The Leviathan Effect

by James Lilliefors

  Your attendance requested immediately.

  TWENTY-SEVEN MINUTES later, Blaine was driven through the southwest gate of the White House onto West Executive Drive. The others were seated around the conference table in the Data Visualization Center when she entered. There was one difference, though. There weren’t three of them this time, there were four.

  Vice President Stanton, the newcomer in the room, stood and greeted her as “Secretary Blaine,” the only one to say her name.

  Blaine sat. She liked Bill Stanton, found his informality refreshing. Supposedly, his geniality masked burning ambition—he had run for President himself twice—although she had never seen that side of him. He seemed to her ideally suited for his current job.

  The others nodded curtly, although it was clear they’d been waiting for her. A mood of tension hung in the room, an irritation, maybe, that she occasionally went off the radar.

  Blaine looked across the table, saw the eyes only folder in front of the President.

  “Cate,” he said. “We have received two more messages.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE CONFERENCE ROOM IN the Eisenhower Executive Office Building had an old, welcoming smell. Musty, ancient wood. The smell of history. But it was also intimidating: Blaine felt it as she took her seat at the table, and the President silently distributed copies of the latest email.

  Blaine read:

  Dear Mr. Vice President,

  Yesterday a deadly weather event occurred in northern France. This was the fourth in a series of “natural disasters.” I trust that you now accept the legitimacy of this process. There will be no further preliminaries.

  The next two events will be on American soil. The first will reach fruition within five days. The second event, if you allow it to occur, will devastate your country, killing at least one-third of the population. It will occur within ten days.

  Your government has the ability to stop these events. But only if this communication is kept within the circle of you and the recipients of my previous messages. If you or anyone else chooses not to follow these instructions, you will have the blood of tens of millions of Americans on your hands.

  —Janus 5D909G648F6

  P.S. Don’t forget your umbrellas for the rest of the week.

  “So we have a clear time frame now,” DeVries said, still studying his copy.

  “We do,” said the President.

  “We’re past the preliminaries,” said the Vice President.

  “I just hope we really are,” said Easton.

  The President collected the emails and closed the folder. Then he opened a second folder, underneath. “This came through twenty-one minutes later,” he said.

  The second message was also addressed to the Vice President of the United States, from the President. The subject line was GOLF?

  Blaine read:

  Mr. Vice President: you now have your opportunity, which may prove beneficial to all involved. If you choose to play, you must send a signal to a third party indicating your willingness. This is the manner in which it must be done: tonight, the Lincoln Memorial will go dark from 9:07 P.M. until 9:14 P.M.

  Respectfully, Janus 258B0976R83

  There were subtle reactions around the table: DeVries shifting in his seat, Stanton breathing out through his nostrils. Send a signal to a third party. It was almost as if Janus, or whoever was responsible for these messages, was bowing out now, Blaine sensed.

  “This is as mad as a bag of hammers,” said Stanton. “I mean, what if they come back tomorrow and ask us to shut down Washington for a month, do we do that, too?” The Vice President incongruously showed his engaging white smile.

  “Harry?” the President said, no humor in his voice.

  DeVries, too, was all business. “Our position on this all along has been one of strategic compliance. We do what they ask—as long as what they ask is essentially nothing—until we find out who they are and what their motive is. But we will continue to monitor all communications. Also, as I’ve discussed privately with the President, we are drawing up a strategic operations plan for when we do actually make physical contact with this group, which would involve extensive ground and air surveillance.”

  The Vice President leaned back in his chair and glanced at the ceiling, Blaine noticed.

  Easton said, “I understand what Bill is saying. But, I mean, turning the lights out at the Lincoln Memorial? I don’t see that as a big deal.”

  “It isn’t,” the President said.

  “I wonder what this five-day window is about,” DeVries said.

  Blaine had been thinking the same thing. “The length of time it will take for Hurricane Alexander to reach the East Coast of the United States, perhaps,” she said.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Is it a hurricane already?” asked Easton.

  “It’s just become one, yes,” Blaine said.

  “How would we even do it?” the Vice President asked.

  Blaine smiled. Stanton was still thinking about the Lincoln Memorial.

  “I guess I’d call the Director of Parks and ask her. Say we need it done on the QT,” President Hall said. “We’re only talking seven minutes.”

  The Vice President nodded. The eyes in the room were avoiding one another all of a sudden, she noticed.

  “Cate?” the President said.

  Blaine sighed, feeling the tension again. “I understand the need to move forward,” she said. “I just want to make sure that we’re doing all we can to understand this. Maybe because I’m the last one in the club, I still have some questions. I’m thinking in particular about the atmospheric changes that might accompany these events. I was doing some research independently. I have one scientist in mind who’s worked on this sort of thing—”

  “That’s why we have our scientific review panel, Cate,” the President said, curtly.

  DeVries surprised her by nodding. “The problem with measuring atmospheric changes, Cate, is that there’re so many variables in play. We’re addressing that issue very thoroughly but so far the results have been inconclusive.”

  Blaine saw his unblinking and suddenly unfamiliar dark eyes watching her. Again, it was as if he was someone else, not the man who had once been her mentor, who had spent hours with her talking openly about foreign affairs.

  “And let’s just be clear,” the President said. “Agreeing to turn off the lights for seven minutes isn’t the same thing as agreeing to their terms. It’s just getting us a step closer to finding out who they are.”

  “Correct,” Easton said. He adjusted his hands on the table, then showed his crooked smile. “Look, folks, at this point I don’t care if a dozen scientists come in this room and tell me they don’t believe this thing is technically possible. It is technically possible. It’s happening. Now, whether this group can really impact a third of our population—which, if my math is correct, would come to a little more than one hundred million people—or if their capabilities are somewhat less, I think it doesn’t make a whole hoot of a difference.”

  A heavy silence followed. Easton’s remarks were a non-sequitur, addressing a point that no one had made. But they were clearly aimed at Blaine—at her reservations, and her question about bringing in an outside scientist.

  Five people in a room could convince themselves of nearly anything, she thought. Somehow, I have to preserve my own perspective, whether I express it here or not.

  “Okay,” the President said. “So we move forward with this. Any objections?”

  No one in the room said anything. Blaine heard the ticking of Easton’s wristwatch again. She looked out and noticed that it had begun to rain.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  IN HIS NORTHERN VIRGINIA motel room, Charles Mallory studied the list of seven names and the brief biographical sketches that he had added after each. The bios combined the report Chaplin had provided him with his own research. They had established a few tenuous connections, but Mallory still didn’t know what linked these seven people. Or w
hat might tie any of them to Vladimir Volkov.

  1. Steven Loomis. US Navy commander. Briefly an administrator of the Hurricane Research Division of the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration in the 1970s, based in Miami. An assistant coordinator of Project Stormfury, the government hurricane mitigation program. Later went into the private sector. Became a consultant in 1993. Started his own firm, Loomis Consultants, in Northern California in 2001. In 2003, he was hired by a company called EARS, or Environmental Atmospheric Research Systems. Reported as a missing person in San Mateo, California, in May 2005. Never found. 71 years old at time of disappearance.

  2. Dr. Susan Beaumont. Graduate of MIT. Worked as a climate studies scientist for the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory in California. Later worked at the National Geo-Spatial Intelligence Agency in St. Louis. May have worked on Project Cloudcover there. Left St. Louis in 2005 and returned to her native Wyoming. Did at least one consulting job for the NGA there. Lived alone, never married. Found dead in a motel room in rural Wyoming on August 21, 2006. Shot in the head during a possible sexual assault/robbery. DNA evidence found in the room and in her car was never identified. Case remains unsolved. 43 years old.

  3. Dr. Deborah Piper. An imagery scientist who developed atmospheric models at the National Imagery and Mapping Agency, based in Bethesda, Maryland. Earlier worked at NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Maryland. Involved with Project Cloudcover, a joint intelligence/defense project, and later an operation called FAST. Lived in Gaithersburg, Maryland. Husband worked for the Department of Defense. Two teenage daughters. Published at least two letters to the editor about wasteful government spending. Had been outspoken about alleged misappropriations in the space program. Left work in Greenbelt on January 11, 2007 and was never heard from again. 44 years old at time of disappearance.

  4. David Worth. An attorney and journalist turned lobbyist. Worked with several prominent politicians and contractors who had ties to the intelligence and defense departments of the US government, including EARS and Raytheon. EARS canceled his contract in October 2006 for undisclosed reasons. Disappeared four months later, while at his second home in Carmel, California. 39 years old.

  5. Michael Dunlopen. Environmental reporter, Anchorage Daily News. Freelanced for Rolling Stone and The New York Times magazine. Lived all of his life in Alaska. Wrote often about oil drilling, land-use conflicts, and global warming. Was hiking alone in Kenai Fjords National Park on June 17, 2007, when he disappeared. Found two days later, shot in the chest with a bullet from a hunting rifle. 31 years old.

  6. Dr. Frank Johnson. Canadian cloud physicist. Worked as a research professor at Colorado State University. Contracted with the National Center for Atmospheric Research in Colorado. Died suddenly on February 9, 2010 near his home in Vail, Colorado. Death ruled heart attack. 53 years old.

  7. Dr. Atul Pradhan. One of India’s leading climatologists, Pradhan earned a PhD from the Indian Institute of Technology in Delhi, where he later taught. He wrote extensively on global warming and global “dimming.” A provocative and controversial speaker who appeared at several American universities, including the University of Maryland, in recent months. May have met Dr. Keri Westlake there. Disappeared in the Bay of Bengal tsunami in late September. 64 years old.

  Seven people who lived, and died—or disappeared—under very different circumstances. Very different locales. Five of the seven had been involved in some form of climate science, but their work was unrelated. There was no evident overlap or any indication—with one possible exception—that the seven had known one another or even met.

  Still, there was one connection in particular that Charles Mallory wanted to explore: two of the seven had apparently been involved with a government project known as Cloudcover, although in different cities and while employed by separate agencies. Mallory had worked with a slightly kooky—but in her own way brilliant—woman named Patricia Hanratty. A cultured contrarian who’d been an analyst on Cloudcover. She would have an opinion on this, he was sure.

  He tried her again, leaving another message.

  Less than two minutes later, one of his cell phones rang. But it wasn’t Pat Hanratty. It was Joseph Chaplin.

  “Greetings. I’m finding a little about your Victor Zorn,” he said. “That’s Viktor with a k, by the way, although some years ago he changed it to a c. I will have a list for you of the companies he’s involved with.” There was a silence, then he said, “I should tell you I’m missing Placido Domingo at Kennedy Center tonight because of this. But I can tell it’s important to you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I was able to swap my ticket for Sunday, but just to let you know.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “That’s not why I’m calling. I have received a message that I’ve been asked to relay to you,” Chaplin said, slipping into his formal tone.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Catherine Blaine. The Secretary of Homeland Security?”

  “Yes. I know who she is.”

  “She called your old company office number. Twice. Said it was on a business card you gave her six or seven years ago. Does that sound right? The second time, she left a message. I spoke with her. She says she would like to meet with you. As soon as possible.”

  “Really.” Strange. Mallory conjured an image of the attractive Homeland Security Secretary. He had met her only once.

  “Why?”

  “The Secretary provided no further information.”

  “How does she know I’m here?”

  “She doesn’t. As I say, she was using your old number. I told her I would probably be in touch with you, but that I could make no guarantees.” He cleared his throat. “She can meet as soon as the morning.”

  “As in tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. What should I tell her?”

  “Tell her yes.”

  “All right. Eight o’clock, then. Be dressed to work out.”

  AT THE WESTERN end of the National Mall, intricate webs of lightning silently lit up the sky behind the Greek temple-like Lincoln Memorial. It was a blustery evening with the smell of rain in the air. Only a handful of people were strolling nearby when the Memorial went dark at precisely 9:07 P.M.

  AT HIS MODEST, sparsely furnished office in a three-building complex set behind thick brush and trees on Sand Hill Road in Menlo Park, California, Morgan Garland reached for his encrypted BlackBerry. It was 6:09.

  “Please hold for Mr. Zorn,” came the familiar female voice. Curt, inflectionless, almost as if it were machine-generated.

  Always the same greeting. Never Victor Zorn. Always Mr. Zorn. And always a lengthy wait before Zorn’s voice actually came on the line.

  It was okay. Morgan Garland accepted such quirks, because Mr. Zorn was easily the most interesting and charismatic client he had ever worked with. Garland had had face time with Zorn on just three occasions, but each meeting had been more extraordinary than the one before. It wasn’t only that Victor Zorn had developed a product that Garland believed would change world markets, not to mention technology and science; it was also that he had managed to create a team and a strategic vision that would generate instant credibility for that product.

  Garland was among the best-known and most successful venture capitalists in the country—one of the few so-called celebrity venture capitalists, who had famously backed several dark horse California start-ups that today were Internet icons. He was adept at forecasting trends, and at keeping pace with the sort of high-stakes games Mr. Zorn played.

  Secrecy and eccentricity were not unusual among his clients, who had made fortunes in emerging technologies. “New business models,” he called them. But Mr. Zorn played at a higher level than any client he had known, revealing himself, and his endgame, a move at a time. His latest revelation—the woman and two men who would be traveling to Washington with them—had again taken Morgan Garland by su
rprise.

  It was 6:21 before Garland actually heard Mr. Zorn’s voice in his ear.

  “Morgan.”

  “Mr. Zorn.”

  “Okay, just to inform you: we’ve received a positive response. You will be joining us tomorrow?”

  “I will.”

  “A driver will come by your office to pick you up in the morning. Eight o’clock. All travel arrangements have been made. We’ll discuss presentation on the plane. It’s imperative, of course, that you not tell anyone where you’re going.”

  “Understood.”

  “Plan to be away for three nights.”

  “Fine.”

  “Thank you, Garland.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Zorn.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE LOCKHEED WP-3D ORION turbo-prop airplane lifted off from Amilcar Cabral International Airport on Sal Island in Cape Verde shortly after 2 A.M., climbing into the night sky at two thousand feet per minute. The plane, which belonged to the fleet of the United States’ National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, or NOAA, was headed due west, toward Hurricane Alexander, which it was scheduled to penetrate and pass through four separate times—a quickly organized government mission to better understand this highly unusual Atlantic storm. The crew would measure the hurricane’s winds, temperatures, and air pressure; create atmospheric and thermodynamic profiles; and look for any visual cues that might help scientists make sense of the storm’s inner workings.