Black Rain

thief, you’re not a traitor. So the EU, the Russians and the Chinese are probably out as well, at least until you’ve exhausted all the other options. And that leaves mostly the destroyers.”

“The destroyers?”

Kaufman elaborated. “Those who stand to profit most, if this revolution never comes to pass: the nuclear industry, big oil, the OPEC countries.”

Kaufman’s tone became pragmatic. “If I were you, the nuclear industry would be my first choice, although they’re not exactly a monolithic group. They might even use it one day, when their trillion dollars of capital investments run out of useful life. But more than likely they’d prefer to keep building big, expensive, dirty power plants, instead of small, cheap, clean ones—there’s more responsibility to it, more prestige and of course, more money. They’d pay you handsomely for it, though. So would big oil, OPEC and the Seven Sisters, or what’s left of them. They’d bury you in petrodollars to keep this thing on the shelf, or they might bury you for real—maybe both. At the very least it’s something you’d have to worry about for the rest of your life, because as long as you live, they have exposure.” He paused, looking Gibbs in the eye. “A terrible thing,” he said, “to live with exposure.”

Gibbs listened to Kaufman’s line of reasoning with a strange sense of deja vu. He’d run through the same process a hundred times in his own mind. He had a plan, and it involved his disappearance, something his CIA background would assist him in, but there would always be danger. He counted on being able to handle it. “Why tell me all this?” he asked, bitterly. “In other words—what the hell is your point?”

Kaufman obliged him at last. “Because what you hoped to find out there—what we both hope to find out there—is the beginning of a revolution, one that will render the industrial and computer revolutions mere blips on the time line.

“The industrial revolution improved the lives of twenty percent of the world’s population, mostly those in Europe and North America. In other areas, it condemned vast swaths of previously happy people to lives of abject misery. Virtual slaves who toil in the ground for natural resources while their own lands are left polluted and spoiled.

“The information revolution has done the same thing on a smaller scale. The lives of twenty percent are improved, while others are rendered jobless, destitute and excess to society’s needs. Poor countries fall into the information divide and their populations lag ever further behind as they squander all their measly income just trying to keep the lights on.”

“I’m not really in this for the poor,” Gibbs said.

Kaufman sat back. “So sell it to the destroyers, then. The world will go on just as it has: pumping oil, shoveling coal and piling up nuclear waste by the ton. The wars will go on. We’ll have more debacles like Iraq. Iran will be next, and the whole Arabian peninsula when the House of Saud collapses. America will bankrupt itself fighting wars in the desert while Europe and Asia watch and reap the rewards. The poverty and pollution of the oil age will go on, and you’ll spend the rest of your days wondering just when that stray bullet will find you.”

Gibbs took his eyes off Kaufman, glancing out the window at the world flying past. Too quickly, he thought, much like the conversation he found himself trapped into. It left him dizzy, unbalanced—a terrible feeling for a man unused to anything but complete control. “You paint a rosy picture of my future,” he said.

“That’s just one possible future,” Kaufman explained. “On the other hand you can look at this meeting for what it is—your way out. You can turn this find over to me and see it brought to its full potential. I have billions set aside to develop this technology, and access to billions more if I need it. I have armies of engineers, powerful friends on Capitol Hill and in the military. And I have time, a luxury you no longer possess.”

Kaufman leaned toward him. “What lies out there is the key to equalizing things, to resetting the vast imbalance between the first and third worlds, to stabilizing what has become a dangerously unstable world.”

“My God,” Gibbs said. “You’re some kind of crusader. You intend to give this away?”

“No,” Kaufman said. “I intend to build a fortune with it. One that will make Mr. Gates and Mr. Buffett look like welfare cases. And once I’ve done that I’ll build power plants all over the world. I’ll provide cheaper energy than anyone could have dreamed of—cheaper than coal and oil, cheaper than solar or wind or even hydrothermal power and with none of the environmental drawbacks. In twenty years I’ll control all the electrical power generated in the Western Hemisphere, and even though I will sell it cheap, I’ll produce it for almost nothing. With the profits and influence, I’ll light up the world of the poor. And when the whole planet has equal access to such power, a sense of equilibrium will come to this place that has never existed. No longer will there be three have nots for every one who has.”

As Kaufman spoke, Gibbs wondered just where the man’s greed and nobility intersected, or if he was lying or simply mad. A combination of all four, he decided. “You’re insane, you realize that.”

The charcoal-haired CEO’s eyebrows went up. “Insane is embezzling from your own agency. It’s hiring a group of burned-out mercenaries to search a river bed and following up their disappearance with a group of civilians who will likely meet the same fate. Insane is your place in the world, my friend, not mine.”

Gibbs stewed. Kaufman had hit the mark dead-on; he’d gotten every fear and every angle just about right. Gibbs was greedy but he wasn’t a traitor, and he didn’t fancy himself a sellout or a politician either. Giving up the future wasn’t his big concern; it would come someday regardless of what he did, but the destroyers, as Kaufman had called them, were not forces to be trifled with. Perhaps Kaufman was offering him something better. He chose to bite, at least enough to taste the dish. “And what would such an offer look like?”

Kaufman obliged him. “First, you’ll receive immediate repayment of all the funds that you or your backers have laid out. That should get the investors off your back and allow you to replace any NRI funds that might have gone missing. Second, you’ll receive a one million dollar payment upon recovery and authentication of the artifacts. And finally, you’ll have a position within Futrex, a six-figure salary and a small residual from all net profits.” Kaufman shrugged. “Your cut will be a rounding error somewhere on the bottom line, but in a few years, you’ll make more than you could in ten lifetimes with the NRI. The more we make, the more you’ll make. That ought to guarantee your full cooperation.”

Stuart Gibbs listened in silence, mulling the offer over. “And if I decline?”

“Then one of two things will happen. Either your group in the rainforest will be eliminated before they have a chance to bring you what you want, or the proper authorities will be informed of your activities.”

Gibbs laughed. Kaufman wouldn’t bring the authorities into this, whatever happened. “My people are well protected.”

“Yes,” Kaufman said. “I know who protects them, and how. I promise you, I have all the firepower I need to take them out. The only thing I don’t have is their location, but sooner or later I will. And once I do, your ability to bargain will have expired.”

Gibbs mulled over the offer: ten million dollars or so, when all was said and done. The buyers he’d contacted had deep pockets but they were skeptical. If he could prove what he had, they might pay ten times what Kaufman had offered. Up front and in cash, not spread out over decades. And even that would be a bargain. The technology itself would be worth an unfathomable amount in that time, more than all the oil in Alaska or all the gold in South Africa, and he was being asked to give it up for a pittance.

He glared at Kaufman, galled by the man’s arrogance. And yet, even as he fumed, his black mood began to fade. He could see the offer for what it was: a thieves’ bargain, even if the division of spoils was mostly onesided. This was the way of things, he thought. The rich take from the poor. They pay only a penny and sell for a dollar, but the poor are always grateful for the pennies.

He threw out a counteroffer. “Why not let my people finish the recovery? Whatever we bring out, I’ll give you the first bid.”

“Why?” Kaufman said. “So you can charge me more?”

Gibbs had expected that. He ground his teeth anyway. “And what about my people?”

Kaufman pursed his lips. “They won’t be coming home again, if that’s what you mean.”

Gibbs was silent.

“I’ve seen your roster,” Kaufman added. “At first I couldn’t understand why you chose this particular mix of individuals. But then it hit me; for the most part, they won’t be missed.”

As Gibbs listened to the last point, his face grew stern, almost angry, but not out of sadness. In fact, he had never planned to bring the team home in the first place, not without an accident somewhere along the way—a plane crash or an explosion. But now, and because of Kaufman, no less, one of them was already here: Arnold Moore.