hurt me, she's just not strong enough, though if there was a gun in the house, I'd be scared. But that level of hostility is hard to live with."
"And last night ...?"
"I forgot all that. She seemed to want to try again, and I thought maybe we should, for Dusty's sake. Plus ..."
She wished she could read his expression, but it was too dark. "What?"
"I want to tell you the truth, Judy, even though you'll be offended by it. So I have to admit that it wasn't as rational and decent as I'm pretending. Part of it was that she's a beautiful woman and I wanted to fuck her. Now I've said it."
She smiled in the dark. Ginny had been half-right, anyway. "I knew that," she said. "But I'm glad you told me. Good night." She walked away.
"Good night," he said, sounding bewildered.
A few moments later he called after her: "Are you angry?"
"No," she said over her shoulder. "Not anymore."
*
Priest expected Melanie to return to the commune around midafternoon. When suppertime came and she still had not arrived, he started to worry.
By nightfall he was frantic. What had happened to her? Had she decided to go back to her husband? Had she confessed everything to him? Was she even now spilling the beans to Agent Judy Maddox in an interrogation room at the Federal Building in San Francisco?
He could not sit still in the cookhouse or lie on his bed. He took a candle lamp and walked across the vineyard and through the woods to the parking circle and waited there, listening for the engine of her old Subaru--or the throb of the FBI helicopter that would herald the end of everything.
Spirit heard it first. He cocked his ears, tensed, then ran up the mud road, barking. Priest stood up, straining his hearing. It was the Subaru. Relief swamped him. He watched the lights approach through the trees. He had the beginnings of a headache. He had not had a headache for years.
Melanie parked erratically, got out, and slammed the car door.
"I hate you," she said to Priest. "I hate you for making me do that."
"Was I right?" he said. "Is Michael making a list for the FBI?"
"Fuck you!"
Priest realized he had goofed. He should have been understanding and sympathetic. For a moment he had allowed his anxiety to cloud his judgment. Now he would have to spend time talking her around. "I asked you to do it because I love you, don't you understand that?"
"No, I don't. I don't understand anything." She folded her arms across her chest and turned away from him, staring into the darkness of the woods. "All I know is, I feel like a prostitute."
Priest was bursting to know what she had found out, but he made himself calm. "Where have you been?" he said.
"Driving around. I stopped for a drink."
He was silent for a minute. Then he said: "A prostitute does it for money--then she spends the money on stupid clothes and drugs. You did it to save your child. I know you feel bad, but you're not bad. You're good."
At last she turned to him. There were tears in her eyes. "It's not just that we had sex," she said. "It's worse than that. I liked it. That's what makes me feel ashamed. I came. I really did. I screamed."
Priest felt a hot wave of jealousy and strained to suppress it. He would make Michael Quercus suffer for that one day. But now was not the time to say so. He needed to cool things down here. "It's okay," he murmured. "Really, it's okay. I understand. Weird things happen." He put his arms around her and hugged her.
Slowly she relaxed. He could feel the tension leaving her bit by bit. "You don't mind?" she said. "You're not mad?"
"Not a bit," he lied, stroking her long hair. Come on, come on!
"You were right about the list," she said.
At last.
"That FBI woman had asked Michael to work out the best locations for an earthquake, just the way you imagined it."
Of course she did. I'm so damn smart.
Melanie went on: "He was sitting at his computer when I got there, just finishing."
"So what happened?"
"I made him dinner, and like that."
Priest could imagine. If Melanie decided to be seductive, she was irresistible. And she was at her most alluring when she wanted something. She probably took a bath and put on a robe, then moved around the apartment smelling of soap and flowers, pouring wine or making coffee, letting the robe fall open now and again to show him tantalizing glimpses of her long legs and her soft breasts. She would have asked Michael questions and listened intently to his answers, smiling at him in a way that said I like you so much, you can do anything you want with me.
"When the phone rang I told him not to answer, then I took it off the hook. But the damn woman came over anyway, and when Michael didn't answer the door she broke it down. Boy, did she have a shock." Priest figured she needed to get all this off her chest, so he did not hurry her. "She almost died of embarrassment."
"Did he give her the list?"
"Not then. I guess she was too confused to ask. But she called this morning, and he faxed it to her."
"And did you get it?"
"While he was in the shower, I got to his computer and printed out another copy."
So where the hell is it?
She reached into the back pocket of her jeans, pulled out a single sheet of paper folded in four, and gave it to Priest.
Thank God.
He unfolded it and looked at it in the light of the lamp. The typed letters and numbers meant nothing to him. "These are the places he's told her to watch?"
"Yes, they're going to stake out each of these locations, looking for a seismic vibrator, just the way you predicted."
Judy Maddox was clever. The FBI surveillance would make it very difficult for him to operate the seismic vibrator, especially if he had to try several different locations, as he had in Owens Valley.
But he was even cleverer than Judy. He had anticipated this move by her. And he had thought of a way around it. "You understand how Michael picked these sites?" he said.
"Sure. They're the places where the tension in the fault is highest."
"So you could do the same thing."
"I already h
ave. And I picked the same places he did."
He folded the paper and gave it back to her. "Now, listen very carefully. This is important. Could you look over the data again and pick the five next best locations?"
"Yes."
"And could we cause an earthquake at one of them?"
"Probably," she said. "It's maybe not as sure, but the chances are good."
"Then that's what we'll do. Tomorrow we'll take a look at the new sites. Right after I talk to Mr. Honeymoon."
16
At five A.M., the guard at the entrance to the Los Alamos place was yawning.
He became alert when Melanie and Priest pulled up in the 'Cuda. Priest got out of the car. "How are you, buddy?" he said as he walked across to the gate.
The guard hefted his rifle, assumed a mean expression, and said: "Who are you and what do you want?"
Priest hit him in the face very hard, crushing his nose. Blood spurted. The guard cried out, his hands flying to his face. Priest said: "Ow!" His fist hurt. It was a long time since he had punched anyone.
His instincts took over. He kicked the guard's legs from under him. The man fell on his back, and his rifle went flying through the air. Priest kicked him in the ribs three or four times, fast and hard, trying to break the bones. Then he kicked his face and head. The man curled up in a ball, sobbing in pain, helpless with fear.
Priest stopped, breathing hard. It all came back to him in a flood of remembered excitement. There had been a time when he had done this sort of thing every day. It was so easy to frighten people when you knew how.
He knelt and took the handgun from the man's belt. This was what he had come for.
He looked at the weapon in disgust. It was a reproduction of a long-barreled .44-caliber Remington revolver originally manufactured in the days of the Wild West. It was a stupid, impractical firearm, the kind owned by collectors and kept in a felt-lined display case in the den. It was not for shooting people.
He broke it open. It was loaded.
That was all he really cared about.
He returned to the car and got in. Melanie was at the wheel. She was pale and bright-eyed, breathing fast, as if she had just taken cocaine. Priest guessed she had never witnessed serious violence. "Will he be okay?" she said in an excited voice.