The Mayan Apocalypse (12 page)

“No need to lie to me. I'm a big girl. I understand such things. A man has needs. A woman has needs—”

“Please stop. I didn't mean that at all.”

Her smile broadened. “Maybe I mean it.”

A new comedian stepped to the microphone, interrupting the conversation. Morgan touched the phone in the pocket of his blazer and wished it would ring.

Two hours later, a weary Morgan walked Candy to the lobby
door of her condo. She paused and moved her body close to his. He could smell the alcohol on her breath. Her speech was slightly slurred. She ran a finger around his ear and along his jawline.

“Sure you don't want to come up? I can make it worth your while.”

Morgan shuddered. She was beautiful, sexy, shapely, and willing. For some reason, he found that repulsive.

He leaned forward. She closed her eyes, lifted her face, and puckered her lips. Morgan kissed her forehead. She pulled back. Anger flashed in her eyes.

“Thank you for the evening.” He had intended to call it a “lovely” evening.

She worked her lips, but nothing intelligent came out. That didn't surprise him.

He moved to the limo and crawled in the back. Donny, who would normally have been waiting with the door open, had stayed in the driver's seat, giving Morgan the privacy he needed.

The moment the door closed, Morgan felt the car pull from the curb. Two blocks later, Donny pulled to the side of the road.

“Is there a problem?” Morgan leaned close to the opening in the privacy divider.

Donny slumped sideways to the seat.

“Donny!”

The driver's body shook as he convulsed in laugher.

“Great. Just great.” He tried to sound angry, but a moment later his own laughter filled the car.

Garrett Vickers knocked back another can of Red Bull and waited for the sugar and caffeine to do their work. It was three in the morning, his usual bedtime. Now that he had a job, he had committed himself to hitting the sack earlier, but that was before Lisa hooked him on 2012. He was a believer. Truth was, he believed in very
little beyond his own doggedness and skill with a computer. What grabbed his attention was not a date, but a person: Robert Quetzal.

“How many of those are you going to drink?” Ned “Necco” Birdsong didn't look up from his laptop. His eyes were half-closed. Just two years ago, he could have done back-to-back all-nighters, but he wasn't that young anymore. He passed the quarter-century mark two months previous. Next to him rested three rolls of Necco candy wafers, which had given him his nickname. He popped a green wafer in his mouth. “That stuff will kill you.”

“Really? Unlike candy?”

“These don't have a barrelful of caffeine. You know, that drink is banned in parts of Germany.”

“Are we in Germany?”

“No.”

“Then admit it, you want me to get you a can.” Garrett rubbed his eyes.

“If you insist. It would be impolite of me to refuse.”

“You have a girlfriend. Make her get it.”

Necco pulled his eyes from the monitor and glanced at the thin woman with straight dark hair asleep on Garrett's sofa. He turned to Garrett. “Your jealousy is showing. I can't help it if I'm irresistible to the fairer sex. Besides, how much are you paying me for these little trespasses?”

Garrett rose, went to the small kitchen in his economy apartment, and snatched another Red Bull. When he returned, he set it by the rolls of candy. “You used to do black-hat stuff for the thrill— for the challenge.”

“I'm here, aren't I? What more do you want?”

“I want to crack the firewall of Quetzal's group.”

“First things first, laddie.”

“That's the worst Irish accent I've ever heard.”

“Whatever. Okay, here's what we have so far: Quetzal has a nonprofit called Maya2012. It's chartered in Georgia with offices in Atlanta. He's got a valid 501(c)(3)—”

“Which means?”

“Nonprofit organizations are classified by the kind of work they do. Religious education groups get 501(c)(3)s.”

“This guy has a church?”

Necco popped the Red Bull and took a long draw. “Nah. Not like we think of churches. He lists his work as religious education. Any religious group can do that, and there are hundreds of thousands of them. It allows them to use volunteer labor and receive tax deductible contributions.”

“Can you find out how much he's raking in?” Garrett moved behind Necco and stared at his computer screen.

“That's impossible. That information is held only in their corporation and the IRS. It's not like theirs is a public corporation that has to report its profits to stockholders.”

“Impossible, eh? So how much did they rake in?”

Necco smiled. “I called in a few favors. I know a guy who knows a guy who has access to IRS passwords and codes.”

“Really? Who is this guy?”

“Forget it. You work for the man now. A news organization at that.”

“You don't trust me?” Garrett clutched at his chest.

“Of course I do, but I'm still not telling you.”

Necco popped three sugary disks in his maw, and Garrett could hear them crunch and crack between his friend's teeth. He had never seen the man without at least one roll of the candy on him.

“Your confidence moves me. Just hit me with the numbers.”

“Okay, the
Reader's Digest
version is this. Quetzal started the group five years ago. He pulled in half a million the first year; two million the second, and so on. Last year it was close to fifteen million.”

“That's a lot.”

“Not really. Some nonprofits bring in much more. Remember, this is IRS info.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it's info provided by Quetzal to the IRS. Actually, it's probably a guy named Charles Balfour. He seems to be the guy running the organization. The best I can tell from online news reports,
blogs, and journalistic search engines, Balfour is the man behind the curtain; Quetzal is the Wizard.”

“You know how suspicious you sound?”

Necco smiled. “I spend my spare time breaking into computer systems of major corporations and military groups around the world. I'm afraid of people like me.”

“You are a walking conspiracy theory.”

“Thanks, Garrett. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Garrett sipped his energy drink. “So you think he's hiding funds?”

“Sure. Wouldn't you?”

“I refuse to answer that on the grounds that the answer may tend to incriminate me. How much do you think he's hiding?”

“It's hidden, man. How should I know? Based on his online itinerary, Quetzal is a world traveler. He's spoken in twenty-five cities over the last sixty days, and he'll be doing more than that as the big day arrives. He could have bank accounts all over the world, and some foreign banks know how to hide big deposits.”

“Can you learn more?”

“Hey, this is me. I can always learn more, but it will take time.”

“How much time?”

Necco shrugged. “With my busy schedule, it could take a little time.”

Garrett knew when he was being worked. “Does she know about Tina?”

Necco snapped his head around to the woman on the sofa. She hadn't moved. Necco jerked his head back around. He spoke just above a whisper. “Hey, that ain't cool, man.”

“Just asking a question. And as far as your schedule goes, you live with your mother, watch soap operas by day, and hack the Net by night.”

“I'll make it a priority.”

Garrett grinned. “You want another Red Bull?”

“I think I'm gonna need it.”

R
obert Quetzal was more night owl than morning person. He preferred, whenever possible, to rise at the crack of noon. Today, however, noon would find him on the West Coast, or at least near the West Coast.

The Bombardier Challenger business jet banked sharply to the left, leveled, then banked to the right.

“Is the pilot lost?” Quetzal grumbled. The flight had been unusually bumpy, and he was having trouble keeping his breakfast down.

“I doubt it.” Balfour kept
The
New York Times
held up in front of him. On the flight from Atlanta, Quetzal had watched him devour
The
Wall Street Journal
, the
Los Angeles Times
, and the electronic versions of several overseas newspapers. The man's brain was a sponge.

“Then what's with all the twisting and turning?”

“We're near Edwards Air Force Base. They do a lot of test flights. The place is the secondary landing site for the shuttle, although not many of those are flying anymore. Anyway, flights in this area are strictly controlled.”

The aircraft banked again, and Quetzal could feel it shed airspeed. He hated that feeling. It was as though the craft had lost power. Instead of plummeting, the business jet began a slow descent.

A no-nonsense voice came over the intercom system. “Please prepare for landing.”

Quetzal raised his seat back up and finished the coffee in his cup. He stowed the cup in a holder next to his seat, then gazed out the window. Below, brown ground dotted with Joshua trees, juniper
plants, and scrub brush scrolled past. “We had to pick a place on the moon?”

“You know it's not the moon. We're over California's High Desert.”

“Could it be any more desolate?”

“That's what makes it desirable.”

The business jet set down on the rough runway of a private airport in the Mojave Desert. As it taxied to the tarmac and onto a large World War II-style half-pipe hangar, Quetzal scanned his surroundings through the window by his seat.

“It's a graveyard.”

Balfour unfastened his lap belt and leaned to the side to look out Quetzal's window. “In some ways, I suppose it is.”

“In what way isn't it?”

“We've been over this, Bob. This airport is known for many things, but for years it has been an aircraft storage facility. Commercial airline companies park aircraft too old to remain in their fleets here. Some are scraped, some are sold to movie producers for films, and others are renovated.”

“It just seems that we would use a more sophisticated company to do this.” He slipped his own seatbelt loose and leaned closer to the window. “You sure you didn't make a mistake?”

“How many mistakes have I made so far?” The words carried some heat.

“Ease up, Charles. I'm not calling your intelligence into question. It's just that I had a different image in mind for such important work.”

“Between us, Bob, I'm the bigger believer. I chose this place and created the company to keep things under wraps. There are more contemporary-looking places, but they are far more crowded. More people means more eyes and ears.”

“Wait. You created the company?”

The aircraft slowed, and Balfour stood. “I thought it best. I hired top project managers, engineers, and craftsmen. Each has signed a NDO, and I've done complete background checks.”

“Did they gripe about the nondisclosure agreement?”

“I'm paying them close to double to leave their firms for a shortterm project. There were no complaints.”

The aircraft stopped with a small lurch. Quetzal stood, retrieved his suit coat, and slipped it on. Balfour straightened his collar.

“Time to get your act on, Bob.”

“I'm always on, friend. Always.”

“I know, but let me do the talking. We should be out of here in less than an hour.”

“Okay, time for you to impress me.”

Balfour's cell phone chimed. “Yes? When? For how long?” There was a long pause. “Tell me you can trace it.”

Quetzal cocked his head to the side. “What's wrong?”

Balfour held up a finger while he listened. He spoke to the caller. “You're certain the trace is good?” A moment later, “Okay, someone will call you soon. He won't identify himself, but he will say ‘Eleven.' Tell him what you told me.” He switched off the phone.

“Trouble?”

Balfour nodded. “Someone has been looking for information about you.”

“Not unusual. I am a public figure.”

Balfour bit his lower lip. “I don't care if people Google your name or search online news sources, but when they break into our servers, it becomes another matter entirely.”

“They did what? How could anyone do that? You said it was impossible.”

“I know what I said. I believed the system could not be breached. I was
told
it was impossible.”

The sound of the pilot opening the cabin cockpit door then opening the air-stairs of the cabin rolled back to Balfour and Quetzal. Balfour lowered his voice. “Whoever it was has some pretty serious skills.”

“You sound like you admire him?”

“Or her. Hackers come in both genders. And it's not admiration, really. I just appreciate intelligence.”

“But what he did was illegal.”

Balfour raised his gaze. “You didn't just say that.”

Quetzal felt his face warm. “You know what I mean.”

“Look, hackers have breached military sites, NASA, the CIA, credit card companies, and the FBI. It's not easy, and it usually doesn't last long, but it happens.”

“Do we know who did it?”

“It's been traced through a score of false locations, but our people are the best. Half of them used to be hackers. They got a valid trace. It's being taken care of.”

“How?”

“It's being taken care of.”

“What does ‘eleven' have to do with it?”

“It's a simple code.”

“Eleven?”

“Total the individual digits of 12-21-2012. Nothing sophisticated. Just a way for my man to identify himself without using his name.”

“You should have been a spy.”

“Who says I wasn't?” Balfour turned and started for the passenger door, punching numbers into his cell phone as he did.

Jaz hung up and pocketed his phone. That matter would have to be dealt with later. He needed to focus on what would happen in the next few minutes. He pulled the rental car into the guest parking area of the Morgan Natural Energy building and exited. He walked leisurely to a uniformed security guard behind a wide curving desk.

“How ya doing?” Jaz leaned over the counter. Beneath the counter, he saw the glow of security monitors. He recognized the system. It was one of the best closed-circuit systems and had redundant over-the-air transmission capabilities in case of power outages or some wise-guy thief who thought he could defeat the system by cutting
cables. Television and movies, Jaz long believed, made criminals all the more stupid.

“Can I help you, sir?” The guard was tall with a thick neck and a thicker accent. Jaz guessed he had been a terror on the junior college football field but lacked the talent to go pro.

“My name is Mark Davidson.” Jaz removed a gold-plated business card case. “I'm with Jacob Davidson Security. It's my father's firm.”

The guard raised an eyebrow.

Jaz chuckled. “We handle overseas executive—not building—security.”

The man seemed to relax. “How can I help you?”

“I have an appointment with Mr. Andrew Morgan. He's expecting me.”

“I'll have to call.”

“I would hope so.” Jaz took the edge off the comment with a grin. “I would be disappointed if you didn't. You know, one security guy to another.”

The guard picked up his phone and punched in a number on the keypad. A moment later, he hung up. He raised a handheld radio to his mouth, his eyes fixed on Jaz. Beneath his coat, Jaz's muscles tensed. “Rick, I need you at the front desk.” He set the phone down.

A thirtysomething man with a build that reminded Jaz of a two-by-four rounded the corner. “What's up?”

“I have to escort Mr. Davidson to The Top.”

The Top
. Jaz assumed it was the pet name for the CEO's floor.

“Sure. Don't take too long, I go on break in fifteen.”

“You won't miss your break, Rick.” The guard turned to Jaz. “Please follow me.”

“A private escort. I wouldn't have expected less. You guys seem to have it going on.”

“We take our work seriously.”

Jaz looked at the man's metal name tag pinned over his left breast pocket: C
LOWER
. “I can see that, Mr. Clower.”

Clower removed a smart card and swiped it through a reader mounted to the elevator's front wall. A man and woman tried to slip through the doors, but Clower held up a ham-sized hand. “Sorry folks. You'll have to take the next one.” The two looked put out but said nothing.

The doors closed, and the elevator began to rise. Judging by the buttons on the control panel, the elevator went to every floor, but a card key was necessary to access the top three.

A short time later, the cab doors parted, and Clower motioned for Jaz to exit first. Smart man. Should something go wrong, being behind a man was a tactical advantage.

Jaz exited into a large but empty lobby. To the right was a pair of large wooden doors. A man in a black suit stood in front of the doors. His shoulders were as wide as a 1950s Buick.

“Donny, this is Mr. Davidson. He has an appointment with Mr. Morgan.”

“I'll take it from here.” The man identified as Donny stepped forward and held out his hand but didn't move his eyes from Jaz's. Jaz took it, and gave it a firm handshake. Donny's hand felt as if it were made of iron, and Jaz knew the man was sizing him up too.

As soon as the elevator door closed, Jaz smiled. “I hope I haven't kept Mr. Morgan waiting.”

“Your call got his attention. Do you mind telling me what this is about?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Donny raised his chin. “I can send you back down the elevator, you know.”

“What I know—Donny—is this. I have an appointment with Mr. Morgan. He told me so himself. If he has changed his mind, I wouldn't be standing on this floor. So now that you've done your best to let me know how intimidating you can be—and because our conversation is being relayed to Mr. Morgan over the pinhole camera just above the door—perhaps we can dispense with the posturing and stop wasting an important executive's time.”

One of the massive office doors opened, and a shapely woman with intelligent eyes crossed the threshold. “Mr. Davidson, I'm Janie Horner, Mr. Morgan's personal assistant.”

Jaz gave a small nod. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Horner.” He saw a twinkle in her eyes. Something he saw in the eyes of most women he met.

“Mr. Morgan is eager to meet you.”

Donny didn't move. Jaz stepped around him and approached the woman. He didn't have to turn to know Donny was close behind.

The office was massive and beautifully appointed, but it failed to impress Jaz. He had been in palaces. It took more than an overpaid interior decorator with an unlimited budget to make an impression.

A tall, trim, solid-looking man stood behind a wide desk and in front of an antique desk chair. He wore an expensive suit but looked uncomfortable in it. The suit hung as an expertly tailored suit should, but it couldn't hide a well-developed body. Jaz had done his homework and knew Morgan was an exercise fanatic. That made him strong, but it didn't make him tough.

“Mr. Morgan.” Jaz moved to the front of the desk. Moving to the side would be considered a hostile motion by any bodyguard worth his salt. He held out his hand. “Thank you for seeing me on short notice.”

“When a man tells me Robert Quetzal has a special message for me, well, it grabs my interest.”

“What I said was the truth. At least that part was.”