The Swarm

by Frank Schätzing

  So much had happened lately that his capture by the military patrol seemed almost ancient history, although it was less than two weeks ago that he'd first met Li – in embarrassing circumstances, as he was forced to admit. She'd been amused by the amateurism of his evening escapade. They'd spotted him immediately, before he'd even left the car. Allowing him to park inside the docks, they'd watched for a while to see what he was up to, and then they'd intervened. Anawak had felt like the man who disappeared.

  He needn't have worried. Now, instead of feeding his findings to the big black hole of the committee, he was working at its centre, along with Ford and Sue Oliviera, another new arrival. At last he'd been permitted to get in touch with Clive Roberts, the Inglewood MD, who'd begun by apologising profusely for the severing of communications, which had been ordered from on high. On strict instructions from Li, he'd been compelled to make himself unavailable, which meant standing within earshot of his secretary while she fielded his calls and sent Anawak packing.

  With the presentation ready, there was nothing for him to do but wait, so while the world descended into chaos and Europe was flooded, Anawak had gone to play tennis. He was keen to test his knee. His partner was a small Frenchman with bushy eyebrows and a very large nose. His name was Bernard Roche, a bacteriologist, who'd flown in the night before from Lyons. While North America was struggling to defend itself against the largest creatures on the planet, Roche was fighting a losing battle against the smallest.

  Anawak looked at the time. They were due to meet in half an hour. The hotel had been closed to tourists ever since the government had started running the show, but the bustle of people made it seem like high season. A good few hundred delegates must have arrived by now. Over half had some kind of connection with the United States intelligence community. Most worked for the CIA, which had lost no time in turning the Chateau into its command centre. The NSA, America's biggest intelligence agency, responsible for signals intelligence, data protection and cryptology, had sent over an entire department of staff and now occupied the fourth floor. The fifth had been requisitioned by employees of the Pentagon and the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. The floor above that was reserved for MIS and the British Secret Intelligence Service, plus delegations from the German Military Security Service and their Federal Intelligence Service. 'The French had sent representatives from the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, and the Swedish intelligence agency was present, as well as Finland's Paaeis-kunnan Tiedusteluosasto. It was a historic meeting of intelligence units, a unique muddle of people and data gathered in the attempt to regain some understanding of the world.

  Anawak massaged his knee. A stabbing pain shot through it. He'd been too hasty with the tennis. A shadow fell across him, as another military chopper dipped its nose on its way in to land. Anawak watched the powerful machine descend, then straightened and went inside.

  People were milling around everywhere. The activity unfolded at marching pace, briskly but unhurriedly, beneath the vaulted ceiling of the lobby. At least half of those present were talking on mobiles. The others had taken up residence in the luxurious armchairs clustered around the stone columns that separated the nave of the lobby from the side aisles, and were typing on laptops or staring at their screens. Anawak made his way to the adjoining bar, where Ford and Oliviera were waiting. A third person was with them, a tall, glum-looking man with a moustache.

  'Leon Anawak, Gerhard Bohrmann.' Ford took care of the introductions. 'Go easy on Gerhard's hand when you shake it. It might fall off.'

  'Too much tennis?' asked Anawak.

  'Writing, actually.' Bohrmann smiled bitterly. 'I spent a whole hour scribbling furiously when two weeks ago a simple mouse click would have solved it. It's like living in the Dark Ages.'

  'What about the satellites?'

  'They can't cope with all the traffic,' Ford explained.

  'My colleagues in Kiel aren't properly equipped to deal with it,' Bohrmann said gloomily.

  'No one's equipped for this.' Anawak ordered a glass of water. 'How long have you been here?'

  'Two days. I've been working on the presentation.'

  'Me too. Funny we haven't met before.'

  Bohrmann shook his head. 'It's like a rabbit warren here. What's your area?'

  'Cetaceans. Animal intelligence.'

  'Leon's had a few unpleasant encounters with humpbacks lately,' Oliviera chimed in. 'Seems they don't appreciate him trying to look inside their minds… What's he doing here?'

  They all turned. There was a clear view from the bar to the lobby, where a man was heading for the elevators. Anawak recognised him. It was the same guy who'd arrived a few minutes earlier with the curly-haired woman.

  'Who is it?' asked Ford, with a frown.

  'Don't you ever go to the movies?' Oliviera tutted. 'It's that European actor. What's his name? Maximilian Schell! He looks amazing, don't you think? Even better in real life than he does on the screen.'

  'Restrain yourself, woman,' said Ford. 'Why the hell would an actor be here?'

  'Sue could be right, you know,' said Anawak. 'If I remember rightly, he was in some disaster movie – Deep Impact, I think. A comet's on course to hit the earth and-'

  'We're all in a disaster movie,' Ford interrupted him. 'Don't say you hadn't noticed.'

  'So is Bruce Willis going to put in an appearance next?'

  Oliviera rolled her eyes. 'Well, is it him or isn't it?'

  'I wouldn't bother asking for an autograph.' Bohrmann smiled. 'It's not Maximilian Schell;

  'Really?' Oliviera seemed disappointed.

  'No. His name's Sigur Johanson and he's Norwegian. He could tell you a thing or two about what happened in Europe. He and I, and some people from Statoil…' Bohrmann gazed after him and his expression darkened. 'Actually, you should probably wait for him to tell you himself He comes from Trondheim, and there isn't much of it left. He lost his home.'

  There it was again, the reality of the horror, proof that the TV pictures were real. Anawak drank his water in silence.

  'OK.' Ford glanced at his watch. 'Enough of the chat. Time to head over and hear what they've got to say.'

  THE CHATEAU HAD several conference rooms. Li had chosen a medium-sized one, which was barely large enough for the group of intelligence operatives, government representatives and scientists who were due to attend the presentation. She knew from experience that when people were crammed in together they either got on each other's nerves or developed a sense of community. Either way, they lacked the opportunity to distance themselves from one another or from the business at hand.

  The seating plan had been drawn up accordingly. The delegates were thrown together in a mix of nationalities and fields of expertise. Each chair came with its own small table, including a jotter and a laptop. The visual section of the presentation would take place on a three-metre by five-metre screen with loudspeakers for the sound and a remote-control for the PowerPoint display. Amid the plush, conservative furniture, the mass of high technology was sobering.

  Peak turned up and took his place on one of the seats reserved for the speakers. He was followed by a man in a crumpled suit with an enormous girth. There were dark patches under the arms of his jacket. Strands of thinning white-blond hair had been scraped across his broad head. He wheezed audibly as he held out his hand to Li. Five swollen fingers stuck out like baby balloons. 'Hi, Suzie Wong,' he said.

  Li extended her hand and resisted the urge to wipe it on her trousers afterwards. 'Jack. Good to see you.'

  'Of course it is, baby.' Vanderbilt grinned. 'Go on, girl, knock 'em dead. And if they don't start clapping, strip. You'll get my applause.'

  He wiped the perspiration off his forehead, gave the thumbs-up and winked, then plumped down next to Peak. Li watched him with a frosty smile. Vanderbilt was deputy director of the CIA. He was a valuable operative and the CIA would miss him. She decided to destroy him slowly when the moment came. There was still a long road ahead, but she'd soon
have the fat pig squealing in the dirt. Too bad for the stellar Jack Vanderbilt.

  The room was filling.

  Most of the delegates didn't know each other, so they took their seats in silence. Li waited patiently until the scraping of chairs and rustling of papers had subsided. She could feel their tension. With one look at each face, she could divine the mood of every individual. Li had taught herself to read people's souls.

  She walked up to the lectern and smiled. 'Please make yourselves comfortable.'

  A low murmur swept through the room. A few leaned back stiffly and crossed their legs. Only the good-looking Norwegian biologist with the scarf draped carelessly round his shoulders was reclining in his chair with a nonchalance that verged on boredom. His dark eyes fixed on Li. She tried sizing him up, but Johanson's expression gave nothing away. She wondered why. He'd lost his home, so the disaster had affected him more directly than most. He should have looked depressed, but he evidently wasn't. Li could think of only one explanation. He wasn't expecting to hear anything new. He had a theory more pressing than sorrow or despair. Either he knew more than all of the rest, or he thought he did.

  She'd keep tabs on him.

  'I know that you're all under tremendous pressure,' she continued, 'so I'd like to offer our heartfelt thanks for making this meeting possible. Above all, I'd like to thank the scientists who've joined us today. With your help I sincerely believe that we can start to consider the events of the recent past with optimism. You give us cause for hope.'

  Li spoke in a calm, friendly tone. She had their undivided attention, but Vanderbilt's mouth was open and he was picking his teeth.

  'I guess many of you will be asking yourselves why we didn't decide to hold this meeting at the Pentagon, the White House or the Canadian parliament. On the one hand, we wanted to offer you a working environment that was as comfortable as possible. The delights of Chateau Whistler are legendary. But the key point in its favour is the location. The mountains are safe; the coastline isn't. There's not a single city on the coastline of America or Canada that would be safe for us.'

  She let her eyes roam over the upturned faces.

  'That's the first reason. Another is the relative proximity to the British Columbian coast. All the phenomena that we've been witnessing – anomalous behaviour among animals, mutations, changes to hydrate deposits on continental slopes – can be found right here. From Chateau Whistler you can take the helicopter to the coast in no time. We're also within easy reach of a number of leading research centres, most notably the lab in Nanaimo. We set up a base here a few weeks ago to observe the behaviour of the whales. In the light of developments in Europe, we've decided to expand it into an international crisis centre with the best crisis-management team in the world. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is you.'

  She paused for her words to take effect. She wanted her listeners to be aware of their importance. It was expedient to encourage their sense of pride, of being part of the elite, despite the tragic circumstances. It sounded absurd, but it would discourage them from blabbing to outsiders.

  'The third reason for being here is that we won't be disturbed. Chateau Whistler is cut off from the media. Needless to say, it doesn't go unnoticed when a hotel in a sought-after location suddenly closes its door and military helicopters are circling overhead. But we've never given an official statement as to what we're doing here. Whenever anyone asks us, we say we're on an exercise. Now, there's plenty they could write about that, but nothing concrete, so mostly they don't bother.' Li paused. 'It's not possible, and it's certainly not advisable, to tell the public everything. Mass panic would be the beginning of the end. Keeping everyone calm permits us to go about our work. I'm going to be frank with you here: the first casualty of war is always the truth. And don't be mistaken, this is war – a war that we need to understand before we can win it. We have an obligation to ourselves and to the rest of humanity. From now on, you may not speak to anyone, not even your closest friends and family, about the work you do for this committee. At the end of this meeting each of you will have to sign a declaration of silence, which will be taken extremely seriously. If any of you has any reservations, I would appreciate it if you could voice them now, before the presentation. As I'm sure you realise, you're entitled not to sign. No one will suffer any inconvenience for declining to comply. But anyone intending to do so should leave the room now and will be flown home at once.'

  She made a bet with herself No one would go, but someone would ask a question.

  She waited.

  A hand was raised.

  It was Mick Rubin. He came from Manchester, England, and was a biologist, an expert on molluscs.

  'Does that mean we won't be able to leave the Chateau?'

  'You can leave whenever you want. But you can't talk about your work,' Li told him.

  'And what if. . .' Rubin wasn't sure how to finish.

  'If you talk?' Li's face assumed a look of consternation. "That's a perfectly valid question, of course. Well, we'd have to deny everything, and make quite sure you didn't break your word again.'

  'So you're … I mean, er… You're able to do that? I mean, you have that, er…'

  'Authority? The majority of you will be aware that three days ago Germany called for a joint European Union commission to deal with the current situation. The German minister of the interior now chairs that initiative. As a precaution, Article V of the NATO treaty has also been invoked. Norway, the UK, Belgium, the Netherlands, Denmark and the Faroes have all declared a state of emergency, in some cases regionally, in others on a national scale. Canada and the USA have already combined forces under US leadership. Depending on how the international situation develops, there's every chance that the United Nations will take some kind of overall control. Throughout the world the existing order is crumbling and new jurisdictions are emerging. In view of the exceptional circumstances, yes, we do have that authority.'

  There were no further questions.

  'Good,' said Li. 'Then let's get going. Major Peak, I'll hand over to you…'

  PEAK WALKED TO the front. The overhead lighting shimmered on his ebony skin. He pressed the button on the remote control and a satellite image appeared on the screen. A picture of a coastline dotted with towns, taken from considerable height.

  'Maybe it started somewhere else,' he said, 'maybe this wasn't the beginning, but for today's purposes, this whole business kicked off in Peru. The slightly larger town in the middle here is Huanchaco.' He shone the laser pointer at different sites in the sea. 'Huanchaco lost twenty-two fishermen in a few days, despite the glorious weather. Some of their boats were found later, drifting out to sea. Soon afterwards sports boats, motor yachts and small sailing-boats went missing too. In some cases a few scraps of debris were recovered, but more often than not, nothing.'

  He called up another image.

  'The seas are under continual surveillance,' he continued. 'They're full of profilers and robotic floats transmitting a constant stream of data on salinity, temperature, carbon-dioxide flux, current velocity and all kinds of other phenomena. Marine instruments monitor the exchange of substances between the water and the seabed. There's a flotilla of research vessels cruising the oceans out there, and the skies are full of military and Earth-observation satellites. You'd think it wouldn't be a problem to trace a missing boat, but things aren't that simple. You see, our spies in the sky suffer the same problem as anything else that has eyes – the notorious blind spot.'

  A diagram showed a section of the Earth's surface. A collection of satellites of varying sizes hovered above it, like oversized flies.

  'I recommend you don't even try to get to grips with all the artificial stars up there,' said Peak. 'There are three and a half thousand, not counting space probes like Magellan or Hubble. Most of the stuff up there is junk. Only about six hundred satellites are fully functional, and you'll have access to several of them. Military satellites included.'

  Peak uttered that last sentence with regr
et. He shifted the laser pointer to a barrel-shaped object with solar sails. 'An American KH-12 keyhole satellite, an optical satellite. In daylight the resolution is as good as five centimetres. That's almost enough to identify individual faces. It also uses infrared and multispectral imaging to generate nighttime data. Unfortunately it's useless in cloud.'

  He pointed to another satellite. 'That's why lots of recon satellites use radar instead – microwave radiation, to be precise. Clouds don't get in the way of radar. These satellites don't take pictures, they map the world by scanning the surface of the planet centimetre by centimetre and creating a 3-D model. But there's an Achilles' heel here too. Radar images need to be interpreted. Radar can't see colour or look through glass. The world of radar consists solely of shapes.'

  'Can't you combine the two technologies?' asked Bohrmann.

  'You can, but it's expensive, and no one bothers. And that ties right in with the central problem of satellite surveillance. To survey an entire country or a stretch of water, you need a number of systems working together, each capable of scanning a very large area. Anyone interested in obtaining detailed images of a defined area has to put up with snapshots in time. Satellites are in orbit, and in most cases it takes them ninety minutes to return to their original location.'

  'What about satellites that maintain their position in relation to the Earth?' a Finnish diplomat demanded. 'Can't we post a few of those above the regions in question?'

  'They're too high up. Geostationary satellites are only stable at an altitude of exactly 35,888 kilometres. The smallest recognisable detail from that height is eight kilometres long. That means Heligoland could sink without you realising.' Peak paused, then continued: 'But once it dawned on us what we were looking for, we changed our systems accordingly.'

  Next up was a picture of the water's surface, taken from a moderate height. Rays of sunshine slanted across it, giving the sea the appearance of fluted glass. Dotted over it were small boats and tiny oblong shapes, which on closer inspection turned out to be reed craft, each with a single figure crouching on top.