Polar Shift

by Clive Cussler

  “Nice day for a ride in the country, old chap,” Zavala said with a lame attempt at an upper-crust English accent.

  “Tallyho, bangers and mashed and the rest of it,” Austin said.

  Taking their time, they brought their horses to a trot and came out on the other side of the woods where the trees had been cleared for a road allowed by the security patrol. There was no fence, only a number of NO TRESPASSING signs facing outward, each with its own motion-activated cameras.

  Zavala took a small black box from his pocket and pushed a button. When a light glowed green, they rode between two of the signs across open land, then onto a public road. A big pickup truck with a horse trailer attached was pulled off the side of the road.

  Spider Barrett got out of the truck’s cab as the two men rode up. After the horses were led into the trailer and the door locked, Zavala handed the black box to Barrett. “Worked like a charm,” he said.

  “It’s a pretty simple concept,” Barrett said. “This gadget doesn’t interrupt the transmission, which they’d pick up immediately. It just delays it for a couple of hours. They’ll eventually get a speeded-up picture of you two guys, but it will be too late, and they won’t be able to make much sense out of it. Let me show you something even more exciting.”

  He opened the truck door and removed a small television screen from the cab. It was plugged into the cigarette lighter outlet. He switched the set on and Gant’s image appeared on the small screen, saying, “This is private property,” followed by Austin’s laconic “Do tell.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you were a wiseass?” Zavala said.

  “Constantly.”

  Barrett fast-forwarded to a picture of Doyle. “This is the sonofabitch who tried to kill me,” he said.

  Austin removed the baseball hat and examined the tiny camera lens hiding in the Harley-Davidson logo on the crown. “Mr. Doyle would have been very surprised if he knew that your beady eyes were watching him from the grave.”

  Barrett laughed. “What was your impression of Gant?”

  “Brilliant. Arrogant. Psychopath. I was watching him after the foxhunt. He was gazing at the killing ground as if it were a shrine.”

  “Gant always gave me the creeps. I could never figure out why Tris hooked up with him.”

  “Evil doings make strange bedfellows, I guess. I didn’t think he would go for my appeal to reason, but it gave me a chance to size him up, and plant a bug under the garden table before I left.”

  “It’s working fine, but hasn’t picked up anything yet.”

  “Do you think the Trouts will have any better luck with Margrave?” Austin said.

  “I hope so, but I’m not very optimistic.”

  Austin thought about his encounter with Gant. “Neither am I,” he said.

  HERE’S TO ARTHUR C. CLARKE,” Gant said, raising his glass high.

  He was sitting in his study with three other foxhunters dressed in regulation red. One of them, a thickset man with a face like a bull, said, “Who’s Clarke?”

  Gant’s oily smile veiled his contempt. “He is the British science fiction writer who first suggested back in 1945 putting three manned satellites in twenty-four-hour orbits over major landmasses to broadcast television signals. His vision is what brings us here today.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said the thickset man in an English accent.

  He raised his glass, and Gant and two other men in the study followed suit. One man was as gaunt as the bull-faced man was thick. The fourth man in the room was in his eighties. He had tried to stave off the inevitable advance of age and his decadent lifestyle through plastic surgery, chemicals and transplants. The effect was a hideous face that was more like the corpse of a young man.

  Even Gant would admit that none of his partners would have won a competition on character, but they were incredibly shrewd and ruthless men who had become wealthy beyond belief with their multinational companies. And they would suit his needs. For now.

  “I asked you to join me so I can bring you up to date on our project,” Gant said. “Things are going well.”

  “Hear! Hear!” said the other three men in chorus.

  “As you know, the satellite business has grown incredibly fast in the last thirty years. There are dozens of satellites operated by many companies, used for television, communications, military, weather and telephone, with more service on the horizon. These satellites generate billions of dollars.” He paused. “Soon, all this will be ours.”

  “Are you sure there can be no foul-up?” said the old man.

  “None at all. The polar shift will be a temporary disruption, but the satellite networks will all be exposed to an electronic mauling.”

  “Except for ours,” the gaunt man said.

  Gant nodded. “Our lead-shielded satellites will be the only ones still operating. Our consortium will be in a position to dominate world communications, a position that we will solidify when we absorb existing networks and launch more of our own satellites.”

  “Thus generating billions more,” the old man said.

  “Yes,” Gant said. “And the delicious irony is that we will use the anarchist forces to accomplish our goal. They’re the ones who will readily take credit for causing the shift. And when the wrath of the world is unleashed against them, Margrave and his people will be destroyed.”

  “All well and good,” the old man said. “But remember, our main goal is the money.”

  “And there will be plenty of that,” Gant said, although money was the least important thing to him. More important was the political power that would come when he had total control over the world’s communications. No one would be able to make a move without his knowing about it. Millions of conversations would be monitored. Access to any records would give him ample tools for political blackmail. No army could move without his knowing about it. His television stations would channel public opinions. He would have the power to create riots and to quell them.

  “Here’s to that British chap,” the bull-faced man said. “What was his bloody name?”

  Gant told him. Then he raised his glass for another toast.

  34

  TROUT REELED HIS FISHING line in and examined the empty hook. “The fish aren’t biting today,” he said with disgust.

  Gamay lowered the binoculars she had been using to study Margrave’s lighthouse island. “Someone who grew up in a fisherman’s family should know that fishhooks usually work much better if you stick a worm on them.”

  “Catching a fish would defeat the whole purpose of this seagoing, theatrical production, which is simply to appear to be fishing,” Trout said.

  Gamay glanced at her watch and looked up at the peppermint, red-and-white-striped lighthouse high on its bluff. “We’ve been here for two hours. The folks who have been watching us from the island should be convinced by now that we’re harmless. That little ‘bow babe’ show I did a while ago must have convinced them that we’re but simple fisherfolk.”

  “I was thinking that they’d been sucked in by my fisherman’s outfit.”

  Gamay eyed the miniature Budweiser can on the brim of Trout’s rumpled hat and dropped her gaze to study the girly print on the cheap Hawaiian shirt that hung out over the red Bermuda shorts. “How could anyone not be taken in by such a clever disguise?”

  “I detect an unseemly note of sarcasm, which I will ignore like the gentleman I am,” Trout said. “The true test is about to begin.”

  He stowed the fishing rod in a socket with several others and made a great show of trying to start the outboard engine. The fact that he had disconnected an ignition wire may have had something to do with his failure to get the engine going. Act 1. Then he and Gamay stood out on the deck and waved their arms in a convincing show of a heated argument. Act 2. Finally, they dug out a couple of oars, placed them in the boat’s oarlocks, and began to row toward the island. Act 3.

  The powerboat was not designed to be rowed, and they made slow headway, but eventu
ally they came within a hundred feet of a long dock where a big powerboat and a bigger sailboat were tied up. The dock was festooned with NO TRESPASSING signs. Enforcing their message was a security guard dressed in camouflage, who casually made his way to the end of the dock.

  He flicked the cigarette he was smoking into the water and waved them away. When the boat kept coming, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Private property. You can’t land here.”

  Trout stood in the boat’s stern and yelled back, “We’re out of gas.”

  “We can’t help you. Private property.” He pointed to a NO TRES-PASSING sign.

  Gamay said, “Let me try, Mr. Budweiser man.”

  “He’s probably a Miller drinker,” Trout said. He stood aside to make room for Gamay. “Please don’t use the hapless husband routine. I’m getting an inferiority complex.”

  “Okay, I’ll use the hapless wife instead.” Gamay spread her arms as if imploring the guard. “We don’t know what to do. Our radio won’t work.” She pointed to the gas pump on the dock. “We’ll pay for fuel.”

  The guard ran his eyes up and down Gamay’s lithe body, then grinned and waved the Trouts up to the dock.

  They rowed erratically up to the dock until they were close enough to see that the guard had a pistol holster attached to his belt on one side and a radio clipped to the other. Trout passed an empty fuel tank up to the unsmiling guard, who took it over to the pump and filled it while they remained in the boat. When he brought it back, Gamay thanked him and asked what she owed. The guard gave her a knowing grin and said, “Nothing.”

  She gave the guard a thick envelope. “Then please give this to Mr. Margrave in exchange for our fuel.”

  The guard looked at the envelope and said, “Wait here.” He walked out of earshot and spoke into his hand radio. Then he came back and said, “Come with me.”

  He led them past a steep flight of wooden stairs to the foot of the bluff. He produced a small remote control from a pocket, clicked it once and a section of wall swung open to reveal an elevator. He told them to get in and followed them into the elevator. Keeping one hand on his holster, he watched them during the trip of several seconds. The elevator door opened in a circular room. One look around told the Trouts that they were inside the lighthouse.

  The guard opened a door and they stepped into the open. They were at the top of the cliff. There was a magnificent view of the sun-sparkled waters of Penobscot Bay. Three folding chairs had been set up, facing each other. A man was sitting in one chair, his back to the newcomers, peering into a spotting scope. He turned and smiled at the Trouts.

  He had a slender saturnine face and strangely shaped green eyes that regarded the Trouts with amusement. He motioned to the empty chairs. “Hello, Gamay. Hello, Paul. I’ve been waiting for you.” He chuckled at their expressions.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met before,” Trout said, settling into one chair while Gamay sat in the other.

  “We haven’t. We’ve been listening to you as well as watching all morning. Our electronic ears are far more sensitive than the listening devices you can buy from online spy store catalogs, but the principle is the same. We heard every word you said. I understand you brought me a gift.”

  The guard handed Margrave the envelope. He undid the clasp and slipped out a computer disk. His smile disappeared when he read the label: “The Dangers of Polar Shift.”

  “What’s this all about?” Margrave said. His tone had lost its phony warmth.

  Trout said. “The disk will tell you everything you want to know, and some things that you don’t.”

  Margrave waved the guard away.

  “You really should play the disk,” Gamay said. “It will explain the entire situation.”

  “Why should I be interested in polar shift?” Margrave said.

  “Simple,” she said with a sweet smile. “You intend to cause the reversal of the earth’s magnetic poles using extra-low electromagnetic transmissions, a process based upon the work of Lazlo Kovacs.”

  Margrave cradled his sharp chin in his hand, pondering Gamay’s words. “Even if I had the power to make the poles shift, there is no law against it that I know of.”

  “But there are plenty of laws against being the agent of mass death and destruction,” Trout said, “although you wouldn’t have to worry about prosecution because you’d be dead like the rest of us.”

  “I stopped playing riddles when I was a kid. What are you saying?”

  “That creating a magnetic shift will trigger an irreversible movement of the earth’s crust with catastrophic results.”

  “If that’s the case, what would I or anyone have to gain from starting this process?”

  “It’s possible you’re not in your right mind. More likely, you’re just plain dumb.”

  Margrave’s pale cheeks flushed with anger. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but never dumb.”

  “We know why you’re doing this. You’re trying to stop economic globalization, but you’ve chosen a dangerous way to do it, and you’d be wise to stop.”

  Margrave rose unexpectedly from his chair. He brought his arm back, then snapped it forward. The computer disk flew from his hand in a soaring arc that ended in the water hundreds of feet below the cliff. He waved the guard over and turned to the Trouts.

  “You’ll be escorted back to your boat. Move away from this island or I’ll sink your boat and you can swim back to the mainland.” He smiled. “I won’t charge you for the gas.”

  Moments later the Trouts were descending in the elevator. The guard marched them out to their boat, shoved them off and stood on the pier with his hand on his holster.

  From the top of the cliff, Margrave watched the Trouts motor away from the island, then he undid the cell phone clipped to his belt and activated the voice dialing with a single word: “Gant.”

  Jordan Gant answered immediately.

  “I just got a visit from some NUMA people,” Margrave said. “They know a lot about the project.”

  “What a coincidence,” Gant said. “I was paid a visit by Kurt Austin, also of NUMA. He seemed well versed in our plans as well.”

  The people who came here said that what we’re doing could trigger worldwide destruction.”

  Gant laughed. “You’ve been on that island for too long. When you spend some time in a snake pit like Washington, you learn that the truth is exactly what you want it to be. They’re bluffing.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Speed up the deadline. At the same time, we’ll slow them down with a diversion. The removal of Kurt Austin from the picture will derail NUMA and give us the time we need to make sure the project is completed.”

  “Has anyone heard about Karla Janos? I don’t like the idea that she might show up out of nowhere.”

  “I’ve taken care of that. My friends in Moscow assured me that if I spread a little more money around Janos would never leave that island in Siberia alive.”

  “Do you trust the Russians?”

  “I don’t trust any one. The Russians will be paid in full when they show me the evidence of her death. In the meantime, she is thousands of miles away from here, unable to interfere.”

  “How do you plan to respond to Austin?”

  “I was hoping I could borrow the Lucifer Legion for that job.”

  “Lucifer? You know how undisciplined they are.”

  “I’m thinking of deniability. If something goes wrong, they are simply a group of crazed killers acting on their own.”

  “They’ll need some supervision.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “I’ll take my boat to Portland and catch a helicopter to Boston for the trip to Rio.”

  “Good. I’ll join you there as soon as I take care of some minor matters.”

  After discussing last-minute details, Margrave hung up and barked an order to his guard. He went into the lighthouse and made a phone call. Then he piled a few belongings into a bag with his laptop computer. Minute
s later, he was striding along the pier to the cigarette boat. The boat’s powerful engine was warming up. He got aboard with two security men. They cast off, and he gunned the engine, launching the boat over the surface of Penobscot Bay with its bow high in the air.

  The boat passed a speck of an island covered with a thick growth of fir trees. Paul and Gamay sat on a large rock in the shade of the trees and watched the fast-moving craft throw up a rooster tail of white water as it went speeding by the island.

  “Looks like Mr. Margrave is a man in a hurry,” Gamay said.

  Trout smiled. “Hope it was something we said.”

  They hiked across the island to where their boat was tied up to a tree, got in and started the engine. Then they swung the boat around to the other side of the island, gave the motor throttle and followed in Margrave’s vanishing wake.

  35

  THE THIRTY-STORY TUBULAR structure that houses the National Underwater and Marine Agency sat on an East Washington hill overlooking the Potomac River. Sheeted in green reflective glass, the building was home to thousands of NUMA’s oceanographers, marine engineers and the labs and computers they worked with.

  Austin’s office was a spartan affair on the fourth floor. It had the usual accoutrements, including a desk, a computer and a filing cabinet. The walls were decorated with photos of NUMA research vessels, charts of the world’s oceans and a bulletin board festooned with copies of scientific articles and news clips. On the desk was a favorite photograph of Austin’s mother and father sailing on Puget Sound. It was taken in happier days, before his mother died of a lingering disease.

  The office’s plainness was partly deliberate. Because the nature of the Special Assignments Team’s work was largely clandestine, Austin wanted to blend into the NUMA backdrop. The other reason for the purely functional nature of his office stemmed from the fact that he was often away on missions that took him around the globe. His workplace was the world’s oceans.