Category 7

by Evans, Bill; Jameson, Marianna

  “Yes, I’m serious. I’d never get any work done otherwise. Of the three hundred or so e-mails I get every day, most are either pointless or are just exercises in ass covering. If something important goes on, whoever needs me to know it immediately can call me,” Kate replied with a one-shoulder shrug. “So what did you want to know?”

  “I was wondering if you were doing anything for lunch.”

  “No plans. Where are you going?”

  “We’re heading over to that hot-dog cart on Pine and then we’re going to sit on the steps of Chase Plaza and get some sun.”

  “Sounds good to me. Anything to get me away from the blogs. They’re going ballistic over the Senate hearings. The markets are getting worked up over them anyway,” she said, tapping the keys that would lock her computer.

  “Kate, for the record, I have no idea what hearings you’re talking about,” Lisa replied. “But I think I want to trade jobs. I’ve spent the morning doing two things: staring at those two lows that are churning over the Plains, trying to figure out what else they’re going to destroy, and hanging up on commodities traders who want to know the same thing. I’d rather read blogs.”

  Kate stood up and grabbed her sunglasses. She pulled the office door shut behind her with a grin. “You’ve got to work up to that. Besides, I didn’t say that was the only thing I’ve been doing. I’ve been hanging up on traders, too. I’m trying to figure out if any of those tropical depressions are going to do anything.”

  “Yeah, what’s with that? They’re lined up across the Pacific like the Rockettes waiting to go onstage.”

  Kate shrugged with a laugh as they crossed the trading floor, which was operating at its usual steady hum. “I have no idea. The two in the Atlantic don’t have me concerned, but I’m just hoping those Pacific systems fizzle out. If even one of them escalates to a tropical storm, we could be in for some bad news. It’s still monsoon season on that side of the big pond. So you said ‘we’ were going to lunch. Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Elle Baker. She’s working for Davis Lee on some special project and hasn’t met a lot of people here. Did you know she used to work at the White House?”

  “I heard that. I’ve seen her around, but I haven’t met her.”

  “I sat next to her on the flight home. She’s nice. A little quiet but interesting enough to talk to if you get her going. She’s from the middle.” Lisa shrugged. “Minnesota, Montana. I don’t know; I think it begins with an M. Nice kid, though.”

  “Says you. You’re twenty-four.”

  Lisa shrugged expressively. “Hey, I’m from Trenton. You stop being a kid there when you’re ten.”

  Smothering a grin as they rounded the corner, Kate came to a stop at the elevator bank where Elle was waiting for them. She’d seen Elle in passing a few times and each time had had the same thought: The young woman existed at the intersection where elegance meets dowdiness. Elle was slender and tall but usually wore clothes that seemed to be cut for a teenaged boy in prep school; today she had on angular khaki pants, black leather flats, and a loose oxford-cloth button-down shirt. Her blunt-cut blond hair was scraped into a too-tight ponytail, and tiny earrings made her ears appear larger and more prominent than they were. She had very white teeth and a pretty, orthodontically perfect smile, which somehow made everything else about her appearance seem even more off-kilter.

  Lisa made the introductions as the elevator car began its descent.

  “So is Davis Lee keeping you busy?” Kate asked for lack of anything more brilliant to say.

  Elle nodded with a smile. “It’s non-stop.”

  “That sounds like Davis Lee, all right. What sorts of things are you working on?”

  “They have to do with the anniversary.”

  Kate blinked at the dismissive reply. You’re not getting off the hook that easily, Miss Snippy-pants. “Like what?”

  Elle glanced at her, as if weighing Kate’s title and position against her own, and a second later gave a small shrug, which announced her protected status with the subtle precision of a paper cut. “PR-type things, mostly. I’m working on a history of the companies and pulling together some background information on Mr. Thompson for a short biography. Working with Marketing on the invitation lists for some of the events that are being planned for later in the summer.” She paused, then smiled. “That sort of thing.”

  “A biography of the old man? Has he done anything interesting besides make lots of money?”

  Kate cringed at Lisa’s blunt question but was curious about the answer.

  “Well, he started out as a meteorologist,” Elle replied. “You knew that, right? And he worked for the government for a while before starting his own company. I think the jump from doing pure research to starting a construction company is sort of unusual. Pretty much a polar extreme, if you think about it. From all brain to a lot of brawn, at least in the beginning.”

  “Well, yeah, that’s what I mean. What made him do it? Did he get picked up by a tornado and see God before landing in a cornfield or something?”

  “It was probably just money, Lisa. Nobody gets rich working for the government,” Kate replied.

  “See, that’s the thing,” Lisa argued. “He did get rich working for the government. Who do you think pays him to rebuild all those roads and bridges? Our rich Uncle Sam. But in spite of the money, I still think the move from research to reconstruction was a weird one.” She glanced at Elle. “So, okay, here’s what’s really on my mind. How many more company parties are there going to be this summer to celebrate the weirdness of his decision? In the city. I’m not interested in seeing any farms again any time soon—unless the president shows up again.”

  Elle gave a small laugh at Lisa’s question. “The president or the George Clooney-esque Secret Service agent you wouldn’t stop talking about on the flight back from Iowa?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Lisa replied a little sheepishly, and glanced at Kate. “Until I saw one up close, I never knew I was such a sucker for men who talk to their cuff links.”

  “Instead of just talking about them?” Elle retorted under her breath, provoking a burst of unexpected laughter from Kate.

  Okay, the kid deserves a second chance. She has a sense of humor, if no sense of fashion. “You’ve heard the tales of the cuff links of the Confederacy, then?” she asked.

  Lisa looked from Kate to Elle. “What are you talking about?”

  “Davis Lee has a pair of cuff links made from the buttons of some relative’s Confederate Army uniform. Supposedly one of them has a dent on it from when it deflected a bullet and saved the man’s life,” Kate explained, rolling her eyes. “He brings them up all the time.”

  “Surely not more than once a week,” Elle murmured.

  “It’s things like that that made me swear never to date anyone from the Street. Their level of self-absorption would interfere too much with my own,” Kate said with a wry grin. “There have to be a lot of those guys in Washington, too. Especially in political circles.”

  “Plenty,” Elle agreed. “Although meeting men other than at work is a challenge if you don’t have a network.”

  “Or even if you do,” Kate added.

  “What, no hometown honey?” Lisa said, blatantly sarcastic.

  “We broke up around the time I moved up here,” Elle replied tightly.

  Kate winced and changed the subject. “So other than enduring conversations that never die, how has it been? I mean the transition from the West Wing to Wall Street?”

  Elle tucked a stray hair behind her ear with a graceful hand and cocked her head, thinking about her answer. The movement revived that subtle uneasiness at the back of Kate’s mind. Something about Elle seemed so out of place. She wasn’t self-assured or well dressed enough to fit the Ivy League/Wall Street stereotype, but she was no wide-eyed small-town girl, either. Maybe the small-town prom queen, given her attitude. And the thin streak of ingrained bitchiness. Elle wasn’t stupid, though, and had to realize that if she w
ore makeup and better clothes, she’d attract a lot more attention. That made Kate rule out the idea that Elle was just here looking for a husband, as she’d overheard one of the admins sniping a few weeks ago. But there was still something about her—bitchiness aside, Elle just didn’t seem tough enough for Wall Street. Maybe that was it.

  Once through the revolving doors and on the street, Elle started to speak and Kate brought her mind back to the conversation.

  “I think it’s been a pretty smooth move. In one sense, I suppose, an office is an office and a job is a job. The details change, like who you work for and what you do, but you still have to get in at seven o’clock, get things done, and then go home and get ready to do it again the next day.” She smiled again. “I found the bigger change to be the difference between living in Washington and living here. I lived there for two years and, even though I’ve only been here a little over a month, I can tell that the cities are so different.”

  “I thought Washington was pretty cosmopolitan,” Lisa said as they waited for the traffic at the corner. “Looks that way on TV, anyway.”

  “Oh, it is. It’s a very sophisticated city, but in a different sort of way than New York. D.C. is smaller, for one thing. And there I think the challenge is more about accumulating power and fitting in, whereas here it seems to be more about accumulating money and standing out. I mean, even the clothes people wear are so different. Down there, the Brooks Brothers look rules. Up here, it’s Donna Karan.”

  “Depends on your neighborhood,” Lisa pointed out. “In mine, it’s sparkly Lycra a few sizes too small and platform stilettos. Of course, that’s mainly for the women.”

  Elle looked aghast. “Where do you live?”

  “Uptown. Way uptown. Let’s just say that if I haven’t been killed by the time my neighborhood goes chic, I’ll sell my apartment and make a frigging fortune.” She shrugged. “Meanwhile, it’s a great way to end a lousy date. I just invite the guy back to my place, and as soon as I give the cabbie the address my date decides he’s more fond of life than he is of me.”

  Elle said nothing for a moment, and Kate just watched the two of them.

  “Are you serious?” Elle said finally. “Aren’t you afraid?”

  Lisa gave her a look that spoke volumes about the difference between Midwesterners and girls from South Jersey. “Of what? Hookers? I introduced myself the day I bought the place just so they wouldn’t think I was interested in a turf war. They’re actually pretty interesting once you get to know them.”

  “You know them?”

  Lisa frowned. “Well … yeah. They’re neighbors. Sort of. They know everything going on in the neighborhood. On the flip side, I’ve gotten to know a few cops, too. Cute ones.”

  “Secret Service agents and cops? I think you just have an authority fetish. But if you don’t quit talking about your neighborhood, Elle here is going to sprain her eyebrows,” Kate interjected with a grin. “So, did you have any trouble finding a place to live, Elle? The city can be pretty overwhelming if you don’t know your way around. And apartment hunting requires you to decide whether you prefer dealing with cockroaches or extortionists.”

  “No. I found a place right away.”

  Kate glanced at her in surprise. “That’s great. Where?” she asked at the same moment Lisa stated flatly, “Nobody finds a place right away.”

  “Oh, um.” Elle stopped and looked around as if to get her bearings, leaving Kate to wonder what she was up to now. “I always get sort of confused. I think I live that way.” She waved a limp hand vaguely uptown.

  “Well, I hope you live in that direction, honey; otherwise you’re living on a boat,” Lisa said as they came to a stop in front of the hot-dog stand. “Hey, Yuri, how you doing? A hot Polish with the works today, buddy, with extra mustard and kraut. Two pickles. Oh, and a diet orange carrot Snapple.”

  Kate grimaced. “Oh my God, Lisa. That sounds revolting.”

  “Which proves that you’ve never tasted paradise,” she replied, unfazed. “Well, it is if you finish it off with a root-beer Popsicle.”

  Elle met Kate’s eyes and shuddered, then ordered a plain hot dog and a bottle of water.

  When Kate got back to her office, she sat down, kicked off her shoes, clicked to check her e-mail, and watched as the messages populated her in-box. Thirty-five of them. She triaged them, responding to the most urgent first, and it was twenty minutes before she opened the mass-distributed one from the Weather Service.

  She immediately launched the application that allowed her to view the data and download the satellite feeds, then sat speechless, staring at her screen.

  It happened again.

  She ran the short videos again, then focused on the data tracking the atmospheric changes as they happened. At first glance, there was nothing that should have sparked the escalation and, although the numbers seemed off-scale, she knew the data-gathering satellites were just too good these days to doubt their findings.

  Swiveling to shut her door, she punched in the number of Richard Carlisle’s cell phone with her other hand.

  “Simone,” was all she said when he answered.

  His silence lasted a few seconds longer than she expected and that made her nervous. She stood up and paced a tight circle, coming to a stop in front of the window. Looking out, her eyes were drawn, as always, to the vast pit, now a construction site, that had been home to a pair of majestic towers. And, as always, she looked away before emotion could grab her.

  “A research vessel in the area noted some minor seismic activity near some underwater vents,” Richard replied calmly. “Temperatures in the water column bear it out. Natural causes.”

  “That could explain that first small spike, but not the escalation that happened eighteen minutes later.”

  “What do you want me to say, Kate?”

  That I’m right. “That I’m not making it up.”

  “You’re not twisting facts. I’ll give you that.”

  She shoved a hand in her hair and gave a small frustrated tug to the roots. “Richard, you have to admit this is— The forward speed has increased already and its wind speed is nearing the lower boundary of a Category 1 hurricane. This is not normal,” she hissed into the phone. “It’s happening too fast.”

  He paused again. “Are you still coming over for dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m on my way home right now and there’s an accident up ahead, so I really have to pay attention. Are you driving up or taking the train?”

  “The train. The six twenty-four. It gets in a little after seven.”

  “Great. I’ll meet you at the station. We’ll talk then.”

  Damn right we’ll talk. “See you later.” She clicked off the phone and swore under her breath as a window appeared on her screen to remind her that she had to lead a weekly teleconference in five minutes.

  Thursday, July 12, 6:30 P.M., Washington, D.C.

  Tom grabbed the handset of the secure phone before it completed its first ring. Only task force personnel had the number and it was rare that anyone used it. “Taylor.”

  “It’s Lieutenant Commander Smithwick, sir.”

  He didn’t bother trying to put a face to the name. “Yes?”

  “About two hours ago, one of our ships picked up the crew of a pleasure boat that capsized under the build-up of Tropical Storm Simone. They reported seeing a plane in the area immediately before the escalation.”

  He sat up straighter. “What kind of plane, Commander?” he demanded.

  “It was too far away for them to make out many details. They couldn’t see any markings.”

  “Who had aircraft in the area?”

  “There were no U.S. planes in the area at that time, sir. And a preliminary review of radar data does not corroborate their story.”

  “Thank you, Commander. Send me what you have and keep me apprised.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He hung up the phone and looked at the blank wall ahead of him. Ther
e was only one kind of plane that could evade radar. And it didn’t fly into hurricanes.

  Without stopping to analyze or check the urge, he picked up a heavy crystal paperweight—awarded to him for the successful completion of a particularly heinous operation—and hurled it at the wall with all the force of his anger. It embedded itself deeply in the drywall and hung there motionless for a few seconds before it fell, hitting the hard floor. The force of its landing broke the crystal into a few large pieces that flashed as they tumbled to a stop. The scatter pattern lay within a patch of late-afternoon sunlight. One shard threw a broad streak of brilliant colors onto the drab walls.

  He stared at it for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  We just fucking lost.

  Again.

  CHAPTER 12

  Thursday, July 12, 7:00 P.M., Greenwich, Connecticut

  As Kate stepped off the train onto the platform in Greenwich, Connecticut, she could see Richard Carlisle’s aging mud-spattered Land Rover idling in the pickup area. It was the same car he’d had since she’d met him, when she was a freshman at Cornell, and it hadn’t been new then.

  Settling her backpack on her shoulder, she descended the steps and crossed the parking lot.

  “Just once can’t you pick me up in your Sunday-best car instead of the heap you haul your dog around in?” she asked as she climbed into the front seat, gently pushing the huge head of an Irish wolfhound out of the way to drop a kiss on Richard’s cheek.

  “Finn McCool here likes to go for a spin every second Thursday of the month at seven.”

  “No offense, Finn,” she said, giving the gentle giant a rub on his aristocratic snout, “but I’m not buying it.” She turned back to Richard. “One of these days I’m going to check the mileage on that Jag of yours. I’m beginning to think the only time you drive it is when you pull it in and out of the garage to have it detailed.”

  “One of these days I’ll surprise you,” he drawled, pulling away from the curb.

  “When?”