The Leviathan Effect (24 page)

Dr. Susan Romfo. Dr. Jared Clayton. Morgan Garland. All three were considered visionaries, leaders in their fields.
What would make them become involved with Victor Zorn?

She was reading an interview with Morgan Garland, the venture capitalist, when her phone rang.

10:21.

Odd that someone would be calling so late.

Even odder who it was.

“Yes.”

“Cate, Harold DeVries.”

“Yes,” she said. She listened to the rain on the roof, feeling her heart rate accelerate.

“Do you have the news on, by any chance?”

“No. Why?”

“Did you hear about this thing in Baltimore tonight?”

“What? No, what thing?”

The Director of National Intelligence sighed. “Put on Channel five, Cate. They’ve got it on right now.”

“What thing?”

“Put it on.”

She walked into the living room and clicked on her television. Turned up the sound. There was a “Breaking News” story, she saw, about a shooting. Two men had been shot to death in the suburbs of Baltimore. A teary neighbor was standing on the sidewalk in the rain, police lights flashing across her face. Saying, “This kind of thing doesn’t happen here. We don’t even lock our doors.
We don’t even lock our doors
.”

“What is it?” Blaine said.

“A scientist was killed. It was a home invasion, supposedly. Senseless thing.”

“Who was it?”

“You knew him.”

“What are you talking about?”

Blaine punched up the sound some more.

Stared at the set.

Then her blood went cold.

“Oh my God. No.”

C
HARLES
M
ALLORY HAD FINALLY
drifted to sleep on the dusty-smelling motel sofa. He was not ready to call it a night yet but was unable to keep his eyes open. In his dream, he was seated in a plush, state-of-the-art conference room with Catherine Blaine and Roger Church; his brother Jon and Patricia Hanratty were outside and Hanratty kept banging on the walls, screaming “Open the door, dear! Pull it open!” But Blaine and Church could not find any doors or windows to open. A wild wind was driving the rain against the conference room walls. Then a telephone began to ring.

Mallory sat up. He stared at the thick curtains, the shadow of rain cast from a parking lot light, the swirl of Hurricane Alexander on the silent television screen. One of his phones was still ringing. He reached for the one closest to him, realized it was the wrong one. Then he picked up the Hanratty phone. But it wasn’t her, either. It was a muted sound. One of the phones buried in his bag.

He unzipped the bag and reached for it. It was the number he had given to Blaine.

“Hello.” He parted the drapes, saw rain slanting hard against the streetlights.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry to call so late. Did I wake you?”

“No, not at all.” Mallory glanced at the clock on the bed-stand. 10:56. He was glad to hear her voice, actually, although it didn’t quite sound like her. “Go ahead.”

“I decided I’d like to talk with you again.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Fine.” He listened to her silence. “Want to talk now first?”

“Nope.”

“Tell me what it’s about?”

“Not right now.”

“Are you okay?”

“Not really. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Now Mallory was wide awake. He sat in the armchair and thought about the thing that had been bothering him about the list—a clue that Roger Church had inadvertently provided.

He poured a cup of coffee and thought about it some more.
I’m a night owl. You can call until midnight
.

He found the card the
Weekly American
editor had given him and pushed the numbers for Church’s home.

On the second ring, he answered. “Church.”

“You’re up.”

“Yes. Ah, hello,” he said, apparently recognizing Mallory’s voice.

“Can I just ask you a quick question? Something I should have asked Monday.”

“Sure, if you’d like.”

“You told me you had talked to the detectives in a couple of these disappearances.”

“That’s right, I did.”

“You mentioned that DNA was found in a couple of the cases that was never matched to anyone?”

“Three, actually.”

“Three of the cases.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you know what the DNA was that they found?”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Why?”

“Not sure. It’s just an interesting detail that might mean something.”

“Saliva on a cardboard coffee cup, in one case. From McDonald’s. Hairs and skin tissue in the second case. The third was hairs, semen, and fingerprints.”

“Who was the third?”

“Susan Beaumont. Trace amounts of semen were found on a chair in her motel room. Hair, skin, and fingerprints in her car.”

“What about the other DNA? Coffee cup and hair samples?”

“Hair in both cases was female. Saliva on the cup was male. Fingerprints were on the cup, too. But nothing in the NSIC database. Why?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know when I am.”

“Let me ask
you
something, then.”

“All right.”

“Did you meet with Jon?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And? How is he?”

“He’s fine. He’s in a safe location, working on the story. With a little luck, he’ll have something for you in a day or two.”

“You sound optimistic.”

“I have to be. I’m collaborating with him.”

“Keep me posted?”

“I will.”

Mallory signed off and slipped open the drapes. He stood by the window for a long time, watching the rain, thinking about what Church had just told him.

J
AMES
W
U COULD
not get the voice of David Quinn’s final transmission out of his head.
“Don’t know what I’m seeing … Faces …”
Quinn’s words echoed in his head like a dark refrain as he walked through the tunnel back to the White House and the President.

All day, he had waited for President Hall to respond to his calls and emails, but had heard nothing in reply. He was beginning to imagine that he would have to wait through the night—and maybe indefinitely—when Gabriel Herring appeared at the entrance to the Data Visualization Center with a pair of White House police officers. “The President would like to see you now,” he said in a flat voice, his face drawn and pale.

It was six minutes after eleven when Dr. Wu entered the Oval Office, past a posted Marine guard. He was tired and feeling vulnerable, thinking very strange and turbulent thoughts.

The President, dressed in khakis and a wrinkled blue oxford dress
shirt, nodded a wary greeting. “Dr. Wu,” he said. “Welcome. I understand you’ve been wanting to see me.”

“I have.” The scientist cleared his throat, standing in front of the President’s desk, his legs together. “Thank you, sir, for taking the time to meet with me. Normally I would not reach out in such a manner as this. But I have a concern I think you ought to hear.”

“All right. Please. Have a seat.”

Dr. Wu sat. He cleared his throat again, leaning forward in the rosewood chair, the toes of his well-worn wingtips just reaching the floor. He felt nervous, and wasn’t sure that he wanted to go through with this.

“In a sense,” he began, “my work has largely been about predicting outcomes. Predictions based on the accumulated results of previous outcomes. That’s what science does.”

“Yes.”

“I have studied storms for more than three decades, sir, as you know. I have flown into the eyes of more than two hundred hurricanes. I know what causes a storm and I know what causes a storm to break apart. I know how storms behave and how they don’t behave.”

“All right.” The President blinked rapidly; Dr. Wu sensed his restlessness.

“A hurricane, as you know, is the most powerful force on the planet. But it is nevertheless at the mercy of other forces. Clashing wind patterns, pressure systems, cold fronts, wind shear. Nature has built-in checks and balances that prevent hurricanes from growing past a certain size and a certain speed. As you know.”

“All right. Yes, I do. And so …?”

“And so. Something about this storm, Alexander, doesn’t fit with any model that I—we—have ever plotted. Or imagined. Something about Alexander isn’t right, sir.” Dr. Wu cleared his throat a little too loudly; the President frowned.

“Okay, so what do you mean, exactly? What’s on your mind, Jim?”

“I’m sorry, sir. What I mean is: this storm is not reacting to changes in the atmosphere the way a storm system should. Frankly, I think there’s something unnatural about this storm.” He cleared his throat again. “I can’t explain what that means exactly, only that there are forces
inside this storm
, sir, that are simply not following the laws of physics, of science, or nature.”

The President surprised him with a smile. “Okay, and so what do you imagine it is?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Dr. Wu paused. “I mean—I know this is probably going to sound …” He hesitated; he couldn’t believe he was about to say it. “I think, sir, based on what I know, that it’s possible this is
not
a natural storm system. I really don’t know how else to explain it.”

“What could it be, then?”

“Well, sir. I don’t know, exactly.” Dr. Wu tried to read the President, but his face was a mask. Part of him felt the President knew exactly what he was saying; part of him wasn’t sure. “I was hoping perhaps you could tell
me
something. Help shed some light on it. I know you took an unusual interest right as Alexander was beginning to form.”

The President seemed to be studying Wu all of a sudden. “Yes, that’s right. You’re observant.”

Dr. Wu waited for the President to say more, seeing that he’d struck some sort of nerve.
But what could it be? What was the government concealing about this storm?

Instead of responding, the President gestured for him to continue. “Go ahead, what else is on your mind?”

“Oh. Well.” He took a deep breath. “Several years ago, sir, I paid a visit to a research lab in California. One of the scientists there was Dr. Susan Romfo. She was pursuing what seemed to me a rather esoteric idea. That of quote unquote altering a storm system, as she put it, using ideas associated with artificial intelligence.” The President frowned. “This was strictly a computer simulation project,” Dr. Wu went on. “But she speculated, to me and to several other scientists, that someday this sort of science might actually have practical applications. I am a skeptic by nature and did not take this idea seriously at all. But, frankly, sir? I have begun to re-think some of my assumptions, just in the past twenty-four hours. Simply because the laws of physics and nature cannot explain to me what is happening out there.”

“Because of this storm.”

“Yes. That’s correct, sir. It’s almost as if it has somehow been programmed
not
to respond to the impediments that nature places in its way. As crazy as it sounds, sir, it’s behaving as if it has a will to
survive, or even a collective intelligence. It almost reminds me of a distributed intelligence program. As if it were invested with memory and an ability to adapt.”

Dr. Wu laughed awkwardly and looked down at the carpet, realizing how crazy he must sound. But he was desperate for the truth, to hear it from the President; whatever that truth might be. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “As someone who’s built his career on science, and on skepticism, I’m amazed that I’m actually saying those words.”

“But you’re saying them for a reason, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am.” He realized then that he was reacting this way because of what had happened to David Quinn, and his crew. And the lost freighter ships. He
was
saying this for a reason, but he was also being overly emotional. Maybe even having some sort of breakdown. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I’m not saying that’s what’s literally happening. It
couldn’t
be, of course. I know that. I’m just saying that’s what it resembles.”

“Or maybe it
could
be,” the President said. “Go on. Tell me what you’re really here for.”

Dr. Wu took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. “As I say, sir. It really goes back to my deep-rooted love of science. This is something—” He swallowed. “I just want to suggest, sir, that if you would like to bring me further into your confidence, I mean—I would, of course, abide by any confidentiality agreements you request. I think it falls under the purview of my role as science adviser to the President. And I also think I could help.”

The President waited a long time. Finally he smiled and nodded. “At this point,” he said, “I think I’m going to take you up on that, Jim.”

T
HE GYM WAS A
different place Thursday morning. Two women were running, five treadmills apart. The only other person Mallory saw, as he paid his entrance fee, was Catherine Blaine, standing by the dumbbell racks, feet spread, leaning forward, torso rail-straight, stretching. Actually, it was odd that anyone was here, he thought, considering how the storm had taken over the news. “Alexander the Great,” the media were all calling it now. He listened to the report on the Weather Channel.

Mallory could see right away, in her eyes, that things had changed.
One day later. Everything different
.