Category 7

by Evans, Bill; Jameson, Marianna

  The men put her back in the car then and took her to another building. This one was sterile and bland, but it wasn’t a hospital. It was an office building, clearly a government building, in an area of Manhattan she hadn’t been in before. Had she been less exhausted, she might have been alarmed. As it was, though, she didn’t give a damn who they were or where they were taking her.

  Life had begun seeping slowly back into her brain the moment her bare feet had hit the pavement in her building’s garage while the nicer of the two agents helped her into the sedan’s backseat. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been lying in bed, but it seemed likely to have been several days. She probably looked like a refugee from a high-school production of Carrie. Her dress, the same one she’d been in since Friday morning, was wrinkled and torn, streaked with dried blood and vomit. The scaly, itchy patches on her face probably had the same origin. She’d gotten sick in the taxi on the way home from dinner with Davis Lee and then again in her apartment. After that she’d gotten into bed. Win had called at some point to ask if she was okay. She thought she remembered that.

  The pain in her hands had gone from white-hot needles to dull, powerful throbbing that she felt everywhere and that intensified when she let her elbows drop below her heart. Despite that, she didn’t say anything as they stepped into the elevator and rose from the bowels of the building to wherever they were going.

  She was walking on her own, with the nice agent’s hand in the small of her back to steady her, or maybe to grab her in case she fell. Or ran.

  God almighty, what have I done? She swallowed hard and made a point of keeping her eyes open and her arms up, concentrating on noticing things around her to avoid addressing the horrors—have I committed treason?—hurtling through her head.

  By the time they got off the elevator, Elle knew something was very wrong. The atmosphere in the building was high-voltage and the activity level seemed set to Intense. No one in the corridors spoke to the agents, communicating instead with grim, tight-lipped nods. No one gave Elle more than a cursory look, although the expressions of the professionally non-curious ranged from surprise to horror.

  She cleared her throat as she and her escorts stopped in front of a closed door that looked exactly like every other closed door they’d passed. “What day is it?”

  The agent who was punching numbers on the door’s cipher lock keypad ignored the question. The one who had been taking care of her looked down at her. “Monday. Are you okay?”

  She nodded and dropped her gaze to her feet. They looked bizarre and pale against the dirty, utilitarian mottled brown carpet. “Getting there.”

  The other one, who’d barely said a thing since she’d laid eyes on him, opened the door and gestured for her to enter ahead of him. She stepped across the threshold of an office that was unremarkably drab. A desk, empty except for the computer sitting on it, was straight ahead. There were chairs on either side of it and a small conference table off to one side. The nice agent ushered her to the far side of the table while the other sat behind the desk and immediately began typing rapidly at the keyboard.

  “How are your hands?”

  “They hurt.” She rested her elbows on the table. The throbbing was getting stronger. “Did that doctor give you anything I could take for the pain?”

  “No.”

  She didn’t look at the one who answered, looking instead at the one who’d been helpful. “Am I under arrest?”

  He looked sideways at her. “Have you done something wrong?”

  Damned cops. “Please, I need some painkillers. Those shots are wearing off.”

  He looked away from her and watched the guy at the desk. “I can probably find some Motrin around here somewhere.”

  Motrin? “Look, I know I did this to myself and I know that I might seem crazy, but I’m in a lot of pain,” she said, her voice starting to shake as the strain of everything frayed her tenuous control. “Can’t you get me something? There has to be someone around here with some Percodan or Vicodin or something. Isn’t there an evidence room?”

  The guy behind the desk looked at her as if she were crazy—maybe I am—and the nice one looked almost as if he wanted to smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Could you sit up a little straighter?” the other one said as he turned the flat-screen monitor around to face her and adjusted two little protrusions attached to the side of it.

  Her heart dropped with a thud. A Webcam and a microphone. She closed her eyes. “What’s this about? Who are you?”

  “We’re with the FBI.”

  “Am I under suspicion for something? Do I need a lawyer?”

  “No and no.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Some people in Washington want to talk to you. Please open your eyes and look at the monitor. You don’t have to look at the camera. Ms. Baker, please open your eyes.”

  It took a lot of effort, but she opened her eyes and stared at the Microsoft logo rotating in simulated 3-D.

  “Thank you. I’ll get this going and then we’re going to leave the room. When you’re done, or if you need anything, knock—”

  “With these?” she snapped, moving her arms until they were directly in his line of vision. “Or maybe I should kick the door. Would bare feet make a sound on that thing?”

  Agent Not-So-Nice-Guy looked at the other agent.

  “Kick the door if you have to, or do something to make a loud noise,” said Agent Nice Guy.

  “Why can’t one of you just stay in here with me?”

  “It’s classified.”

  “The reason I’m here?”

  “The topic you’ll be asked about. Ms. Baker, make whatever noise you think is appropriate when you’re finished. We’ll be right outside.” She tilted her head toward the monitor. “How am I supposed to get this thing going?”

  “It’s all set. As soon as they come online on the other side, you’ll go live.”

  They left the room and Elle sunk down in her chair, propping her elbows on the arms and trying very hard to turn her mind away from thoughts of Win and fingers and pain.

  CHAPTER 41

  Monday, July 23, 8:25 A.M., a CIA safe house in rural

  Northern Virginia

  “Just look into the camera and speak into the microphone.”

  They were in a small room at the back of the house, which had two computers set up back-to-back on a small table. Kate sat facing one of them. She looked away from the monitor and met Jake’s eyes.

  “I am so not comfortable with this.” She slid her gaze to Tom Taylor, who sat facing the other machine and was watching her over the top of the monitor. “I don’t do interrogations. I’m a meteorologist. You ask her what you want to know.”

  He still had that pissed-off look on his face, which was bothering her less the longer she was in his company.

  “I will be, through you,” Tom replied. “And this isn’t an interrogation, it’s just some questions for background.”

  “Bullshit,” she muttered.

  Jake rolled his eyes at the comment, but Tom pounced on it. “Kate, nothing we are doing here is bullshit. Got that?” he snapped, his face rigid and his eyes cold. “There are lives at stake. Millions of lives. Right now, we need answers from this chick and you’re going to get them from her because you know her.”

  “I met her a few weeks ago. I’ve spent maybe six hours in her company. We’re barely acquaintances. And for your information, she’s not exactly Miss Congeniality.”

  “Get over it. The questions will appear along the bottom of the screen. She won’t be able to see them. Okay, you’re on.”

  The change was abrupt as the computer came out of sleep mode and Kate did a double take as she stared at the screen. The bloodied, bedraggled woman slouched in a chair barely resembled the tidy, uptight woman Kate knew.

  “My God. What did they do to you?” she shouted, making Jake jump and Tom push a hand through his hair in frustration.

  On the screen, El
le jerked bolt upright in the chair, then grimaced so badly it nearly brought tears to Kate’s eyes. “Nothing. I’m okay. Who are—Kate?”

  “Yes, Elle, it’s Kate.”

  “But the FBI … they said people in Washington—”

  “I’m in Washington. I think. How are you? What happened to you?”

  Elle blinked, clearly exhausted. “I’m not exactly sure, but it’s a long story. Too long. And they had nothing to do with it. What are you doing there? Last I remember, D.C. was being evacuated.”

  “It was. Is. Also too long a story.”

  Get on with it, flashed across the bottom of the screen.

  “Are you alone?” Kate asked as she’d been instructed, and watched Elle nod. “Good. Okay, look, I know this is going to seem like a really strange request under the circumstances, but I need you to tell me again what you found out about Carter Thompson. I mean any information that might not be in the public domain already.”

  As dreadful and drained as she looked, Elle sent back a wary glance that was backed with more than a little steel. “I already told you about him the other day.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Who wants to know, Kate?”

  “The government.”

  “You mean the campaign?” Elle asked, her voice sharp with sarcasm.

  Campaign? Frowning, Kate shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The people who want to know are—” She stopped as Tom glared at her from above the monitors.

  “Are you alone?” Elle demanded. “Where are you?”

  “No. And I can’t tell you.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  This is nuts. Kate gave her an apologetic smile. “I can’t tell you that, either.”

  “Is it Win? Or Davis Lee?”

  “Davis Lee? No. What was the first name you said?”

  “Win Benson,” Elle replied, frustrated.

  “The president’s son? No.”

  GET ON WITH IT. Kate glanced at the message and deliberately didn’t look at Tom’s face.

  “Look, Elle, I know this is bizarre, but something very weird is going on and the government thinks Carter Thompson is involved. We really need your help. I’ve gotten dragged into this … this thing by accident, just like you have, so bear with me. You said something about a rain-forest research program—”

  “Kate, I’m not going to—”

  Furious, Tom came around the table and brought his head down next to Kate’s. She scooted out of camera range.

  “Ms. Baker, I’m Agent Ed Delaney of the Internal Revenue Service. We’re investigating Carter Thompson for possible violations of the federal tax code. We’d really appreciate your help in corroborating some information about his foundation. But first, could you provide me with your Social Security number for positive identification purposes?”

  Elle’s eyes widened and she meekly supplied a number, which Tom wrote down before glancing back at the screen. “Thanks very much. Specifically, we’re interested in the foundation’s assets and activities. I’ll let Ms. Sherman continue with her questions now, but I’ll be right here in case you need any clarification. Please answer to the best of your ability, Ms. Baker.”

  He stood up and walked back around to his side of the table, leaving Kate biting back a smile.

  “Hi, Elle, sorry about that. I wasn’t sure how much I could say. So what about this foundation?”

  “It’s an American corporation and its business address is actually Mr. Thompson’s house in Iowa, but as far as I know, it only operates overseas. In India. Its stated purpose is to fund research into practices to replenish the rain forests and to reverse desertification.”

  “What else?”

  “It owns a facility in Hyderabad, India, and has approximately forty-five people on staff. Mostly software developers, physicists, and engineers. Lots of Ph.D.’s. I think that’s its only location. I didn’t see anyplace else mentioned.”

  Assets, finances, publications? flashed onto the bottom of Kate’s screen.

  “Besides the building, what are its assets?”

  “I didn’t look into specifics, Kate. I read the annual reports, which are pretty bland. It has computer equipment, I suppose. And a plane.”

  “Like a corporate jet?”

  “No, a research plane. There was nothing really said about it. It was just mentioned almost in passing in the introductory text.”

  “What about the revenues? Has the foundation’s work been cited anywhere?”

  “As far as I could tell, it operates at a loss and is completely funded by Mr. Thompson. And no, I couldn’t find any citations to it in scientific or academic journals or newspapers. I checked all the databases that I thought might be relevant—hard sciences, soft sciences, LexisNexis. If there was published research or even a feel-good piece out there, I’d have found it, Kate. There’s nothing out there. It’s almost as if the foundation doesn’t exist.”

  Kate glanced at Tom over the monitor. He met her eyes.

  Ask about other research on him. His past, appeared on the band below the image of Elle.

  Kate looked back into the camera. “Just a sec, Elle.” She covered the tiny microphone and looked at Tom over the monitor. “This is ridiculous, you know. She worked in the White House. She must have had security clearances. You can probably trust her. Besides, she’s not stupid. If we’re honest with her, she’ll probably tell us what we really want to know.”

  Tom looked nearly apoplectic. A vein was bulging in his forehead and Kate didn’t even want to hazard a guess as to the psi rating of his clenched jaw at the moment.

  “Thanks for the tip, Kate,” he ground out in a voice that was a cross between a growl and a curse. “And by the way, that thing you’re covering with your hand is the camera, not the microphone.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Feeling herself shrink, Kate gently removed her hand and glanced down at the screen to see Elle trying not to laugh. Somehow the expression made her look more like her usual self.

  “I like your plan, Kate,” she said. “Based on my experience, your Mr. Delaney seems more like a spook than an accountant. CIA, right?”

  Kate swallowed hard and glanced over the monitor again to see an absolutely livid Tom push a hand through his hair with such vehemence that she was amazed he didn’t pull a clump out. Then he nodded. She looked back at the screen.

  “Bingo. But now you have to make me redeem myself. Tell us about that early research of Carter’s. The weather manipulation stuff. Did you actually read the papers?”

  After few seconds’ pause, Elle nodded. “I found as many of his early writings as I could. There are copies in the filing cabinet at the office, but there are also hard copies at my apartment. And I scanned them, so there are a few CDs as well. One is in my backpack in my apartment, and I mailed the other copies to my parents’ house.”

  Kate glanced at Tom, who was stone-faced again, and then back at Elle. “Nothing is on the network at work?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  Elle smiled. “Davis Lee didn’t want them to get around, but I like to be safe.”

  “Why didn’t he want them around?”

  She looked away from the camera, clearly uncomfortable with the question.

  “Elle? Why didn’t Davis Lee want them around?” Kate repeated at Tom’s terse nod.

  It took another few seconds before Elle finally looked back into the camera. “I think Davis Lee and Carter Thompson are laying groundwork for Mr. Thompson to toss his hat into the ring for a presidential nomination. I’m pretty familiar with politics and know a pre-campaign scrub when I see it. My whole project was a farce. I’m sure I was hired as pre-emptive damage control, to find things before the other side did.”

  For the first time, Tom Taylor’s face had relaxed a little. He was staring intently at the screen.

  What was in the papers? Tom wrote.

  “Tell me what was in the papers.”

  “They were kind of sim
ilar to yours, Kate. Most of them hinted at the possibility of using technology to manipulate the weather.”

  “How?”

  She shrugged. “They were mostly historical, identifying what had been attempted and hypothesized, and then explaining why they didn’t or couldn’t work.”

  “Did he offer any suggestions as to what might work?”

  “Yes. He said the only thing that could manipulate the weather was the ability to alter temperatures. He called heat the ‘fuel’ and cold the ‘brakes’ of global weather.”

  Kate glanced at Jake, who suddenly looked a whole lot more serious as he met her eyes.

  Get back to the foundation, Tom ordered.

  “What else do you know about the foundation?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There was no hint in his earlier works of wanting to start it?”

  “No. I mean, he’s well-known as a tree hugger, so it sort of makes sense, but it’s not like I found his diaries or anything. But he launched it about fifteen years ago, which is the same time that his company started to make serious profits.” She paused, but it seemed to Kate as if she wanted to continue.

  It appeared the same way to Tom, who wrote: Push her.

  “What else?”

  “Well, this is only my opinion and it’s geeky researcher stuff, okay? But that early stuff he wrote had a sort of passion to it that wasn’t there in his later writings, like the papers he wrote while he was at NOAA. Those were totally dull. And it looks like he tried to get back into academia after he left NOAA—there are lots of letters to universities and applications for grants in the archives. But he didn’t get offered any positions and he didn’t get any money, and that’s when he started Coriolis. So I just thought that maybe the foundation came about when he had enough money to pursue his interests again. You know, maybe it was his way of getting back in the game.”

  Tom immediately started typing, but no instructions appeared across the bottom of Kate’s screen. She glanced at Jake, who was staring at Tom’s monitor as if mesmerized. She looked back into the camera.

  “Where are you, anyway?”