Authors: Ben Bova

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Fantasy

Empire Builders (25 page)

BOOK: Empire Builders

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THIRTY-THREE

VASILY MALIK STRODE onstage like a conquering hero, with a broad smile and a happy gleam in his eyes. Dressed in an impeccably tailored blue suit, he went straight to the podium and gripped it with
both hands. The hall was filled to overflowing with news reporters; video cameras focused on the newly elected chairman of the Global Economic Council. Two big TV monitors flanked the podium, one displaying the BBC’s broadcast, the other CNN’s. Both pictures were the same, except for a minute difference in the angle at which the cameras were focused on Malik’s triumphant expression. Jane Scanwell sat in the balcony section reserved for VIPs. All the other Council members were there: Muhammed Shariff Sibuti looking slightly nonplussed, as if he did not fully understand what was happening; Rafaelo Gaetano with a smile that looked decidedly forced, Jane thought.

It had been three months since she had last seen Dan. For three months Jane had hammered at her
so-called friends high in the corporate world of the news media. They had listened to her story of criminal corruption in the GEC, promised to study the situation, and done nothing. They always asked for her source of information.

When she told them it was Dan Randolph they invariably shrugged her off. “He’s trying to get back at Malik; everybody knows the two of them hate each other. We can’t be party to a personal vendetta—we’d be sued for billions! And Randolph ’s a fugitive from justice, to boot.”

Only two of her media contacts actually promised to examine the information Jane brought with her. Again, no action from them. It was like pouring a cup of water onto the Sahara . The information disappeared somewhere in the network’s labyrinth of departments and bureaus. Jane began to understand that the Mafia had people in the news networks, too. They wanted Dan’s information, not to broadcast, and certainly not to use as the starting point of an investigation. They wanted it to help them track down the leaks in Astro Manufacturing.

Now Malik stood before the media reporters, fresh from his unanimous election to the GEC chair, the sky blue emblem of the GEC serving as a backdrop for him. Smiling for the assembled reporters and the hundreds of millions of TV viewers, Malik said, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. You will be happy to learn that I do not have a prepared speech to give you.”

A titter of laughter rippled through the reporters.

“However, I do have an announcement to make. After it, I will be happy to answer your questions.”

He paused, took a breath while the hall fell absolutely silent except for the barely audible sound of the cameras humming and the faint hiss of the lights.

“My first act as chairperson of the Global Economic Council is to institute an Industrial Coordinating Committee, which will consist of the CEOs of each of the world’s leading industrial corporations. The ICC will serve as a focal point for the GEC’s continuing efforts to ameliorate the effects of industrial pollution on the Earth’s atmosphere.”

“He’s lying,” said a voice. The hall stirred.

“He’s not telling the whole truth,” said Dan Randolph, whose image filled the BBC monitor screen. “Ask him why he needs an Industrial Coordinating Committee.”

Just as suddenly as it appeared, Dan’s image winked off, leaving Malik’s angry red face on the screen. Malik turned and glared at his aides, standing openmouthed with shock in the wings of the small stage.

“Who was that?” somebody asked. “Was that Dan Randolph ?”

“Please?’ Malik raised his hands for calm and put a reassuring smile on his face. “There must be some crank somewhere in the BBC system—“ “I’m not a crank,” Dan said, this time from the CNN monitor. “But I think maybe you’re a crook.”

Pandemonium among the reporters. They were on their feet, shouting questions—not at Malik, but to Dan’s image in the screen. Dan grinned at them. “Hey, this is Vasily’s media conference.

Ask him your questions, not me. He’s got all the answers you want.” Malik angrily strode off the stage and Dan’s image winked out, leaving the reporters with no one to question. The TV screens showed only the GEC emblem and a bare stage.

“I want him found and I want him found immediately?’ Malik was screaming into his phone. “Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter. If I don’t get results immediately I’ll have you replaced! Do you understand me?”

Gaetano had brushed past the Russian’s distraught secretary and come into Malik’s office looking as tense and angry as Malik himself. He stood before the desk as the Russian turned off his phone with a furious bang of his fist against the keyboard.

“And what do you want?” Malik snapped. “To help you,” said Gaetano.

Malik rose from his chair and leaned his knuckles on his desktop. “The only help I want is in finding Dan Randolph.”

“Dead or alive, I know.”

The Russian made a furious snort.

“I can help,” Gaetano said, pulling his silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket. Malik saw that his hands were trembling slightly.

“Is it true, then?” Malik asked. “You have connections to the Mafia?”

Gaetano lit the cigarette and puffed a cloud of bluish smoke toward the ceiling. “I have friends who can help you find Randolph .” “The Mafia,” Malik insisted.

“Call them whatever you want to,” said Gaetano. “You want the man dead. So do I. We can work together to see that he never bothers us again.”

“The Mafia,” Malik repeated. He turned his back to Gaetano, went to the windows and stared out at the gray Paris sky. It always seemed to be gray, these days, he thought. It seems as if I haven’t seen a blue sky in years.

“You can’t turn your back on us,” Gaetano said, his voice brittle with suppressed anger. “You and I

have been working together for many months now. You are part of my organization, whether you like it or not.”

Malik said nothing. He wished that Gaetano would disappear.

“I will see to it that Randolph is found. And done away with. Then we can go on with our plans for organizing the world’s industries.”

Malik waited until he heard his office door click shut. When he turned around he noticed the new nameplate that his secretary had placed on his desk for his approval: V. S. Malik, Chairman. He tasted ashes in his mouth.

Gaetano strode along the hallway to his own office, thinking furiously. Malik is a reluctant ally, but he’ll go along with what I want him to do. He has to. He has no other choice. Jane Scanwell is the dangerous one; she’s in league with Randolph , probably in love with the bastard.

By the time he reached his office and closed the door behind him, though, he was smiling. Why not use Jane to lure Randolph into the open? That would work. And then both of them can die in the same accident.

The more he thought about his idea the more he liked it. And once the two of them are out of the way, he told himself, Don Marcello can at last have the fatal heart attack I’ve been waiting for.

Gaetano actually whistled happily as he sat at his desk and picked up the telephone handset.

There was no way to hush up Dan Randolph’s brash interruption of Malik’s media conference, not when Dan had been seen by more than a hundred million TV viewers.

GEC public relations flacks tried to deflect reporters’ questions.

Randolph is a criminal, a fugitive from justice. He’s sore because the GEC stripped him of his company. Yes, but how did he break into the BBC and CNN transmissions? How did he do that?

We’re investigating that. Both those networks are beefing up their security. And we’re installing new protective circuits in all the communications satellite ground stations.

You mean he broke into the ground stations?

Electronically, yes. That seems to be what he did. We’re checking out that line of investigation. There was no physical break-in. It looks as if he managed to override the uplink transmissions from Earth to the satellites and insert his own transmission in place of what the uplinks were carrying.

But how could he do that? Where did he transmit from? We’re looking into that.

You don’t know?

Not yet. But one thing is for certain: with the new protective programs we’re adding to the ground stations, he’ll never be able to do it again.

Two days later, the UNESCO educational channel was running a program about global warming. Schools all around the world tuned in to see the top experts from major universities discuss the possibilities of drastic changes in the global climate.

“Much of the problem stems from human activity,” said a geo physicist from Kenya , his thick white hair a startling contrast to his deeply black skin.

“Yes,” agreed the moderator, a world-famous actress who had turned activist when her career began to slump. “As I understand it, atmospheric pollution from human sources is now a bigger factor than all the natural sources of pollutants combined.”

“If by ‘natural sources of pollutants’ you mean volcanic eruptions and animal wastes, then, yes, it is true. Humans are ruining the atmosphere at an alarming rate.”

“What about the greenhouse cliff?” asked Dan Randolph. His grinning image suddenly appeared between the moderator and the scientist.

The moderator and scientist went on speaking as if nothing had happened, because the show had been taped in advance of its airing. But their sound went off and Dan Randolph’s image seemed to hover between them like an elf or a leprechaun.

“They’re not telling you about the greenhouse cliff, kids,” Dan said cheerfully. “There’s a strong chance that the climate is going to shift abruptly, within a few years. Think about it. What would you do if the sea level was going to rise by ten meters or more?” Before the shocked schoolchildren could react, before their stunned teachers could think to turn off their TV sets, Dan’s image disappeared and the original show droned on as if nothing had happened.

But that evening a dozen million children asked their parents what a greenhouse cliff was.

Both the World Cup soccer game and cricket match were interrupted by Dan Randolph. His image seemed to appear randomly on television broadcasts ranging from daytime soap operas to a live presentation of Ai’da from the Baths of Caracalla inRome . Dan appeared during one of the intermissions; opera lovers appreciated his courtesy.

He never was on the screen for more than thirty seconds. He spoke about the greenhouse cliff and the fact that the world was facing an inexorable crisis.

“The GEC’s answer is to take control of all the world’s industries,”

Dan said, for once his elfin smile gone, his face grim. “That means they’re taking control of all the world’s jobs. They stole my company from me. What will they be stealing from you?”

Reporters all over the world beat themselves into exhaustion trying to find Dan Randolph, trying to get Malik or anyone in the GEC to reply to his charges. Zach Freiberg appeared on nationwide TV in the United States and explained what the greenhouse cliff was. But two dozen other scientists gave interviews belittling Zach’s views and casting doubt on his credibility.

“After all,” said one kindly-looking white-haired woman, “he did work for Dan Randolph, didn’t he?” She herself worked for Rockledge Industries, under GEC management.

Finally, after two weeks of uproar, Jane Scanwell announced that she would give a news conference in Paris to respond to Dan Randolph’s charges on behalf of the GEC.

Malik knew that Jane would confirm everything Randolph had been saying. “It will be a disaster for us,” he moaned to Gaetano.

“Then we must not permit her to meet the reporters,” said the Italian.

THIRTY-FOUR

DAN SHIVERED SLIGHTLY as he sat in the bare wooden chair and hunched closer to the fire. It can’t be the radiation, he told himself for the fortieth time that morning. I’m just not accustomed to the cold.

It was snowing again. Through the cabin’s only decent window Dan could see the white flakes sifting down gently, quietly, cold and still as death. He shuddered again inside the quilted coat he had thrown over his shoulders. Then he got up from the chair to toss another stick on the fire.

Now I know how Sai must feel, he thought, bottled in liquid nitrogen.

His campaign was going well. It was fun to twist their tails, those pompous asses at the GEC. Must be twenty-two zillion security agents and news reporters trying to figure out how I’m able to break into the TV transmissions. Flatlanders, all of ‘em.

It had been ridiculously easy, although physically arduous. Nearly four months ago Mason Dickson had taken a vacation in space. From Liechtenstein he drove to Milan and caught the space-plane to Rockledge Industries’ tourist hotel in orbit. He chose Rock-ledge’s space station because, in addition to its famous Zero-G Hotel, the satellite also housed a considerable satellite repair and refurbishment facility.

For a suitable exchange of money, one of the Rockledge technicians spent a week in Mason Dickson’s plush luxury suite at the hotel while Dan replaced him at his job. The man was a maintenance technician whose specialty was working on the communications satellites in geostationary orbit, 22,300 miles above the Earth.

Dan rode an orbital transfer vehicle to the Clarke orbit together with a team of human and robot technicians. He spent most of his time inside the shielded OTV, as did the rest of the humans, directing the robots who went out to work on individual satellites in the high radiation flux of the upper Van Allen Belt.

At week’s end he returned to the hotel, became Mason Dickson once again, and—after a weekend of rest—returned to Earth.

Each of the commsats that his crew worked on now carried a miniaturized electronics package that allowed Dan to override the signal coming up from Earth and beam his own signal down the receiving antennas around the globe.

The price, though, had been high. Dan had to pay hush money to each of the other four technicians in the OTV. And he been exposed to more radiation than he liked to think about. Dan had to go EVA several times, to make sure that the small-witted robots had done their jobs correctly. Even inside the OTV the radiation dosimeters constantly hovered in the yellow warning area. The standing joke among
the four other men and women of the crew had been that they not only belonged to the Zero-G Club, they also belonged to the Zero Population Growth movement.

Now he sat in the austere shack in the foothills of the Himalayas , shivering with cold. Or was it radiation sickness?

It was unfair to call the building a shack. The lamas had built it solidly, with loving care, as they did every task they undertook. To them it was a retreat house, a remote place of solitude where a man could contemplate his place in the universe without interruption from the outside world. Nobo had made the arrangements for Dan to use it, at the same time he had taken Tamara with him to Kyoto.

Dan pulled his chair closer to the fire. He grinned when he thought about the look on Nobo’s face when he first saw Tamara.

Talk about being hit by the thunderbolt. Nobo nearly fell over his own feet trying to be polite and helpful to her.

The door banged open and Big George stamped in, a blast of frigid air swirling into the room. “It’s snowing again,” George growled.

“I thought you liked the snow.”

George had never seen snow any closer than a satellite view before he had come to this remote retreat house with Dan. For the first few days he had reveled in the white purity of it. But then he began to grumble that the stuff was “fooking damned cold. And wet.”

George tossed his fleece-lined parka onto the bench by the door and came over to the fireplace, rubbing his big hands briskly. He had begun to let his beard grow back; he was starting to look shaggy and fierce again, rather than pinkly cherubic.

“How do you feel, Dan?” “Got the shakes.”

“I ought to get a doctor for you.”

Dan laughed humorlessly. “How? By oxcart?”

“By picturephone,” George replied. “We could access one of the medical libraries, find out if you’ve really got radiation sickness or not. Don’t have to call a real person and let them know where we are.”

“I’ll be okay,” said Dan. “Even if it is rad poisoning, I’ve got plenty of pills for that.” George looked unconvinced.

“It can’t be a very bad close,” Dan said. “My gums aren’t bleeding and my hair isn’t falling out.” “Then what’s bothering you?”

With a painful sigh, “Old age, I guess. I haven’t been exposed to winter in a long, long time.”

Changing the subject, George asked, “When’s your next broadcast?” Dan glanced at the gray electronics boxes piled in a corner of the room. Wonder what the lamas would say if they knew their retreat house had become a television studio?

“Did you hear me?” George asked.

“I’m not deaf,” said Dan. “Some of my faculties are still working.” “So? When?”

“They’ll be expecting me to pop in on Jane’s news conference. So, instead, I’ll hit the evening news shows the night before. Give the reporters more questions to ask when Jane meets with them.” “That’s tomorrow, then.”

Dan nodded. “We might as well do it on the Japanese news networks. Won’t have to worry about time zones so much. Then all the others will pick it up, all around the world.”

“Sounds good to me,” said George.

Dan grinned at him. “You want me to wear makeup for the camera, George?” “I just wish you looked better.”

Gaetano flew from Paris to Naples aboard a regular commercial airliner the night before Jane Scanwell’s scheduled news conference. It will be best if I am far from the scene of the crime, he told himself, with plenty of witnesses to vouch for my whereabouts.

Besides, Kimberly was waiting for him in Naples . In so many ways she reminded him of Kate: the same red hair, the same fiery spirit, the same wild heat when her passion overwhelmed her. And yet they were different, as well. Kate was reluctant and had to be controlled. She disliked the little games that Rafaelo enjoyed playing. Kim, on the other hand, invented games of her own. She could be demanding, but they were demands that he enjoyed meeting. And exceeding.

She did not even know that she was on a drug-induced high virtually all of the time. Gaetano’s servants saw to it that the drugs were in her food. Nothing truly harmful. Just enough to keep her wired. When he wanted her to be obedient, like the time he invited his friends from Messina to share their bed, he saw to it that other dosages were applied.

And then there was always Kate. It’s probably better that she remains on the Moon. If she knew what’s happening to her precious sister, she would probably try to murder me. Gaetano smiled to himself as the plane crossed the Alps . No, better to keep Kate where she is. Whenever I have to go to Alphonsus I will have her there waiting for me, obedient to my command, willing to turn herself inside out for me, because she is afraid for her sister.

He almost laughed aloud. If she could have seen what that trio from Messina did with her, she would know that her worst fears have already come true.

Then he sobered. What will happen once Jane has been removed? Will she lead us to Randolph ? Everything depends on finding that American bastard before he does any more damage. He paid no attention to the magnificent Alps gliding past outside his plane’s window. Nor did he notice how brown
they looked, how little snow remained on their jagged peaks.

Josh Pollett was literally quivering. Like a hunting dog who knew there were birds hiding in the bushes, the wiry, sharp-featured reporter was atremble with anticipation as he sat at the tape console. He was running videotapes of Dan Randolph’s unauthorized broadcasts. Harriet McIntyre and Wayne Manley stood behind him in the darkened workroom. She too was wide-eyed with eagerness. Manley was frowning, his sleekly handsome face distinctly unhappy. “How does he do that?” Manley asked, his voice a low rumble.

‘What difference does it make?” Pollett snapped. “He’s doing it.” “Every network on Earth has teams of experts checking their equipment. The GEC has an army of investigators looking into it.” “I’ve been pushing every source I’ve got,” said Pollett. “Nobody can figure out where he’s broadcasting from, or how he’s breaking into the regular broadcasts.”

On the screen, Dan Randolph was saying, “This is real, folks. We’re all facing a terrible disaster. Don’t take my word for it. Ask the scientists. Ask Zach Freiberg at the California Institute of Technology.

Ask Vasily Malik or your own representative on the Global Economic Council. They’ve got to act! And fast! But they won’t unless you make them act.”

Pollett flicked an eye to the digital timer beside the screen. “That’s the longest he’s stayed on the air: fifty-three seconds.” “He’s looking grimmer,” Mclntyre said. “More desperate.”

“He’s got good reason to be desperate,” said Manley. “They’ll catch him soon.” “I wish we could catch him first,” Mclntyre said.

“Nobody knows where he is, or where he’s broadcasting from.” Pollett swiveled his chair around and got to his feet. “Listen,

Wayne, we’ve got to do something about this. Whether Randolph is right or not, this is the biggest story of the decade maybe of the century?

“Don’t go off the deep end,” Manley warned.

“We’re all going to be in the deep end if Randolph ’s telling us the truth,” Mclntyre snapped.

Manley turned and made a move for the door, a well-fleshed man in an expensive three-piece suit. His two reporters, in faded jeans and T-shirts, scampered to cut him off. Manley glared at them in the dim light coming from the viewer’s screen.

“Come on, now,” Manley said.

“No, you come on,” Pollett said heatedly. “We can’t sit on this story any longer. Holy shit,Wayne , we’re talking about half the world being flooded! This is bigger than Noah and the ark? “Any ‘gentleman’s agreement’ that the network might have made with Washington is out the window now,” said Mclntyre, more reasonably. “Surely even the Empress can see that.”

“That’s no way to speak of Theodora.”

“Come on,Wayne ,” Pollett chivvied, “let me interview Freiberg . I’ve interviewed him before. He’s a responsible scientist, not some nutcase or quack.”

“And I can get to Jane Scanwell,” McIntyre said.

“And maybe this guy Malik, through her,” Pollett suggested. Manley put up his hands. ‘I’ll speak to Theodora about it.” “When?”

“It’s got to be today!”

“This evening,” Manley answered, clearly irritated. “I’m having dinner with the family.” “Okay,” said Pollett. “I’m catching the next flight to L.A. ”

“And I’ll go to Paris .”

The two reporters burst out of the viewing room like eager schoolchildren running out to play, leaving Manley standing there alone. A slow smile crept across his fleshy face. Let them go, he told himself. Even if Theodora refuses to listen to reason they can get their interviews and then we’ll present the Empress with a fait accompli. She wouldn’t fire me if things go sour. She’ll fire Pollett and Mclntyre. After all, I didn’t authorize these interviews, did I?

Jane sat at the gracefully curved little walnut desk in the study of her apartment, bent over the screen of her laptop, poring over every detail of the data Dan had given her. She knew the give-and-take of a live meeting with the reporters. She wanted to have as much information in her head as possible for the morning’s news conference. She had come home from the GEC office and immediately launched into her preparation for the morning’s news conference, stopping only to get out of her business clothes and into a comfortable terry-cloth robe and to fix a light dinner tray. Far into the night she sat studying, memorizing facts, numbers, dates, names. The dinner tray sat on the desk untouched.

A noise. Just a soft whisper, really, but it made her jerk her head up and glance around the little room. The window was closed and locked. It must have been something down on the street, Jane thought.

Nothing to be alarmed about. Still, she got up from the desk and walked through the apartment, checking all the windows and especially the French doors that led out onto the balcony. Then she went back to her computer and accessed her own security system. All the lights were green. Everything was fine.

You’re being melodramatic, Jane told herself.

On the roof of the apartment building two Japanese men in ordinary business suits walked slowly along the edge, speaking quietly of their plans to enter the martial arts tournament in Saigon during their vacation time. A third sat in the deep shadow of the air-conditioner shed, visible only by the tiny red glow of his cigarette. Down on the street across from the building’s front entrance another pair of Japanese, one of them a woman, loitered in a dark doorway. In the alley behind the building, a lone Japanese man prowled, fading into the shadows at the slightest sound. In an apartment on the first floor of Jane’s building, an older Japanese man sat in front of a TV screen. He seemed to be drowsing, except that
every few moments he lifted his hand to inspect the small black electronic box it held. Six green lights shone steadily. All was well with the people he had deployed. His TV screen showed the lobby of the apartment building, quiet and empty except for the concierge, who was truly asleep behind his desk.

Jane knew nothing of this. Nobuhiko had informed her that she was being guarded, but she had never noticed any bodyguards. She had the right to ask for protection from the GEC security department, but she feared that Gaetano had infiltrated that office before any of the others.

So she checked her electronic security system, then shut down her computer and went to her bedroom. For the first time in her life she felt personally endangered. It was not exciting; it was frightening. She wished there were some way to avoid the danger that she knew was pressing in on her. But Gaetano and his criminals had to be exposed, she told herself. If we’re going to save the world, we’ve got to get rid of the crooks.

She knew that her real reason was Dan. He loves me and he needs me. He’ll get himself killed if I don’t help him. The silly fool, butting his head against the GEC and the Mafia and anyone else who stands in his way. Silly, stubborn, egotistical, glorious, wonderful fool.

She stopped and looked at herself in her bedroom mirror. “And what are you’?.” she asked the image. “Just as foolish as he is.” Then she laughed, knowing that this was the way it had to be.

The phone buzzed. She called out, “Answer,” and the screen lit up with:

MUST SEE YOU AT MIDNIGHT AT SACRE COEUR. IMPERATIVE. YOU KNOW WHO.

BOOK: Empire Builders

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