Darkness Falls (14 page)

One thing he was sure of, though, was that she didn't have anything to do with Ghawar. Or was he? What was it people always said about the serial killer who lived next door? "He was a nice, quiet guy -- used to lend me his lawn mower." Did anyone really have any idea what another person was capable of?

No. He did know her. She wouldn't have anything to do with this. If his predictions were right, even the best-case scenario was a disaster. The industrialized world would do everything in its power to shore up its supply, leaving countries without economic and military power out in the cold. What would happen to all those people who already lived on the edge? To the people who relied on foreign aid? There was no way she would be involved in something like that. Would she?

"Dr. Neal?" Reynolds prompted.

"I don't know how to kill it. Don't you think I'd tell you if I did?"

Beamon nodded thoughtfully. "Then it seems to me the person to ask about how this stuff can be killed is the person who created it. Right?"

"I don't think they'd have an answer." "But they might."

"Yeah, I guess."

Erin thought of Michael Teague -- an arrogant prick who thought because he had a lot of money he was the world expert on everything. He was almost certainly capable of something like this. But where did that leave Jenna? Dead? Her plan would have ended with ANWR, and then she would be a liability.

He sagged in his seat, suddenly drained of energy. Although he'd never come to terms with Jenna's death, at least she'd been dead. There had been certainty to that. Permanence. Now, it was all chaos again.

"So who did this?" Beamon said.

Erin looked over at him. "What?"

"You heard me."

"How the hell would I know?"

"Who would care about Alaska's wildlife refuge?" Beamon asked.

Erin tried to keep his expression blank, but wondered if the perspiration starting at his hairline was visible. "People like you think all environmentalists are crazy. A few people care enough to speak out about what we're going to leave our kids, and you bug their houses because, of course, the next step is blowing up a logging operation."

"Or creating a bacteria that could destroy a third of the world's oil supply."

"It could have been Arab terrorists -- they have access to Ghawar. It could have been some country that hates us. It's not too hard to find one of those."

"Maybe," Beamon said. "But what if it wasn't? Are you going to deny that there are environmental radicals out there who are off their rockers? My understanding is that you've been one of their favorite targets over the years. Come on, Erin. There can't be more than a dozen people who have both the motivation and the expertise to do something like this. Including you."

"Me?" He looked over at Reynolds, who seemed satisfied just to sit and watch. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"It is your area, right? I mean, everybody says you're the go-to guy on the subject."

"I'm also the guy who told you it was engineered."

"Sure, but Steve Andropolous would have figured that out pretty soon anyway, wouldn't he? So it would make sense for you to blow the whistle yourself and deflect suspicion."

"Why would I? Why would I do something like this?"

"I don't know. To save the African mud-sucker snail? Why do you people do anything?"

"We people do things because the world is being destroyed for no reason," Erin shouted. He knew that Beamon was baiting him, but as usual, he couldn't just let it go. "Are people happier now that they have a four-mile-to-the-gallon truck to drive on dead smooth pavement? Or are they just trying to keep up with the Joneses? Today a family of three buys a six-thousand-squarefoot house with four rooms they don't use, but still have to heat and cool. Tomorrow, their neighbor gets a bigger one, so they have to move to a house with eight rooms they don't use just to stay even. Are they better off?" He pointed through the window at the stopped traffic outside. "Are you happy spending half your life sitting in that?"

Beamon followed his finger and pondered the traffic for a moment. "So it would make perfect sense for you to use that pool of yours to cook up a bacteria that eats oil. You're not trying to hurt anyone. You're trying to help us. To help the earth. I can see the argument."

"Screw you."

Beamon shrugged. "Okay. If you didn't do it, who did?"

"If you think I'm going to start naming names so you can put the thumbscrews to a bunch of innocent people, you're nuts. Create your own witch trial."

"But if this is as bad as you say it could be, shouldn't you be doing what you can to help?"

Erin ignored the question. "Am I under arrest?"

Beamon didn't answer immediately, instead folding his hands over a middle that looked slightly larger than the first time they'd met. "So far, there's only one thing I'm certain about: you know more than you're saying."

Erin just sat there, struggling to keep his stare indignant in the face of an accusation that was completely true. Was he the one in the wrong here? Should he talk? Was he making a looming disaster even worse, all for a woman who was probably dead, and even if she was alive, clearly didn't give a shit about him?

No. What difference would a few days make? If Jenna was out there, he needed to find her and talk to her. To figure out what to do. If Beamon tracked her down first, there was no way he'd believe she'd just been after ANWR. He'd treat her like a terrorist, and everyone had seen the pictures of what happened to terrorists these days.

"You didn't answer my question," Erin said. "Am I under arrest?"

Beamon shook his head disappointedly. "Lucky for you, what I know and what I can prove are two different things."

Chapter
17.

Mark Beamon paused at a fork in the hallway, dialing his cell phone and regretting refusing an escort. Did they say right or left?

Carrie's voice mail picked up and he decided to go with something more involved than the ineffective "call me" message he'd left the last eight times.

"Okay, I know you're mad at me for not showing up to the caterer thing," he said, arbitrarily deciding to turn left. "But I have a good excuse. I was out of the country and then I had to meet with the president. So it's not like I blew you off to go to a ball game or something." He winced. The ball game comment would come off as glib and he was shooting for something more along the lines of groveling. On the slightly brighter side, his instincts had been right and he was now standing in front of the door he'd been trying to find.

"It turns out that this job is going downhill even faster than we thought. I've gotten caught up with some stuff that --"

The door was suddenly jerked open and he found himself face-to-face with a man whose well-tailored suit filled nearly the entire jamb. "Can I help you?"

Beamon made a cutting motion across his throat, and then pointed to the phone, trying to stay on script. "Anyway, I'm kind of caught up in --"

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to move on if you don't have business here. This is a secure area."

Beamon jammed his free hand into his jacket and pulled out his ID. The man leaned down to read it, immediately recognizing the name of his new boss and retreating back inside.

"Christ. Where was I? Look, I can't really talk about particulars, but you're going to find out soon enough and then you're going to understand. Anyway, could you please call me?"

He shoved the phone back into his pocket, but didn't reach for the door.

He should just turn around right now and pick up some solar panels on the way home. Maybe plant a garden.

When he finally pushed through the door, the twenty or so people inside fell silent. He recognized about a third of them -- staff from his until recently backwater division. The others had been assigned from other areas of Homeland Security for their expertise, and probably their willingness to spy for their respective agencies and political sponsors. Computers were abundant, but still lined up on the floor waiting for furniture.

"Hello," he said, detecting a slight echo in the cavernous room. "For those of you who don't know me, I'm Mark Beamon. It looks like I'm going to be running this investigation. At least for the time being. Could someone tell me where we stand?"

A woman he'd never met raised her hand hesitantly.

"Yes. You. Go ahead."

"We've collected all the FBI's files on environmental radicals and have people trying to put threat levels between one and ten on each person and organization."

"How many have we gotten through so far?"

"About seventy-five."

"Seventy-five? Jesus. How many are there?"

"Two hundred or so."

"Okay. I want to pick up all the sevens and above. Physical and electronic surveillance on everyone who rated four through six, and electronic surveillance only on all the others."

"We're already working on the warrants."

"Don't worry about warrants. Just do it," Beamon said, hoping his voice didn't betray his reluctance. He'd never been comfortable with the government's ability to do whatever it wanted as long as it said "terrorism" three times fast. If history taught anything, it was that absolute power corrupted absolutely. He told himself that he had it under control, but isn't that what everyone said?

"Who's looking at equipment dealers?"

Another hand went up. Surprisingly, it was the well-toned appendage of the man who had challenged him at the door. "We've made a list of the items you'd need to create a bacteria like this and we've already got the sales records from all the domestic suppliers of that kind of equipment. We're going through it now."

"And I assume you're cross-referencing it with the threat list?"

"Absolutely."

"If anyone finds they have a manpower issue, let me know right away. I'm told we're going to get whatever we need, but my preference is to keep things as small as possible.

"Do we know who's dealing with securing the oil fields themselves?"

"The state department," someone said. "They're warning other countries and the oil companies about possible attacks on water injectors -- though they're being vague about what kind of attack. The White House has been pretty restrictive about what we can say."

"Okay," Beamon said. "Let's get in touch with State and figure out a way to set a trap. Maybe we can catch someone in the act."

"I'll give them a call this afternoon and try to coordinate. Also, we've found a guy who can probably help us figure out any weaknesses in the security. His name's Erin

Beamon held up a hand, silencing the man. "No one talks to Erin Neal unless it goes through me, understood?"

"You know him?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Unfortunately?" the woman coordinating the research into environmentalist groups said. "Are you saying you think he could be involved? Should we be looking at him?"

It was a good question. At this point Beamon had a slightly queasy feeling about the guy. Not full-on nausea -- more like a mild hangover. But it was getting worse by the minute.

"Is he on our list anywhere?" Beamon asked.

She shook her head. "I don't think anyone considers him particularly radical, or even interested anymore."

"Put him on. I want to know everything there is to know about him."

"What about surveillance?"

"Full electronic. And we might as well put someone out there to follow him if he goes anywhere. It shouldn't take much manpower -- there's only one way in and out of his property as near as I can tell." He looked around and no one seemed to have anything else to say. "Okay. Any problems, come directly to me. At least for now, I seem to have the power to cut red tape. Any ideas -- even stupid ones -- I'm always ready to listen."

His phone started ringing and he looked down at the screen. Carrie. "I've got to take this. I'll be in my office . . . does anyone know where it is?"

Everyone pointed toward the back and he started off in that direction, putting the phone to his ear.

"Thanks for returning my call," he said quietly.

"I was kind of irritated, Mark."

Other than a desk, the room he was to inhabit was empty. He pushed the door closed and sat on his blotter. "Are you in a better mood now?"

"I chose all food you hate for the reception. That helped."

"I can see how it would."

"I saw the president's speech today." Beamon had managed to miss it. "What did he say?"

"That there's evidence terrorists are going to be targeting the world's oil supplies."

Beamon nodded into the phone. The main idea behind the announcement was to get the world thinking in terms of energy insecurity, just in case Erin Neal was right. It seemed kind of pointless as far as he was concerned. Way too little, way too late.

"I take it that's why you're going to be eating lutefisk at your wedding?" Carrie said.

"More or less."

"It's interesting . .

"What?"

"That you went to Saudi Arabia and then you went up to Alaska to look at that bacterial contamination. You know, there are naturally occurring bacteria that eat oil. I wonder if there's a connection? If it would be possible to engineer --"