“And?”
Win shrugged and leaned against the window. “She’s fine. Not getting as much as I’d hoped, but I think I lit a fire under her. I’m sure she’ll have something for us soon.”
His father glanced over his shoulder at him with obvious loathing. “Evacuation orders were issued for the city. Are you going to get her out of there? Your mother will kill both of us if something happens to her.”
“Yes, I know. The golden godchild, the daughter she never had.” He rolled his eyes. “Elle’s a big girl and has never been prone to doing anything stupid. Besides, that building is on high ground on the Upper East Side and it’s built like a tank. She’ll be fine.”
His father turned and faced him, giving him the same hard-ass look that made his cabinet squirm. Out of long habit, Win refused to look away.
“You, personally, put her up there. You, personally, will make sure she’s okay. Do you understand that? I was never in favor of this. She’s a sweet kid and she’s in over her head because you put her there. I’m not going to let her get hurt because you wanted her out of your hair for a while so you could bang that Euro-trash trollop,” the president said. “Next time I ask you about her, I expect a decent answer.”
Just then an aide walked in. “Sir, I have the head of the National Hurricane Center on the phone.”
Bored with the conversation and glad for the interruption, Win nodded at his father and left the room.
CHAPTER 38
Traffic had been building all day, as had people’s tempers and the level of panic across New York City. Ignoring the repeated pleas to go to the nearest staging area so they could be transported efficiently to the appropriate shelter, residents had taken to the roads themselves. The result was that every road leading from Long Island into the city or onto the mainland and every road, bridge, and tunnel from Brooklyn and Queens and Staten Island into Manhattan was at a standstill. Blaring horns competed with the roar of the gusting wind, and the incessantly drumming rain held a different rhythm than the fingers drumming angrily on dashboards and steering wheels. Freeway exits in Westchester and just over the state lines in Connecticut and New Jersey were already closed to all but local traffic. Ferries were no longer an option due to the high seas.
In the city, speed limits in the tunnels were severely reduced as the runoff began to exceed the ability of the sewers to handle it, and some of the subways had already stopped running due to standing water on the tracks. Bridges were swaying in ways their designers never envisioned, enduring torsion that wearied their seams and struts.
And still the majority of the people tried to go about their business, fighting to stay upright against the wind and ignoring the rain—the most common refrain being “at least it isn’t snow.”
The beaches—Long Beach, Coney Island, the Rockaways—were getting pummeled. Roofs were torn from shops and shacks, and lifeguard chairs careened across the sand. Ripped, bolts and all, from the boardwalks, benches somersaulted across sand and sidewalks, coming to a stop only when they became entangled in the metal grates that afforded only minimal protection to the plate-glass windows behind them. Boats shattered in their slips, leaving fuel slicks on the surface to tempt the lightning.
Trees crashed onto light poles and wrenched wires from their moorings, bringing darkness to places that, for more than a century, had barely known it. Sludgy, muddy water lapped into suddenly eerie, darkened living rooms, astonishing the foolhardy and terrifying the naïve. It lapped at staircases, driving the occupants upward, farther away from the unlikely chance of a late rescue, closer to the prospects of a gruesome death they were certain they didn’t deserve.
Fish, driven toward the shore by the currents and made hungry by the falling pressure, delighted fishermen daring enough to brave the elements. Larger fish, the predators, followed and gorged themselves on effortless meals. A clutch of bodysurfers, young, healthy, dressed in neons and giddy from their exertions in the awesome breakers, perished together in a flailing, bloody froth of teeth, fins, and dark, sinewy speed.
The Hudson and East rivers, between which Manhattan usually nestled in insouciant comfort, swelled and pushed brackish tidal water and its effluvia farther north than it had ever been, sloshing over real estate considered more valuable for its view than its ability to drain. Wind drove the filthy, stinking water over seawalls and garden walls. The rivers’ debris floated in the streets and sailed into windows.
And through it all, helicopters by the dozens fought the deadly winds above the city; those with private logos ferried the late-moving privileged away from the distressing mess surrounding them while pilots in the civic choppers alerted their comrades to impending disasters. The media birds filmed it all to satisfy the morbid curiosity of the rest of the world.
CHAPTER 39
Sunday, July 22, 9:00 P.M., Campbelltown, Iowa
Carter barely remembered the trip home. It had taken him several hours to get from Midtown to the small airport in Westchester County, a trip that should have taken less than an hour. Once he’d gotten there, though, he’d been able to board and get airborne quickly. Private jets were good for that, for getting places fast and unhindered. He’d been so deep in thought, troubled by the recent events that were threatening the success of his project, that he’d been surprised when the tires had bumped down onto the tarmac of the airstrip at his home. He hadn’t been able to focus on anything other than the outrageous reality that for thirty years there had been no disruptions to his research, and now, with success within his grasp, he suddenly faced menace from all sides.
He took a deep breath as he stood on his back porch, overlooking the dark, sparkling pond and the airstrip behind it. He could hear the sounds of his grandchildren being put to bed for the night. His girls and their families had made the unexpected and unexplained trip without argument and would remain here until the threat of Simone and the fallout from her aftermath—literally fallout, from the destruction of the Indian Point Nuclear Power Plant—was no longer an issue. He would need them to keep things running afterward, and Iris would have been beside herself if any of them had been in danger. He let out a heavy breath.
Despite the setbacks, he was getting the situation back under control. He’d dealt with Richard Carlisle, and he’d deal with Kate Sherman as severely if he had to. The assistant Davis Lee had mentioned might have to be silenced as well.
Carter tried to force himself to relax, telling himself that in a few days’ time none of it would be necessary. The country would be looking for a new leader, and he’d be ready. He was the one they needed.
Feeling the need for reassurance, he turned on his heel, opened the screen door, and stepped back into his office. Crossing the hardwood floor, dappled with tree-filtered moonlight, he grabbed the correct cell phone and punched in the only speed-dial number in its memory. Raoul picked up on the first ring.
Carter ignored his greeting. “I need you to deploy to Bermuda effective immediately.”
The short silence on the other end of the call plucked at his overly taut temper. “Did you copy that?” he snapped.
“I did,” came the deliberately slow reply.
“We’re going to make one more—”
“No, we’re not.”
The surge of anger was followed immediately by the erratic double thump in his chest and Carter sat down behind his desk as the light-headedness began.
“We’re going to make one more trip,” he rasped, gripping the arm of his chair and closing his eyes against the sensation of falling. “Not a test. I need you up here.”
“The airports are closed, Carter.”
“I’ll make sure one isn’t. Where are you now?”
“The Yucatán Peninsula. Didn’t want to be in the path of anything.”
Carter loosened his grip as the dizziness began to subside. “It’s well past you, which is why I need you to move. I need data. Just data. I just need you to do a flyby.”
“Of a Category 5 hurricane,” came
the laconic reply.
“The plane can handle it.”
The silence was deafening.
“I advise against it.”
“You what?” Carter demanded, incredulous.
“It’s in the middle of the Atlantic. There aren’t any places to hide, nor are there any places to land if there’s trouble. We’ll be seen and there will be hell to pay.”
“I don’t pay you to be a coward or a consultant. I pay you to fly the plane and execute my orders. I need the data,” Carter said flatly.
“It’s too risky. There are all sorts of reconnaissance planes in the area, and a lot of satellite coverage. We’ll be discovered.”
Carter became aware of his fist slowly opening and closing where it hung at his side. “All right. Do what you can with regard to the data, but I still need to deploy you to Bermuda as soon as possible. You’ll be compensated appropriately.”
The pause lasted long enough to make a point. “Right. We’ll be there in forty-eight hours. Weather permitting.”
Carter ignored the sarcasm. “I need you there within twelve hours.”
“It’s not going to happen, mate. The plane needs to be inspected. I don’t know if she’s ready to get through a storm that size.”
“Why isn’t the plane ready? You’ve been there for days.”
“Carter, you may be the banker, but I am the commander of the fucking plane and if I say we don’t fly, then we don’t fly.” The pilot’s voice had taken on a harsh, defensive edge that made Carter’s eyes narrow.
The pilot’s attitude was as intolerable as it was unusual, but without a backup crew or a backup aircraft, Carter had no choice but to acquiesce, and the pilot knew it. “We’ll speak again in a few hours, after you’ve had some time to reconsider your situation,” he replied tightly, and disconnected.
Sunday, July 22, 11:50 P.M., Northern Virginia
Kate felt like she’d just driven through hell. The trip had taken more than three times longer than it should have between the insanely heavy traffic, frequent diversions to smaller roads due to accidents, downed trees, flooding, and the dark, steady downpour that kept roadways dangerous and put drivers into a semihypnotic state. It was shortly before midnight when they arrived at a fairly nondescript home somewhere west of Washington.
The drive had been tense and nearly silent, punctuated by occasional attempts at innocuous conversation, infrequent bursts of music, and pit stops at various rest areas. Despite having just made the journey north, Jake did most of the driving. Even when she was behind the wheel, Kate’s mind wandered. At least her parents were safely ensconced in one of the city’s evacuation centers. Assuming they hadn’t started lying to her just to get her to stop calling them.
She pushed that thought out of her head. She had to trust them because there was nothing she could do for them now. Cell phone coverage had gone from erratic to non-existent as they headed south of Philly.
“Here we are. I think,” Jake said, slowing down as he navigated a long, bumpy, well-puddled driveway that bisected a large swath of lawn. There were about eight cars parked near the house, all facing the street as if they had to be ready at a moment’s notice. The house itself was dark, with only faint glimmers of light at the edges of the windows.
It was downright creepy, and Kate realized she’d never actually asked to see any of Jake’s identification. She didn’t even have his business card.
“I’ve never been here before. I guess it’s a safe house. When I called him before we left New York, my boss told me to bring you here.”
Numb with grief and worry and bone-tired, Kate felt panic set in. Being stuck in the countryside with a stranger had never been covered in her self-defense classes. Not getting into a stranger’s car had, but she’d already blown that opportunity. She slid her right hand down her thigh and wrapped it around the door handle.
Trying to keep her voice from shaking, she said, “I haven’t been kidnapped, have I? I mean, you are who you said you are, aren’t you?”
He turned to look at her. She thought he seemed to be trying not to laugh. “No and yes. Are you okay? You look like you’re freaking out.”
“I expected to go to headquarters.”
“Washington is under evacuation orders, remember? My town house is probably already flooded and Langley—that’s the CIA building—is pretty close to the river, so even if the road is sandbagged, I’m sure it’s open to emergency vehicles only. We’re about thirty miles from the Beltway. There will be a bunch of people inside, all of whom know who you are and why you’re with me. Okay? Nothing to worry about.”
“Says you.”
“Well, yeah.”
He brought the car to a stop and killed the lights. Gingerly, she stepped out, straight into a puddle that covered the top of her sneaker.
Great. She reached into the backseat and grabbed her duffle.
“I’ll take that,” Jake offered as he came around to her side of the car.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
He let her pass into the house ahead of him. The large living room, to the right of the front door, was set up with folding tables and mismatched office chairs and lots of laptops and flat-screen monitors. The dining room, on the other side of the door, was similarly arranged. A few of the dozen or so people sitting at the tables looked over briefly but offered no greeting. A moment later a woman came around a corner unwrapping a Twinkie. She greeted Jake by name.
“Kate, this is Candy Freeman, my boss. Candy, Kate Sherman.”
Candy extended her free hand and Kate shook it. She couldn’t help noticing that the woman’s nails were perfectly manicured and painted a deep pink. It was incongruous to say the least, given the woman’s rugged jeans and well-worn PENN sweatshirt.
“Hi, Kate. Thank you for making the trip.” She glanced from Kate to Jake and back again. “I think we can spare a few hours for y’all to get some sleep. No offense, but you look kinda tired.”
“ ‘Exhausted’ would be a better word. Where can we drop our stuff?” Jake replied.
“Hope y’all got to be best friends on the drive down. We’re under more or less battle conditions here. The bunks are upstairs. Everyone’s doubling up and some of the guys are using sleeping bags. I saved you a bedroom, though, around the corner to the left at the top of the stairs. It’s tiny. Twin beds. The mattresses are made of some sort of concrete and the pillows are flatter than bird shit on a fence post, but the blankets are new.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll come get you at four o’clock unless I need you sooner. Tom will be getting here about then. Sweet dreams.”
With a smile, she continued past them into the living room, sat down at a laptop, and took a delicate bite of the Twinkie.
Kate looked at Jake. “Is she for real?” she whispered.
Jake motioned for Kate to go up the stairs. “Totally. She was one of the first D, S-and-T geeks to take the paramilitary training after they opened it up to us. She got the highest marks in her class. Apparently the only thing she can’t do is throw a grenade properly. So don’t be fooled by all the girly stuff.”
“Why can’t she throw a grenade?”
“The instructor said she throws like a girl. Candy said pulling the pin broke a nail and she got distracted.”
Not sure whether to believe him, Kate nevertheless decided to give Candy Freeman a wide berth.
Turning left at the top of the stairs, Kate led the way down the shadowy hallway, which resounded with the sound of snoring coming from behind closed doors. She reached the end of the corridor and the only open door.
There, in what had obviously been intended as a large closet, were two twin beds separated by about eight inches but made up with military precision.
“Honey, we’re home,” Jake said lightly from behind her.
“There’s not room to turn around in here.”
“It’s not meant for turning around. It’s meant for sleeping.”
“I’ll take this one.” Kate plunked h
er duffle on the bed to the right. The mattress didn’t budge. She looked over her shoulder at Jake and said drily, “Looks like I’m about to break my record of never sleeping with someone on the first date.”
He grinned. “If we ever go on a date, I’ll take you someplace nicer than this.”
“If you ever expect me to go on a date, you’d better.”
His gaze roamed over her face for a minute and became serious before he spoke. “I’m going to just give Candy the quick version. I’ll be back in a few minutes. You should get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
“Thanks.”
After an awkward pause, he left the room. As the door closed behind him, the solitude rushed over her. Kate sank onto the bed as she let her tears flow.
Monday, July 23, 12:20 A.M., a CIA safe house in
rural Northern Virginia
Jake headed back downstairs and dropped into the chair across from Candy. She looked up, not surprised.
“Thanks for waiting up.”
“I never can seem to sleep through national emergencies. Tell me about her.”
“She’s a meteorologist with Coriolis Management in Manhattan. I met her at that weather conference on Friday, when she presented a paper on a few of the same storms we’ve been looking at. She was friends with Richard Carlisle, the TV—”
Candy raised an eyebrow. “The guy who died?”
“He was murdered. And he worked for the Agency in the sixties doing weather research. With Carter Thompson.”
Candy smiled. “That’s my boy.”
He glanced at the computer. “Do you mind if I check on Simone?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. You really do look like hell and you need to get some sleep, because I’m going to need all your neurons firing tomorrow. Besides, it might be the last you get for a while, so enjoy it.” She smiled sweetly as she took the last bite of her Twinkie.
Resigned and not altogether unhappy, Jake headed back up to the bedroom. Kate was huddled under the blanket on her bed, her breathing quiet and regular. Moments later, he was stretched out on his own bed. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
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