pressure, deep-well injections of certain chemicals were known to lubricate fault lines and cause minor tremors in places. But for the most part, these were quakes felt only on the readouts of seismic monitors, not in the streets of cities and towns high above.
Then again, this zero-point energy was like nothing Kurt had ever heard of before.
“Thero’s already proven it to us,” Bradshaw said. “In the letter detailing his threat, he promised to unleash an earthquake exactly two months from the date of his signature. He insisted it would occur somewhere between Adelaide on the southern coast and Alice Springs, where we are now.”
“There was an earthquake last month,” Kurt said, recalling the news. “A big one.”
“Six-point-nine,” Bradshaw said. “One hundred and twenty miles north-northwest of Adelaide. It hit on the exact date Thero promised. Largest quake we’ve had in years.”
“But there are no fault lines here,” Kurt said, remembering his geology. “Australia sits in the middle of a plate, not on the boundary like California or Japan.”
“So I’ve been told,” Bradshaw said. “Thero insists he can change all that. That when he’s done, Australia will be cleaved down the middle and there will be, in effect, two smaller plates where there is currently one.”
Kurt’s mind reeled.
“Is there any way it could be coincidence?” he asked. “A lucky guess that just happened to come true? Even an educated prediction based on some new sensing device he created?”
Bradshaw shrugged. “Even Hayley isn’t sure. But we can’t exactly wait around to find out.”
No, Kurt thought, there was no way they could do that. Not when they were dealing with a madman looking for poetic justice who’d already lost everything of importance.
“Why is Hayley still involved?” he asked. “She’s no agent. She sounded like a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown the other night. Why do you have her meeting with these couriers?”
Bradshaw sighed. “I told you, we have an informant, an unknown person inside Thero’s organization who’s been feeding us data. He or she contacted Hayley out of the blue shortly after the threat first came to light. Whoever this person inside Thero’s organization is, he or she is willing to deal with us only if Hayley acts as the go-between.”
Kurt could see Bradshaw’s dilemma. “She’s a brave woman,” he said, “too brave for her own good. You should put her in protective custody somewhere.”
“There is no protective custody from what Thero is about to unleash. Not down here anyway. And since she won’t travel, that kind of limits the options. Besides, she wants to keep helping. And if you take this on, you’re going to need her. She’s the only one who understands what we’re really dealing with.”
Kurt could see that Bradshaw was right, but he didn’t like the idea. Bad things happened to civilians that got tangled up in a mess like this.
Bradshaw pointed to a sealed manila envelope on the desk. It looked to contain a thick file. “That’s everything we know. Read it, talk to your people, and let me know your decision as soon as you can. You’ll get your rugby tickets either way.”
Kurt smiled. Bradshaw was a good soul, tough as nails and gutting out the pain so he could pass the torch and yet still able to crack a joke. Kurt figured he deserved some more happy juice so he could fade off to dreamland for a while. The thought reminded him of another mystery.
“What happened out there?” he asked. “How’d those guys get the drop on you?”
Bradshaw shook his head. “One minute, I was getting ready to make a radio call. The next thing I know, I was on the ground, and someone was shooting.”
“Did you see a flash?”
Bradshaw paused.
“Like sunlight reflecting off glass?”
“Yeah,” Bradshaw said slowly. “Yeah, I think I did.”
Kurt nodded. He was no closer to an answer. But he was pretty sure that whatever happened to Bradshaw had also happened to Joe. Maybe Thero had more than one weapon at his disposal.
He grabbed the file and stood. “I’ll send the nurse in.”
“I’ll rest better when I know you’re on the case,” the ASIO chief grunted.
“Then I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”
FOURTEEN
Under the soft light of antique chandeliers, a crowd of ambassadors, congressmen, and other dignitaries mingled in the East Room of the White House. They spoke quietly, accompanied by the subdued tones of the gilded Steinway piano that graced the room.
At the conclusion of a state dinner for the Prime Minister of India, the attendees were given the chance to talk, network, and discuss ideas unencumbered by the constraints of long-held official positions. It had been said that more business was done after business hours than during all the official meetings, negotiation sessions, and carefully orchestrated mediations of the world’s governments combined.
Dirk Pitt didn’t doubt it.
As he moved through the room, he overheard deals being closed, wiggle room in treaties being discussed, and myriad other activities. As Director of NUMA, he’d used such occasions himself, putting a bug in the right ear or two. Tonight, however, he was on hand mainly as a favor to an old friend.
Tall and rugged, with the weathered good looks of an outdoorsman, Pitt was a man of action and a decisive leader who exhibited the greatest sense of calm amid the worst types of chaos. Were an explosion to go off down the hall and others begin racing for the exits, Dirk Pitt might assess the situation, finish his drink, and then calmly find the closest fire extinguisher.
With that mind-set, he moved slowly around the room, looking for the only potential flash point he expected to find that evening: his good friend James Sandecker, NUMA’s former director and the current Vice President of the United States.
Pitt found him, standing proudly on the far edge of the reception. Sandecker’s red hair was now partially gray, but his bantamweight frame still taut and fit. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, presumably to discourage anyone from attempting to shake them. That stance and the scowl on his face seemed enough to warn most of the spurious human traffic to steer well clear.
Most but not all.
“How many senators does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” a stocky, red-faced congressman asked him between swigs of a scotch on the rocks.
Dirk Pitt watched the exchange with amusement. He pegged the odds of a profanity-laced reply somewhere around fifty-fifty. They would have been higher, but they were in the White House after all.
“How many?” the Vice President said curtly.
The congressman began laughing at himself. “No one knows, but if you like we can form a blue-ribbon committee, study the issue, and get back to you in a year or two.”
Sandecker offered a fleeting smile, but the scowl returned almost instantaneously. “Interesting,” he said, offering nothing more.
The congressman’s laugh faded and then stopped cold. He seemed confused by Sandecker’s response and unnerved by it all at the same time. He took another sip of his drink, gave a polite wave, and walked off, glancing back once or twice with a bewildered look on his face.
“I do believe you’re mellowing,” Pitt said, easing up beside the Vice President. “It’s a testament to your self-control that you didn’t slug that guy.”
At that moment, the shrill beeping of an alert tone sounded in one of their pockets.
“You or me?” Sandecker asked.
Pitt was already reaching for his phone. “I believe it’s me.”
He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket and typed in a code. The screen lit up with the words PRIORITY 1 MESSAGE.
