Major Salomon Peak continued on his own. He rode up to the ninth floor, on his way to the gold executive suites, the premier accommodation in the 550-room hotel. He was staying in a junior suite on the floor below. A no-frills single room would have suited him fine. He didn't give a hoot about luxury, but the hotel management had insisted on billeting the committee in their very best rooms. As he strode down the corridor, footsteps muffled by the carpet, he ran through the arrangements for the presentation. Men and women, some uniformed, others in civilian dress, came the other way. Doors were propped open, revealing suites that had been converted into offices. A few seconds later Peak reached a large door. Two soldiers saluted. Peak signalled for them to relax. One knocked, waited for an answer, then opened the door smartly. Peak was admitted.
'How're things?' said Judith Li.
She'd arranged for a treadmill from the health club to be installed in her suite. As far as Peak could tell, she spent more time running than sleeping. She was always on the treadmill – watching TV, dealing with her mail, dictating memos, reports and speeches through the voice recognition software on her laptop, listening to briefings on all manner of topics or using the time to think. She was on the treadmill now. A bandeau held her sleek black hair in place. She wore a lightweight track top with a zipper front and tight-fitting track pants. Her breathing was regular, despite the pace she maintained. Peak continually had to remind himself that General Commander Li was forty-eight years old. The trim woman on the treadmill could easily have been mistaken for someone ten years her junior.
'Fine,' said Peak. 'We're coping.'
He glanced around. The suite was the size of a luxury apartment and had been fitted out accordingly. Traditional Canadian furnishings – an open fireplace, lots of wood, rustic charm – combined with French elegance. A grand piano stood next to the window. Like the treadmill, it wasn't normally in the sitting room: Li had requisitioned it from the lobby downstairs. A magnificent archway led to the enormous bedroom on the left. Peak had never seen the bathroom, although he'd heard that it included a whirlpool and sauna.
To him, the treadmill was the only useful piece of furniture, a bulky black presence in the carefully designed interior. In his opinion, sophistication and army business didn't mix. Peak had come from humble beginnings. He'd joined the army not because he had an eye for nice decor but because the streets in his neighbourhood had led mostly to jail. He'd earned his college degree and his officer badge through sheer grit and hard work. His career was an inspiration to others, but it didn't change his roots. He still felt more comfortable under canvas or in a cheap motel.
'We've got the data from the NOAA satellites,' he said, staring past Li through the large panoramic window that overlooked the valley. The sun was shining on the forest of cedars and pines. There was no denying that it was pretty, but Peak wasn't bothered by the view. His mind was on the hours ahead.
'And?'
'We were right.'
'So there's a parallel?'
'Yes. Definite similarities between the noises picked up by the URA and the unidentified spectrograms from 1997.'
'Good,' said Li, apparently satisfied. 'That's good.'
'Is it? Sure, it's a lead, but there's no explanation.'
'Come off it, Sal, don't tell me you were expecting the ocean to give you an answer.' Li pressed the clear button on the treadmill and jumped off 'That's what this whole circus is in aid of, remember? To find out what's going on. Do we have a full house yet?'
'Everyone's here. The last just arrived.'
'Who?'
'The Norwegian guy who discovered the worms. A biologist. He's called, uh…'
'Sigur Johanson.' Li disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a hand-towel draped round her shoulders. 'It's time you learned their names, Sal. We've got three hundred people in this hotel, seventy-five of them scientists. Goddamn it, Sal, that's not so much to ask.'
'Are you telling me you've learned three hundred names?'
I'll learn three thousand, if I have to. You'd better start shaping up.'
'You're kidding me,' said Peak.
I'll prove it.'
'All right. Johanson's got a British journalist with him. We're hoping she can tell us what went on in the Arctic. What's her name?'
'Karen Weaver,' said Li, towelling her hair. 'Lives in London. Science journalist with an interest in oceanography. Computer buff. Was on the vessel in the Greenland Sea that later sank with all its crew.' She flashed her snow-white teeth in a grin. 'If only we had pictures of everything like we have of that boat.'
'You bet.' Peak allowed himself a smile. 'Anyone mentions those pics and Vanderbilt goes red in the face.'
'I'm not surprised. The CIA can't handle seeing stuff without knowing what it means. Has he arrived yet?'
'He's due.'
'Due?'
'He's in the helicopter.'
'Wow. The weight-bearing capacity of our aircraft never ceases to amaze me. You know, Sal, I'd be sweating if I had to fly that pig. Well, don't forget to tell me if any sensational discoveries hit Chateau Whistler before it's time to dazzle our guests.'
Peak hesitated. 'How do we know they won't tell?'
'We've been through this a million times.'
'Sure – and that's still a million too few. These guys don't understand a thing about confidentiality. They've all got family and friends. Before we know it, journalists'll show up and start asking questions.'
'Not our problem.'
'Well, it might be.'
'So recruit them into the army.' Li gestured dismissively. 'Put them under martial law. Shoot them if they talk.'
Peak froze.
'I'm joking, Sal.' Li waved at him. 'Hello! I said it was a joke.'
I'm not in the mood for jokes,' Peak said. 'Vanderbilt's dying to put the whole darned lot of them under martial law, but it's just not realistic. Over half of them are foreigners, Europeans mainly. We can't do anything if they decide to break their word.'
'Then we'll make out that we can.'
'You're going to coerce them? It won't work. No one co-operates under coercion.'
'Who mentioned coercion? For heaven's sake, Sal, I wish you'd stop inventing problems out of nowhere. They want to help us. And they will keep quiet. And if they somehow get the impression that they might end up in jail if they don't keep shtoom, well, so much the better. The power of suggestion can go a long way.'
Peak looked at her skeptically. 'Anything else?'
'No, I think we're all set.'
'Fine. See you later, then.' Peak took his leave.
LI WATCHED HIM go and smiled. How little he knew about people. He was an excellent soldier and a brilliant strategist, but he had difficulty in distinguishing humans from machines. Peak seemed to think that there was a hidden button on the human body that guaranteed all orders would be correctly carried out. It was a common misconception among graduates from West Point. America's elite military academy was known for its merciless regime, which was geared towards unconditional, blind obedience. Peak wasn't entirely wrong to be anxious, but his understanding of group psychology was way off the mark.
Li's thoughts turned to Jack Vanderbilt. He was in charge of the CIA's efforts. Li didn't like him. He stank, sweated and had bad breath, but he certainly knew his job. Over the past few weeks, his department had excelled itself, especially after the tsunami had devastated northern Europe. He and his team had pieced together an astonishingly clear overview of the chaos of events. In real terms that didn't mean they had answers, but no one could want for a better catalogue of questions.
Li wondered whether she should give the White House a call. Not that there was anything to report, but the President liked talking to her – he admired her intellect. That was the way things stood between them, and Li knew it, but she kept it to herself It was better that way. She was one of only a handful of female American generals, and she was well below the average age for military high command. That was enough to arou
se the suspicions of senior military and political figures. Her friendly rapport with the most powerful man in the world did nothing to improve the situation, so Li pursued her goals with utmost caution. She avoided the limelight, and never let slip in public just how much the President depended on her: that he didn't like scenarios being described as complicated because complexity had no place in his thinking, that it often fell to her to help him see the complex world in simple terms, that he asked her for guidance whenever the advice of his defence secretary or national security adviser seemed unintelligible, and that she had no trouble explaining their viewpoints – and the Department of State's opinion as well.
On no account would Li have allowed herself to acknowledge that she was the source of the President's ideas. If asked, she said, 'The President is of the opinion that. . .' or 'The President's view on the matter is…' No one needed to know how she tutored the lord and master of the White House, broadening his intellectual and cultural horizons and supplying him with opinions and ideas that he could call his own.
The members of his inner circle saw through it, of course, but all that mattered to Li was being rewarded for her ability at the right time, like during the Gulf War in 1991, when General Norman Schwarzkopf had discovered in her a gifted strategist and political tactician with a razor-sharp intellect and the guts to stand up to anyone or anything. By then Li had already amassed an impressive list of achievements: the first female ever to graduate from West Point, a degree in natural sciences, officer-training with the navy, admission to the US Command and General Staff College and the National War College and, to finish, a PhD in politics and history at Duke University. Schwarzkopf had taken Li under his wing and saw to it that she was invited to seminars and conferences with all the right people. Stormin' Norman, who took no interest in politics, smoothed the way for her to enter the murky realm where political and military interests mingled and the landscape of power was continually redrawn.
The first reward for her powerful patronage was the position of deputy commander of the Allied Forces in Central Europe. Within no time Li enjoyed immense popularity in European diplomatic circles. At last she was able to reap the full benefit of her upbringing, education and natural talent. Her father came from a long line of American generals and had played a key role in the White House's National Security Council until ill-health had forced him to step down. Her Chinese mother had made her mark as a cellist with the New York Opera and as a soloist on countless records. The couple expected even more from their only daughter than they did from themselves. Judith went to ballet classes, took ice-skating lessons, and learned the piano and the cello. She accompanied her father on his trips to Europe and Asia, and gained an insight into the diversity of different cultures at an early age. She never tired of hearing about the history and traditions of different ethnic groups, and pestered the locals to tell her about themselves, chattering away, usually in their native tongue. By the age of twelve she had perfected her knowledge of Mandarin, her mother's first language; at fifteen she spoke fluent German, French, Italian and Spanish; and by the time she was eighteen she could get by in Japanese and Korean. Her parents' attitudes were unbending as far as manners, dress and etiquette were concerned, though in other respects they were peculiarly tolerant. The marriage of her father's Presbyterian principles to her mother's Buddhist inclinations was as harmonious as their own.
The real surprise was that her father had insisted on taking his wife's name, a decision that had pitched him into a long, drawn-out struggle with the authorities. Judith Li worshipped her father for making this gesture towards the woman he loved and who had left her homeland for him. He was a man of contradictions, both liberal and dyed-in-the-wool Republican in his opinions, all of which he held with equal conviction. Someone with less strength of character would probably have been crushed by the family's determination to be the best at everything, but the youngest member rose to the challenge, finishing high school two years before her peers and with perfect grades to boot. Judith Li was convinced that she could do anything she turned her mind to. Even the Presidency wasn't beyond her reach.
In the mid-nineties she'd been appointed deputy chief of staff for Operations in the US Department of the Army and offered a lectureship in history at the West Point academy. Great things were being said about her in the Department of Defense. At the same time, her affinity for politics didn't go unnoticed. All she needed now was a significant military victory. The Pentagon insisted on active service before it opened the way to higher pastures, and Li hankered for a first-rate international crisis. She didn't have long to wait. In 1999 she was made US Deputy Commander in Kosovo, and her name was inscribed on the roll of honour.
This time her homecoming was marked by her appointment as commanding general at Fort Lewis and by the summons to join the National Security Council at the White House. A memo she'd written on national security had already been making weaves. She had taken a hard line on the topic. In many respects she was even less compromising than the Republican administration, but above all she was patriotic. For all her cosmopolitanism she sincerely believed that there was nowhere as just and as free as the United States of America, and in her memo she'd dealt with some of the country's most pressing security problems in that light.
Suddenly she found herself in the corridors of power.
But General Li was all too aware of the beast that lurked inside her: fiery, untamable emotion. It could be as useful as it was dangerous, depending on what she did next. No one could be allowed to think that she was vain or that she flaunted her abilities. She shone enough already. Every now and then she would swap her uniform for a strapless gown, playing Chopin, Schubert or Brahms to the delight of her listeners at the White House. In the ballroom she made the President feel like Fred Astaire, whisking him off his feet until he felt like he was floating. Or she serenaded him and his family and their grand old Republican friends with songs from the days of the founding fathers. This part of her image was all her own. She was adept at making close personal ties, sharing the defense secretary's passion for baseball and the secretary of state's enthusiasm for European history, securing invitations to dinner at the White House and spending entire weekends at the presidential ranch.
On the outside she seemed unassuming. She kept her personal opinions on political matters to herself. She mediated between the military and the politicians, appearing cultivated, charming, self-assured and always well-dressed, without seeming stiff or self-important. She was said to have had affairs with several influential men, although none of it was true. Li ignored it blithely. No question was awkward enough to ruffle her. With a talent for feeding journalists and politicians with easily digestible soundbites, she was always well organised, and had vast amounts of information at her fingertips, which she could call up like a zip file, the details compressed into manageable chunks.
Of course, she had no idea what was happening in the ocean, but she'd succeeded in putting the President in the picture. She'd broken the bulky CIA dossier into a few key points. As a result, she'd been sent to Chateau Whistler, and Li knew exactly what that meant.
It was the last big step she had to take.
Maybe she should call the President. A quick chat. He always appreciated that. She could tell him that all the delegates had arrived, or – as she would put it – that they'd followed the USA's informal summons, despite their crises at home. Or maybe she should tell him that NOAA had found similarities in the unidentified noises. He liked that kind of thing. It had the ring of 'Sir, we've made some progress'. Of course, she couldn't expect him to know about Bloop and Upsweep, or why the NOAA scientists thought they'd tracked down the origins of Slowdown. That was all too detailed and, besides, it wouldn't be necessary. Just a few reassuring words over the secure satellite connection and the President would be happy; and a happy President was a useful President. She'd call him.
NINE FLOORS LOWER down the building, Leon Anawak had just noticed a good-looking man with gre
ying hair and a beard. He was walking over the forecourt in the direction of the Chateau. At his side was a woman, small, broad-shouldered and tanned, in jeans and a leather jacket. Anawak guessed that she was in her late twenties. Chestnut ringlets tumbled down her back. Both new arrivals had been carrying cases, which the hotel porters had swiftly removed. The woman made some comment to the man and glanced around. Her eyes rested briefly on Anawak, then she pushed her hair back from her forehead and disappeared inside.
Lost in thought, Anawak stared at the spot where the woman had been standing. Then he craned his neck, shielded his eyes against the slanting sunshine, and scanned the Chateau's neo-classical facade.
The luxury hotel was situated in a real-life version of the dream that people nurtured of Canada. From Horseshoe Bay, Highway 99 led away from Vancouver straight into the mountains, where the majestic Chateau was nestled among wooded slopes, against a backdrop of imposing peaks whose summits glistened white throughout the summer. Whistler-Blackcomb was commonly thought to be one of the most picturesque ski areas in the world. By May, though, the hotel's guests were usually there to play golf or to go hiking among the forests and secluded lakes. Visitors could explore the area on mountain bike or take a helicopter to the year-round snow. The Chateau itself had a first-class restaurant and offered every comfort.
The remote spot in the mountains was equipped with everything under the sun. But the dozen or so military choppers came as a surprise.
Anawak had arrived there two days earlier. He'd been helping with the preparations for Li's presentation, as had John Ford, who'd been flying between Vancouver Aquarium, Nanaimo and the Chateau, sifting through data, analysing statistics and collating the results. Anawak's knee was still painful, but the limp had gone. The fresh mountain air had cleared his head as well as his lungs, and the despondency that had weighed on him since the plane crash evaporated, leaving him full of nervous energy.
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