The Leviathan Effect Page 4

  “Well,” she said, “as you know, China does have a weather modification bureau, which employs about forty thousand people and spends over a hundred million dollars a year. We don’t. We’ve had bills on the table for years to create one, but there hasn’t been sufficient interest for them to go anywhere. Senator Kay Bailey Hutchison introduced legislation in 2005 that would have created a weather modification research bureau but it never came to a vote. It’s not a high priority concern, as you know.” She folded her hands and sighed. “But that’s all a matter of record.”

  In the protracted silence that followed, Blaine heard the ticking of Easton’s wristwatch.

  “As you also know,” she went on, “there are at least sixty countries engaged in weather modification projects right now. And a lot of activity in the private sector. Tens of thousands of weather modification patents have been filed. A lot of them are crackpot ideas, granted. Some aren’t. Bill Gates recently filed five patents, for instance, to explore hurricane mitigation technology.”

  Easton inhaled very slowly. “And what has China’s weather modification office accomplished, in your estimation?”

  “You’ve seen the same reports I have,” Blaine said. “They claim they’re capable of producing rain and snow on demand. The Chinese news agency reported recently that they had created two hundred and fifty metric tons of artificial rain over the past few years. They claim they prevented rain during the opening ceremonies of the 2008 Olympics in Beijing. All of which is arguable. They’ve set a five-year goal of reducing losses caused by weather disasters from three percent of gross domestic product to one percent.” She added, “Of course, there have also been reports that China is engaged in weather research they aren’t talking about.”

  “For potential military use,” said DeVries.

  Blaine nodded.

  “Russia, as well,” he added.

  “Yes.”

  There had been intelligence reports that China and Russia were exploring, if not developing, weather technologies for military use. But it wasn’t anything new. The American military had committed more than thirty million dollars during the Vietnam war to an operation called Popeye, which seeded clouds with silver iodide to artificially extend monsoon season along the Ho Chi Minh trail in Laos, impeding the movement of enemy troops.

  “In your estimation, is China even remotely capable of something like this?” Easton asked, lifting the folder.

  “No. I really don’t think so.” Her eyes caught those of the intelligence director. “Is it theoretically possible that one day someone could cause these kinds of events? Probably. As you know, there have been countless computer simulations exploring storm activity and climate modification. But I haven’t seen any credible evidence that anyone has successfully taken the leap from model to actual implementation. I think that’s a long ways off. In large part, for practical reasons. It would require enormous funding. And our government decided long ago not to make climate research a national priority.”

  “But then we don’t know everything that China and Russia’s militaries are doing,” DeVries said.

  “No. We don’t.”

  Silence expanded into the room again.

  “I realize I’m coming to this late,” Blaine said. “But I’m not sure I would rule out this being an elaborate hoax. I mean, it’s a fact that on average a natural disaster occurs somewhere in the world almost every day.”

  “We considered that,” said DeVries.

  “And rejected it,” Easton said.

  “Why?”

  “Study each message, Secretary Blaine. And each subsequent event. In every case, the warning was validated by the event. It’s too precise to be coincidental. The President has determined that we have no choice but to take this as a legitimate and very dire threat.”

  After another silence, Blaine said, “Where do these breaches originate? Have we been able to determine?”

  Easton rubbed his palms together. DeVries said, “Two of the four messages have been traced to servers in China. But, of course, we can’t take that to mean that Beijing is involved. They could have been bounced off servers there as a diversion. A third goes to Eastern Europe. Stiles’s cyber team at Fort Meade has been looking at that around the clock. But, frankly, we may never be able to determine exactly where they originated.”

  “It’s odd that they haven’t given any indication of what they want,” Blaine said, still skeptical. “What the endgame might be.”

  “Actually, not so odd,” Easton said. One edge of his mouth twitched. “It seems fairly clear: Their initial strategy is to establish credibility. That’s exactly what they’re doing. Once they’ve achieved this primary objective, we expect they will use that advantage as a bargaining chip. For what, we don’t know.”

  “Are there any preliminary theories?” she asked, trying to read DeVries. “I suppose you’ve been around the table with this a few times already.”

  “We have some ideas, of course,” DeVries said, his tone surprisingly guarded. “We’re taking a close look at China. And elements within China. We’ll get to some of that later. But, again, Cate, the bottom line is, we don’t know. And because of that, we are proceeding in a cautious but purposeful manner.” He looked at Easton.

  Blaine saw from the Secretary of Defense’s body language—the way he hunched forward and placed his notes on top of the folder—that he was about to close this meeting.

  “Do I get a copy of those?” she said.

  He gazed down and grimaced. “For now, the President does not want any additional copies made. He’ll explain that to you later.” So that’s the reason for the air-tight security around this building. “We have a directive, until we receive additional information: to go after the known to find the unknown.”

  “And the known at this point is what—Janus?”

  “Correct.”

  “That’s where we’re going now, Cate,” DeVries said. “For a briefing on Janus.”

  Easton stood. “There’s a car waiting outside,” the Secretary of Defense said. “I will be returning downtown to the White House. There will be an additional briefing afterward.”

  Blaine nodded. As they walked down the corridor to the elevator, three pairs of footsteps echoing on the tiles, she recalled the last line in the message she had received and felt chills. If you choose not to stop this pattern, the events that occur after Monday will devastate your country.

  FIVE

  THERE ARE ANY NUMBER of reasons that people become politicians. Some start on grade school student councils and discover they have a natural bent for civic discourse and debate. Others are seduced by a specific cause that sparks their imaginations. Or a historic figure who inspires them. Motives may be selfless or self-serving, practical or presumptuous; usually, they are complicated combinations of the above. Many people excel first in other disciplines, coming to politics from business, law, sports, or entertainment. Whatever their starting points, politicians get mixed into the same pot once they arrive in Washington, a town that requires thick skin, uncommon patience and a tolerance for platitudes. Unlike chess masters, physicists, athletes and rock stars, politicians tend to peak in middle age or later. The average age of a member of the House of Representatives today is fifty-six years old, the average age of a US senator sixty. The median age of Cabinet members is typically between fifty-five and sixty-four.

  When Catherine Blaine began her tenure as Secretary of Homeland Security, the age range of the presidential Cabinet was thirty-nine to sixty-eight. That put her at the low end—one notch up from the youngest. She felt privileged to serve with accomplished, experienced men such as Clark Easton and Harold DeVries; yet at the same time she’d been raised to find her own way through complicated issues. That was the internal tug of war—between her own instincts and the experienced counsel of her colleagues—that she felt now, walking with Herring and DeVries—three abreast—toward the back of a waiting limo as a soft chill hung in the air.

  Only DeVries
and Blaine got in the car.

  They rode in silence at first, part of a six-car motorcade, speeding along the Capital Beltway toward Virginia, blue lights sweeping the black pavement.

  “You okay?” DeVries said, pulling her from her thoughts.

  “Sure. Still assimilating, I guess.”

  “I know,” he said. “We all went through the same thing, Cate.”

  “Did you?” She watched his face in the flickering light—the high forehead, thin nose, firm set of his mouth; his observant eyes seemed reassuring to her, but expectant.

  “He wasn’t comfortable with that, was he?” she said at last. “With me.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Clark Easton. He wasn’t comfortable bringing me into that room.”

  “Oh.” He turned toward the window and she sensed that he was smiling. “Very perceptive,” he said. “Yes, there was a discussion with the President beforehand. About bringing you in now or bringing you in later. Secretary Easton wanted to wait.”

  “For what?”

  DeVries hesitated a beat before answering. “He’s just a careful man. An old soldier, who likes to keep things close to the vest.”

  “I know he is. But I should have been briefed on the cyber breach.”

  “It’s nothing personal, Cate. It’s just a principle: the fewer people in the circle, the less chance there is that anything will get out.”

  “I understand that,” she said, trying to stay even-tempered. “And how about you? What do you think?”

  “Me? I’m with the President.”

  “So I’m in now because of the President?”

  “No. You’re in now because of the message you received. Period. The President thinks it’s not our decision. That everyone who has been contacted directly has been contacted for a reason, and we need to respond as we’ve been instructed. I concur. For now.”

  “We’re playing this by Janus’s rules, in other words.”

  Cate glanced at the flashing lights of the military police vehicles sweeping across the four lanes of the Beltway as they whisked past slower traffic.

  “Only until we can determine who Janus is,” he said. “Do you have any other suggestion? Because if you do, I’m sure the President would be glad to hear it.”

  “No,” she said. “Not at this point.”

  “Nor do I.” He looked out at the rain, letting silence settle for a moment. “The President is very cognizant of the enormous risks here, Cate. It’s a personal test for him. If he doesn’t pass, this becomes his legacy. Either way, it’ll be with him the rest of his life. He hasn’t slept properly for days. He hasn’t told his wife. I know he respects you and is going to want your input.”

  Blaine sighed. “I don’t know that I’m really qualified to add much.”

  “Well, he does. I’m sure he’ll value your participation.”

  She soaked that in as the motorcade passed through a long dark stretch of rolling countryside, part of the twenty-two miles of I-495 that passed through Virginia.

  “You believe this,” she said, studying his face.

  DeVries was silent for a moment. “Yes, I do,” he said. “You will too, Cate. Just be patient. You said yourself it’s possible.”

  “Possible. But I also said it’s contingent on funding. It would take a fortune to make something like that operational.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?” DeVries said. The motorcade was slowing down, she saw, coming to the turnoff for Liberty Crossing. “A lot of what you’re wondering will be answered at the next meeting. I’m glad you’re part of this, Cate.”

  There was something in his tone that sounded rehearsed and unfamiliar. Not really him. It was eerie. He sounded a little too officious, as if he were playing a Cabinet member in a stage play rather than actually being one. That’s what she was thinking as the procession of cars passed through the gates of the government’s intelligence headquarters in McLean, Virginia.

  THE ASSASSIN FOLLOWED Jon Mallory at a distance to the Grosvenor Metro station parking garage—the same route they had taken the day before. He parked his black Range Rover one level above where Mallory parked, and watched from the fourth level as he crossed the street to the subway station.

  He had visualized how this would go—the look of surprise turning to panic after Mallory saw him—although he’d expected to have another day of surveillance before taking action.

  The assassin had learned the other man’s patterns: Mallory did not take his car downtown; he always parked here and rode the Metro; probably he was going to the Weekly American offices again; most likely he would be back within two hours.

  He had already intercepted the encryption code from Mallory’s car fob, creating a master key that enabled him to hack open his door lock with the press of a button. When Mallory returned, the assassin would be in the back seat, waiting for him.

  Certain images from the last assignment played like loops of film in his mind now as he waited: the woman stretching in the shade, wearing a pink, long-sleeved zip-up jacket, navy leggings, New Balance trainers. Walking down the gravel path with a slight bounce; crossing the aqueduct to the towpath, where she checked her watch just before starting to jog; her short blonde hair flapping, incandescent for a moment in a sudden shaft of sunlight.

  He had waited patiently for her. Choosing the moment judiciously. Startling her as she opened her car door. Tapping her arm, and then showing her the back of his wrist; asking his innocuous question: “Do you have the time?”

  There had been an instant of hesitation, her face damp and mottled from running. And then a long moment of fear, as Dr. Keri Westlake’s eyes went again to his hand and saw the cloth glove. Followed by the heat of anger. He had pulled the soaked rag from his jacket pocket and shoved it into her face, forcing her to breathe the sweet-smelling isoflurane while he pushed her head down into the seat. He moved in on top of her, his knee stabbing her belly and groin. He had seen the sudden swell of anger in her cornflower blue eyes; the hard downward tug of her mouth, as if she were trying to lift something that was too heavy. Felt her bony fingers clutching desperately at him. He had watched as her pupils dilated and her breathing became slower and ragged. And, finally, her eyes shut. Pre-empt completed.

  He had wanted her to stay alive a little longer. But he had kept her in the farmhouse for more than twenty-four hours anyway, returning to her twice before putting her in the ground. That had been his secret; a fringe benefit, unknown to his commander. It was the first time he had made love to a dead woman. Just thinking about it now sent a charge through him. Yes, I’d like to try that again, he thought.

  But he reminded himself that he needed to stay in the moment, focused on the current assignment. To protect the mission.

  Slumped in the back seat, he watched a woman walk past through the tinted windshield of Mallory’s car, dressed in a charcoal-gray business suit, carrying a briefcase. Then two men, in three-piece suits.

  It wouldn’t be much longer. He could just imagine it.

  JON MALLORY TURNED right out of the Foggy Bottom Metro station and walked along I Street toward the offices of the Weekly American magazine. It was a crisp afternoon in Washington, the sky a hard blue, the leaves shedding.

  He scanned the pedestrian traffic, alert for anyone who might be watching, and the street, for a dark SUV perhaps. He’d walked this same course the day before, seeing it all with different eyes; indifferent eyes. There had been a reversal since then: the story he’d been chasing was suddenly chasing him.

  Jon rode the elevator to Roger Church’s corner office on the second floor. He sat in the familiar burgundy guest chair across the desk from his longtime editor.

  “I need to leave this with you,” he said, handing Church an envelope. “I’m hoping my brother will come for it shortly. But I also want you to know about this.”

  Church opened the envelope. He unfolded the paper inside and looked at the list of seven names. Church was a tall, thoughtful man wit
h a mop of silver hair and a highly attuned sense of curiosity. Before taking over the Weekly American, he’d earned an international reputation as a reporter, writing for the Times of London and for The Economist.

  “Okay,” he said, looking up at Jon. “Who are they?”

  “Men and women who knew too much, evidently.”

  “About the same thing?”

  Jon shrugged.

  “What links them, then?”

  “That’s the story,” he said. “I don’t have it yet. What I know is that all seven are gone. Four dead. Three missing. Going back about nine years.”

  Church looked again at the list. Jon told him the rest, leaving out the parts that he wanted to tell only his brother, the parts that he carried on a flash drive in his pants pocket. Mallory was a veteran journalist, good at asking questions and telling stories. Occasionally, he became part of his own stories; he wasn’t so good at that.

  “And where did this come from?” Church said.

  At the bottom of the list were three initials. DKW. Dr. Keri Westlake.

  “That’s the woman who gave it to me,” he said. “She’s a physicist, professor of environmental sciences at the University of Maryland. A proponent of weather modification and geo-engineering research.”

  Jon had had an appointment to meet Keri Westlake again on Friday, September 30. But when he arrived at her office in College Park, her door had been closed and locked. No explanation left behind.

  “Until this morning, I thought it was just information,” Jon said. “Which may or may not have added up to anything. But this morning I learned that her home was broken into and her computers were accessed. Files and emails copied and erased. Some of which would probably tie her to me.”

  “Learned how?”

  “Police sources.”

  “And her whereabouts?”

  “She’s a missing person.”

  “Hmm.” Church tugged at his sleeve, processing what Jon was telling him. “So you feel you’re a part of this chain now?”