The Leviathan Effect (42 page)

Charles Mallory dumped his groceries on the table in Room 321.
There were about a dozen cars in the lot now, more than the day before. The motel Chaplin had found for him was near Parrs Spring, the highest elevation in the county, about eight hundred feet above sea level. Not the safest place on the Eastern Seaboard but far from the worst.

He checked his phone and saw that the last caller had been Blaine. She answered his return call on the second ring.

“Where are you?”

“On my way,” she said. “I’ve got to get some things from my apartment and then I’m leaving.”

Good
. He listened to the rain for several beats. “Anything more?”

“No.” He heard her take a deep breath. “I’m really worried. They’re going to send a state trooper out to the place where his girlfriend’s family lives. On the Shore.”

“We’ll find him.”

“I’m also just feeling kind of sick. I think it’s a delayed reaction.”

“What do you mean?”

“To Rorbach. I can’t believe he got away with it for so long. Right out in the open.”

“Don’t think about that.”

“I know.”

“Be careful,” he said. “Everything will be okay.”

Blaine sighed. “Thanks.”

Mallory opened a quart bottle of Diet Coke and a bag of Cheetos and he turned on the television. The storm was playing on nearly every channel, it seemed, although there was also a John Wayne movie on one and a baseball game on another. At the top of the hour, he clicked on one of the news channels and watched. The NWS alert Blaine had told him was coming had arrived.

The news cast cut to FEMA Director Shauna Brewster who was sitting stone-faced in her office as rain cascaded against the windows behind her.

The scene shifted to the President, wearing a dark blue slicker, standing under an awning against the rain. Just behind him, his eyes dazed, was the President’s chief of staff, Gabriel Herring.

O
N THE STREETS
of Frederick, in western Maryland, the rain had softened to a drizzle, although the sky to the west was dark and lit with continuous veins of lightning.

At 3:04, a series of nearly horizontal lightning bolts seemed to burst out of nowhere, striking trees, parking meters, and several points along the ground on Court Street, and sending an electric current down much of a city block, which instantly killed seven pedestrians and severely burned the legs of four others. An assistant city clerk named Deborah Wattingly, who was standing on the sidewalk in front of City Hall, captured the moment on her smart phone.

Seventy miles away, in downtown Washington, D.C., cell phones and amateur video cameras recorded the freak, near-continuous lightning storms that now enveloped the Washington Monument and the National Cathedral, the two tallest structures in the nation’s
capital. The lightning surrounding National Cathedral was flashing more than two hundred and fifty times per hour, according to Washington meteorologist Robin Vance, who was the first to show video of the phenomenon on local Washington television.

By 4
P.M.
, Vance’s broadcast was the most popular YouTube video in the country, followed by Deborah Wattingly’s cell phone footage of the deadly strike in Frederick, Maryland.

“Ninth series of pulses has been activated,” Dr. Clayton said, his voice resonating with an unwavering energy. He hunched forward over one of the desk monitors, legs bent, and typed in a sequence.

“Nothing substantial yet,” said Dr. Wu, blinking numbly at the screens. He still felt disoriented from what had happened outside, his eyes unable to focus properly. The blinding flashes in the sky, the clouds morphing into images, the terrified face of Dr. Quinn looking down at him.

“Well, it’s hard to say, actually,” Dr. Clayton said, his eyes not quite meeting Dr. Wu’s. He began to summarize changes in air pressure, wind speeds and wind field.

None of which is of any significance
.

No longer listening, Dr. Wu could hear the blood rushing in his ears. He was relieved when the President finally interrupted, summoning him on his BlackBerry. As he strode into the hallway to the Oval Office, Wu saw Samuel Watson, the director of the Secret Service, and two agents stepping out of the President’s office into the narrow hallway. He nodded tersely, but they did not acknowledge him.

Herring was on the other side of the Oval Office, by the windows, standing as erect and still as a statue, facing the South Lawn, talking on his phone.

“Hi, Jim,” the President said.

“Mr. President.”

“Have a seat. The JOC just told me they want me out of here. How do you like that? They want me to fly to Bolling Air Force Base immediately. I told them to give me until six and they did everything they could not to roll their eyes. Am I being reckless?”

“I can’t really answer that, sir.”

“No?” The President studied him, his chin lifted, his face drained of emotion. Dr. Wu felt humbled and still shaken by the hallucinations. “But you can give me an update?”

“I can. Yes, sir.”

“All right.” The President gestured genially.

Herring held up a finger, interrupting. “Sir? The Governor of Virginia?”

“No.” The President flapped his hand. “Ten minutes. Go ahead,” he said, nodding to Dr. Wu. “What’s going on? What are we seeing over there? It’s all under way, correct?”

“Yes, sir. It’s all active. It’s been under way for several hours. As you know. The laser pulses for more than four hours now.”

“Please. Have a seat. Can I get you some water? Tea?”

“No, thanks.”

Dr. Wu sat on the front edge of the rosewood chair. “Sir, I’m hesitant to tell you this. The latest tracking shows that the storm remains strong and has now taken a slight northwesterly turn.”

“Okay.” There was a raised, expectant tone in his voice, as if somehow this were good news. “And? So what does that mean?”

“Frankly, sir, not anything good, I’m afraid.”

“Okay.” The President blinked. “Go ahead.”

“The wind field hasn’t changed, the wind speed has actually ticked up slightly and the pressure has ticked down. We aren’t seeing quite the disorganization of the inner eye that we expected. The latest projections are putting it directly into the mouth of Chesapeake Bay.”

The President reflexively glanced away. “Okay. But it’s early still, right?”

“Well, yes and no.”

“Dammit, I don’t want to hear yes and no, Jim.” He caught himself. Dr. Wu understood what he was going through. “I want to hear one or the other. What does it mean, what you’re telling me? Bottom line.”

“Bottom line: no, sir. It
isn’t
early. It’s late. And the bull’s-eye is still on Washington, I’m afraid.” Dr. Wu took a deep breath, looking at the presidential seal on the carpet, feeling his heart racing. “And after that, the most likely path has it skirting the coast up to New York City.”

“What about this eye wall replacement business?”

Dr. Wu shook his head. He wanted the President to know the truth. That was his job now. Politics was over. “Frankly, sir, Dr. Clayton’s efforts have not, so far, proven fruitful. We have not been able to disrupt it. It’s an experimental process, as he told you.”

“Why?
Why
isn’t it working?”

“Well, sir. I don’t know. This is such a large system that it’s highly unpredictable. And, to be honest, sir, it’s highly unlikely at this point that it will take any significant turn.” Dr. Wu looked away as he felt his eyes tear up.

“Damnation!” the President muttered. “All right. So what are we looking at?”

“Well, sir, I’m afraid we’re still looking at what you told us this morning. Scenario A. Worst case. I just wanted to warn you, sir. I want you to be fully informed.”

The President looked as if he had just gotten a whiff of spoiled milk. “I know you do, Jim. So what about this thing Clayton’s doing over there? The laser pulses.”

“The initial indications are showing no effects, sir. None. I’m sorry.”

The two men stared at each other.

“Shit!”
The President shook his head, looking across the great desk with his dark, tired eyes. This was the first time Dr. Wu had heard the President swear. “So, it’s not working.”

“I’m afraid not. No, sir.” Dr. Wu felt a strange cocktail of emotions again. He watched the President glance at the photos on one side of his desk, knowing what they were: his wife, children, and grandchildren.

“Okay.” The President exhaled dramatically, no longer making eye contact. “Okay, I appreciate your candor, Jim. And I want you out of here ASAP. We’re going to move downstairs to the Situation Room in a few minutes. I’ll be here until six and then I’ll be flying out of Washington.”

“Sir? With all due respect? I’d like to ask to stay with you until six, also.”

The President looked at him quickly, his eyes fluid with emotion, and then, nodding, he turned to the South Lawn, as if dismissing him.

“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry.”

Dr. Wu walked outside, and he glanced uneasily toward the Mall. Saw the cocoon of lightning surrounding the Washington Monument. The lightning again beginning to play tricks with his vision,
trying to make him look, but this time he turned his eyes to the pavement and rapidly made his way back inside.

V
LADIMIR
V
OLKOV SIPPED
a glass of 1945 Mouton Rothschild on the plush divan in the cabin of his private Challenger 604 jet as it quietly carried him away from France, east toward his homeland. On the high-definition video screen, he watched the concert footage of his beloved Anna Netrebko, as Marfa in Rimsky-Korsakov’s
The Tsar’s Bride
with the Kirov Opera Orchestra.

But Volkov was finding it difficult to concentrate—to feel moved today by his favorite soprano. The update from Petrenko was overdue and the delay could only mean what he had feared: that there was no good news to relay.

He glanced at the clouds for several minutes, then switched to the clips of Anna receiving the State Prize of the Russian Federation from Putin. The anniversary celebration of the Mariinsky Theater in St. Petersburg had been a marvelous event. But it was the same: He couldn’t keep his mind on it. He couldn’t enjoy her today.

Svetlana, Volkov’s mistress, appeared at the front of the cabin and smiled tentatively at him; Vladimir Volkov shook his head. She could see that he was preoccupied by some business trouble and knew not to intrude.

Volkov closed his eyes and waited, thinking, with sadness, about his son Victor. And then, finally, the bad news arrived.

A simple report, conveyed from the United States, confirming that the operation was not succeeding. Would not succeed.

Volkov felt a deep pang of regret over the now certain fate of Victor Zorn.

It was the necessary cost. They had all known it might end this way. They had known that going in.

Volkov then did what he had to do. He typed in the required instruction. One word. Unambiguous, non-negotiable. Pressed send.

One word, five letters.

ABORT
.

Dmitry Petrenko would know exactly what it meant.

A
S
C
ATHERINE
B
LAINE
drove through the rural Maryland countryside in the car Jamie had rented for her, she saw flashes of lightning
and bizarre, unnerving images in the distant sky. Tricks of the storm—figures and faces burned into the clouds by sudden backlit bursts of lightning. Like drive-in movie screens in the sky, it seemed. Jagged lines and swirls joined together into sudden clear images, then muting back to darkness. The highway took a sudden turn and she saw a figure seeming to trot through the rain-soaked field toward the road, limping; a man who became Rorbach as he got closer, a larger version of him. Stopping and looking. His eyes dark and center-less, like pieces of coal. Stopping and smiling.
No
. It was her imagination, of course, the fact that she was tired; some trick of the rain.
Stop thinking about it
. But soon she saw another figure, beside the road, hitchhiking. And recognized him. Recognized her son, Kevin. Around another turn she saw him again. Disappearing each time she came close and began to pump her brakes. Another bolt of lightning and she saw him in a front yard, elevated this time, his body swaying in the wind-driven rain from a noose dangling below an oak branch.
No, don’t think about it. It’s preying on your fears. Don’t think about it
, Blaine told herself.