Blackmail Earth

by Bill Evans

  Dafoe glanced at his milking machines and touched wood. A window near him shook visibly from a gust. The air outside looked as dark as the sky had minutes ago. It was only noon.

  “You need to go home and close any hatches?” he asked. Forensia kept a garden and a compost pile, and hung all her laundry on an outdoor line—the country Pagan maiden in every regard.

  “We’re fine. Where are you?”

  “In the barn. I’ll be heading over to you in just a moment.”

  Dafoe snapped his cell shut and looked around, thinking that the gnarly dust storm would have excited Jenna. If a weather front of this magnitude were approaching the city, they’d be breaking into regular programming so she could provide constant updates.

  As he eased out of the barn, the cows were still making a hell of a racket, like they could moo away bad weather. Squinting, he bolted to the house. Forensia threw open the door as he reached for the handle. Behind her, Dafoe could see Sang-mi on the couch, seemingly mesmerized by the Weather Channel on TV. For a young woman who’d grown up watching nothing but the numbingly boring speeches of North Korean political leaders, the Weather Channel proved riveting. It even grabbed Dafoe’s attention with a report about more than a dozen wildfires eating up Northern California and the Pacific Northwest.

  “What a day,” he said, darting into the bathroom to rinse dust from his face and wash his hands.

  “Hey, there’s the dust storm,” Forensia exclaimed from the living area. Dafoe rushed in as the screen switched to aerial views of a dark cloud blanketing much of central New York. As a farmer, Dafoe couldn’t help but consider the wind a sticky-fingered thief for lifting away tons of dry topsoil, like a pickpocket working a county fair.

  Dafoe strolled over to his computer. “Billing’s all done,” Forensia said.

  “I’m just checking e-mail.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You’ve got a big time girlfriend now,” Forensia gently teased. “You got to keep up with her.”

  “I’ll never be able to do that,” Dafoe laughed. “But she just texted me.”

  “A good one?” Forensia teased.

  “Yes,” he said patiently. “A very nice one.” His smile vanished quickly when he saw his e-mail security system’s warning: UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY ATTEMPT. The bright-red stop sign noted that the attempt had come earlier this morning.

  “Forensia, would you come over here?”

  She tore her eyes from the TV and casually draped her hand on the back of his chair. “What’s up?”

  “Look at this.”

  “Wow. What’s that all about?” She sounded genuinely puzzled.

  “I’m working on that.”

  Dafoe had drawn on his considerable experience as a hacker to design his security system. This warning had come up once before, but within hours GreenSpirit’s murder had been discovered, and his attention had shifted to other safety concerns. That first attempt had failed, and Dafoe had figured some kid in Singapore or Paris had chanced on the wrong guy and given up when they saw his formidable security.

  Once burned, twice cautious, he told himself. He didn’t believe that coincidence could explain two attempts to penetrate his e-mail in less than a week. He was a dairy farmer, not the Department of Defense.

  “I would never go near your private stuff, Dafoe.”

  He believed her, and nodded to assure Forensia of this. But his system was telling him that the most recent attempt had taken place just an hour and a half ago, and had originated on his own computer.

  When he looked at Sang-mi, she was looking right back at him.

  * * *

  Sheriff Walker marched into his office’s only large conference room with an evidence bag more valuable than a dozen of the biggest campaign contributions that he’d received in the last five elections combined. He was a perennial winner, universally popular, and had to know that what he held in his hand could have a huge bearing on the GreenSpirit murder investigation. It might also shock many of his supporters, but his record suggested that ultimately he was an officer who’d rather be viewed as a no-nonsense lawman than a nice guy.

  “Gentlemen,” Walker announced in a courtly manner as he looked around the room where the law enforcement officers had set up their computers and other investigatory tools. The sheriff appeared to savor the instant attention of the senior homicide detective for the New York State Police, and a serial killer profiler from the FBI, who was examining possible links between GreenSpirit’s murder and the savage slaying of a Vermont Pagan. Two agents from the FBI’s New York City office also looked up at Walker, who said, “I have found something in the woods that I think will be of great interest.” He held up the evidence bag.

  “What’s in there, Sheriff?” asked Agent Mullins, a mulish-looking man who could have been thirty-five or fifty. Either lucky with aging or cursed by it.

  “It’s a piece of fabric with what appears to be a bloodstain on it. Looks like it might have come from a bandana; it has part of a paisley pattern, near as I can tell.”

  Mullins peered through the clear plastic. “Where’d you find it?”

  “About three miles from the cabin. I couldn’t figure how someone could have gone through all that bramble and dead forest and not left a trace of himself, so I kept looking.”

  Sheriff Walker might have felt bound to perform such a review because he’d “compromised the crime scene.” That was the scorching assessment of the New York State Police homicide team. The review also noted dryly that “The murder is the first one the sheriff has investigated.”

  “How did we miss it?” Agent Mullins sounded incredulous.

  “Don’t feel bad, Agent Mullins. I found it on a deer trail that runs down the east side of the mountain. It’s tight in there.” He held up the bag with the bloody swatch again. “It was stuck to a branch that had broken off a tree. It’s not a trail you’d ever take if you could avoid it, but—”

  “If you were a panicky killer you might,” Mullins finished for him.

  “I believe you’re right, and I believe this has got mud and blood dried on it,” Walker said.

  Mullins took the bag from him and stared at the stains. “Hard to tell when it’s all dried up like that, but we’ll get it to our lab.”

  The FBI profiler, an older woman named Barb Lassiter, looked up. “The Robb kid had a paisley bandana on in that CBS report. I remember that. I wonder if he’s missing a piece of it.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” the sheriff said.

  “Let’s run DNA on that right away.” Lassiter flipped aside her straw-colored hair and eyed the sheriff closely. He thought her smile had “Good work” written all over it.

  Mullins was staring at the evidence bag. “Pretty brazen of that kid, or his lawyer, to hold a press conference to proclaim his innocence, if he’d left that kind of evidence behind. Like waving a red flag in our face.”

  “He passed the polygraph,” Lassiter said, still looking at Sheriff Walker.

  “He did, indeed,” the sheriff agreed.

  Mullins held up the bag to the light for another look. “Forensics rules for a reason. If you’re a good enough bullshitter, especially if you believe your own lies, you can pass Miss Poly. But we all know that, don’t we, Sheriff?”

  Walker nodded.

  * * *

  Jason Robb ran another passing drill, feeling pretty damn good about his performance—at yesterday’s press conference. They’d believed him. Damn right, mon, ’cause you be righteous.

  Carl Boon hiked the ball through his chunky legs, and Jason back stepped before delivering the pigskin into the hands of Ryan Petress, who dropped the fucker. Petress apologized when he came running back to the line. Jason had noticed that his teammates had become unusually respectful since his return to the team, treating him like a goddamn deity.

  The whole experience had been exciting. Even the CBS story a few days ago had turned into a big plus. As soon as Aly Wennerstrom saw him, on the tube in her family’s cabin, she got tota
lly horny. She’d pointed to the screen and shouted, “That’s you. Oh my God, Jason, you’re on TV.” “No, Aly,” he’d cooed, “I’m right here.” And just that fast they’d set off on a hot and steamy bone-down safari. Better than slipping her a roofie. Fine muff, mon, even with dem rubba boots on.

  She’d told Jason that when they came back to town, she’d had to swear to Jesus—“Really, Jason, I had to put my hand on my tiny gold cross and swear before all of God’s angels that every word was true, and now I feel so guilty”—that they’d been “chaste” the whole time. Her mom had believed her; her father said that he still wanted Jason’s hide. Hearing Aly’s account made Jason realize that he wasn’t the only great liar in their relationship.

  The Q-back took another hike from Carl, stepped back, and this time drilled it right into Petress’s hands—and he held the ball. Yes!

  Coach Taverson ended the practice on that high note. Jason felt so good it didn’t bother him at all when he spotted two dark-suited guys watching him head to the locker room.

  Fuck dem monkeys, mon. You rule.

  A powerful impulse seized Jason just before he entered the building. He spun around and flipped them off. Both cops. Both hands. Felt so good. Right up there with the bone-down safari in Aly Wennerstrom’s sweaty little jungle.

  * * *

  Forensia peered quizzically at Sang-mi. “What’s going on?” she asked. Her friend was staring at Dafoe.

  Sang-mi covered her face with her hands and cried, though Forensia could tell that she was weeping only by the shaking of her shoulders. Sang-mi made no sound as she wept.

  “Were you trying to get into my e-mail?” Dafoe spoke softly and without any obvious accusation; Sang-mi looked fragile enough to shatter.

  From behind her hands, she nodded.

  “Why would you do that?” Forensia asked, still puzzled.

  “GreenSpirit,” Sang-mi said softly. Dafoe asked her to repeat herself, which she did.

  “Did GreenSpirit want something from my computer?” he asked. Sang-mi nodded. “What?”

  Forensia thought it was strange that anyone would want anything from her boss’s computer. Of what possible interest could a dairy farmer be to a typical hacker, much less GreenSpirit?

  Sang-mi shook her head and didn’t say a word.

  “What you did was wrong, Sang-mi,” Forensia said, as kindly as she could.

  “I’m so sorry,” the young woman said.

  Forensia squeezed her hand. “Why did you do it? And what did you mean about GreenSpirit?” Forensia recalled the way the murdered witch had talked privately to Sang-mi after the initiation, and how she’d kept the Korean by her side during the circle dance. It pained Forensia to know that the reason these memories were so clear was that she’d felt jealous of the attention that the Pagan leader had bestowed on her friend. Now, Forensia was filled with only the deepest curiosity.

  “She wanted to know about my country.” Sang-mi looked up, as if that explained everything.

  “Okay,” Dafoe said carefully, “but what’s that got to do with me or my e-mail?”

  Sang-mi glanced at him and wiped her eyes. “I told GreenSpirit secrets. The reason we left the North. About the missiles.”

  “Can someone clue me in here?” Dafoe asked. “What missiles?”

  “May I tell him?” Forensia asked.

  Sang-mi nodded slowly, and Forensia explained about the rockets tipped with sulfates. “They’re the reason that her father is still getting debriefed by the CIA.”

  “That’s astonishing is what that is,” Dafoe said. “You’re saying that one of the poorest countries in the world is planning to cause a catastrophe that can freeze the whole planet?”

  “Korea has many smart people,” Sang-mi said indignantly, “and thousands of rockets.”

  “But that still doesn’t explain why you tried to hack into my computer. Please tell me what you were looking for in my e-mail.”

  “Something from Jenna Withers,” she whispered.

  “Jenna? Why?”

  Sang-mi pointed to an end table where Dafoe had left an inscribed copy of Jenna’s book. “Jenna Withers knows about North Korea,” Sang-mi said. “It’s all in there—the famine and drought, and the Supreme Leader blaming the U.S.”

  “The missiles, too?” Dafoe sounded like he could scarcely believe that, but Forensia knew her boss hadn’t read Jenna’s book yet.

  “No, not the missiles. That’s secret,” Sang-mi repeated. “But once I told GreenSpirit about the plans to explode the sulfates, she wanted me to find out if the task force knew anything about the most dangerous geoengineering plan in the history of the world. So I tried to hack into your computer to see if Jenna Withers had said anything to you about the missiles. But now I see that the answer is probably no because you did not know anything about them.” Sang-mi shook her head, as if she were disappointed in Dafoe. “Then, this morning, GreenSpirit spoke to me and said that I should try to get into your e-mail again, that it was very important to try one more time.”

  “She talked to you?” Dafoe sounded like he’d been abducted by aliens.

  Sang-mi nodded. “Just like you are.”

  Dafoe glanced at Forensia, who nodded and said, “GreenSpirit is a powerful presence. I sense her all the time.”

  “But she’s dead,” Dafoe insisted.

  “To you, maybe,” Sang-mi said staunchly. “But she says a lot to me. This morning she said that if I found out that Jenna Withers didn’t know about the missiles, then I had to tell her about them so that she could tell everyone when she’s on TV. That’s what GreenSpirit wanted to do—tell everyone. And she said that Jenna Withers will tell the world, once she knows.”

  “She will, will she?”

  Sang-mi nodded patiently. So did Forensia.

  “Why don’t you tell everyone?” Dafoe asked Sang-mi.

  “Because no one would believe me. Think about it. A girl from North Korea says there are missiles that will turn the Earth into an ice cube? The daughter of a defector? They would think I was a double agent, or that my father was. Or they would just put me in a hospital for crazy people. But Jenna Withers? People would listen to her. She’s on the task force, and she’s a star on one of the biggest shows on TV. People will believe her. GreenSpirit said so.”

  “But your father has told the CIA, right?” Dafoe asked.

  “They’re making him keep it secret. GreenSpirit said dangerous secrets should be exposed. All of them. And this was the most dangerous secret of all.”

  * * *

  Jae-hwa holds a chilly handrail and steps down metal stairs into the heart of a vast missile complex. This is a hallowed place, for it was carved out of the mountain decades ago by men using only picks, shovels, buckets, and the undying courage of their nation.

  We have lived in darkness like moles, but we will rule like golden kings, he tells himself.

  Dim lightbulbs come alive one by one in row upon row, illuminating three-story-tall missiles mounted on heavy steel rails. Above them, Jae-hwa sees the hatches that will open for the rockets when the diesel generators come to life. Jet fuel for the missiles, diesel for the old railroad engines that move them into place. The past is always slave to a glorious future.

  All around Jae-hwa rises a maze of monstrous power. It fills him with the deepest pride to know that the Supreme Leader has engineered the most deadly strategy in the history of humanity—and waited so patiently for the precise moment to strike. Now, with the world’s attention on a tanker in the Maldives that could release a massive amount of iron oxide, intense interest has finally been focused on technology that can change the world’s climate, just as the Supreme Leader knew it would someday. News people from all over the world are rushing to cover the story. Soon the time will come to tell the American puppet president about the missiles that will make the tanker look like a toy, and the West’s nuclear bombs like cheap guns.

  Jae-hwa watches soldiers take their stations, then reaches up to rest
his hand on the missile next to him. He loves the feel of the smooth metal, the icy cold that numbs his fingers almost instantly, as if the missiles are already spreading their deep chill, even before they explode.

  When the Supreme Leader tells the American puppet president what we will do, the West will have to surrender or suffer a terrible fate.

  Jae-hwa flicks a toggle switch, and the old generator, a gift from the Soviet Union when that nation was a strong and stalwart ally, shakes the floor.

  He orders all the lights off and the hatches opened. Someday, he will tell his son about this historic moment when the missiles started moving into place, drawn by chains that were rusty but still strong. Like the great nation itself.

  The night sky appears in the open hatches, a vast blanket of char stippled with the lights of stars and satellites.

  We can see you, but you cannot see us. We hold the secrets of a glorious future. You know only the dead secrets of the past.

  Diesel fumes thicken the air and a thin smile creases his taut face. Victory, the Supreme Leader says, comes from the might of men with iron in their bones and fire in their blood.

  Jae-hwa looks at the steel that points to the stars and his smile broadens. When the Supreme Leader says that the time has come to launch the rockets and draw a dense curtain over the Earth, those lights will vanish.

  Time moves slowly when so much is at stake, but now Jae-hwa knows there are only hours to the completion of his mission. Tomorrow, there will be only minutes. And after a few last, furious seconds, Jae-hwa will throw the shiny silver switch that he’s waited so many years to touch.

  Men of iron. Men of fire.

  CHAPTER 19

  “I’m being held by Al Qaeda on the supertanker the Dick Cheney…”

  The wire cutters around Birk’s thumb had produced a delightfully bright-red line of blood that drooled from beneath the blades. But even as Birk sat there trying not to wince and craving a drink the way a vampire craves blood—he knew that this could well be the best performance of his illustrious career. As long as his fucking thumb remained attached to his hand, he’d be happy to sit there bleeding in front of the teensy computer camera.