Impact

by Douglas Preston

  “Why CIA not like this mine?” Six asked. “All legal here.”

  “You don’t know who’s buying your gemstones?”

  “I sell gemstone to Thailand, all legal.”

  Tuk nodded slowly, as if in agreement, his eyes half-closed.

  “Right. All legal. You’re selling honey stones to wholesalers like Piyamanee Limited.”

  “All legal!” Six said.

  “Do you know who the wholesalers in Bangkok are selling to?”

  “Why I care? I not break law.”

  “Just because you’re not breaking the law doesn’t mean you aren’t pissing us off.”

  Six fell silent.

  “Let me explain something,” Ford went on. “The Bangkok wholesalers are selling to gemstone brokers in various countries in the Middle East, who are fronting for a Saudi dealer who sells in bulk to buyers in Quetta, Pakistan, who are hiring mules to transport the gems to Al Qaeda in South Waziristan. Do you know what Al Qaeda is doing with the gemstones?”

  Six stared. This was clearly a new thought to him.

  “Al Qaeda is grinding up the gems, concentrating the radioactivity in them, and is using them to make dirty bombs.”

  “I know nothing. Nothing!” shrilled Six angrily.

  Ford smiled. “Yeah, you and Sergeant Schultz.”

  “Who is Sergeant Schultz?”

  Ford waited, letting the silence build. “So: option A, or option B?”

  “You are man who walk in here with stupid story, no more.” Six spat.

  “Ask yourself, Brother Number Six: would I walk in here without backup?”

  “You bring no evidence, no proof, not even ID!”

  “You want proof?”

  Six narrowed his eyes.

  Ford nodded toward the hills. “I’ll show you proof. I’ll order a Predator drone to fire a missile into the top of one of those hills over there. That good enough for you?”

  Six swallowed, his big ugly Adam’s apple bobbing. He said nothing. Tuk’s eyes remained lidded.

  “Untie my hands,” said Ford.

  Six muttered an order, and Ford’s hands were untied.

  “Put the knife away.”

  The Cambodian put the knife back into its sheath.

  Ford pointed west. “See that far hill, the one with the double top? We’ll hit that one with a small missile.”

  “How you give order?”

  Ford smiled. He knew that most older Cambodians had an almost supernatural dread of the CIA and he was hoping to capitalize on that fear. “We have our ways.”

  Six was now sweating.

  “Within half an hour, you will have your proof. In the meantime, I wish to be treated as an honored guest, not like a criminal.” He gestured to the men with the guns.

  Six said something and the guns lowered.

  “There’s a lot of hardware above your heads that you can’t see. You do anything to me and it’ll rain death and destruction down on you so fast you won’t even have time to take a piss.”

  Six’s face remained impassive. He leaned over and spat on the verandah. “You have half-hour. Then you die.” He shuffled back over to his rocking chair, sat down, and began rocking.

  25

  Egg Rock was just about the most desolate island Abbey had ever seen, little more than a pile of sea-battered boulders in the Atlantic Ocean. It took less than five minutes to determine that the island had no crater. After wandering about disconsolately, they rested on the highest boulder at the top of the island. Seagulls wheeled overhead, crying out. The ocean thundered on the encircling rocks.

  “Well?” said Jackie, sitting beside her. “That was a bust.”

  Abbey swallowed. “We still have Shark.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Fog’s coming in,” said Abbey. The fog bank was rolling in from the south, a low, gray line on the horizon. Even as she watched, the bank began swallowing Monhegan Island, which grayed out and disappeared, and a moment later it ate up the smaller island, Manana, next to it. She could hear the lonely moan of the Manana Island foghorn every few seconds.

  Her eyes moved across the water to Shark Island, a speck of land about eight miles offshore, no more than two acres in extent, treeless and desolate. It was the last island on their list. If the meteorite wasn’t there . . . she tossed a pebble, musing gloomily about their odds of finding a crater on Shark. The clouds above began to roll in and a shadow fell across them, the light leaving the air, enveloping them in a cold seaweed smell.

  “Gonna rain,” said Jackie. “Let’s go back to the boat.”

  Abbey nodded. They picked their way down through the rocks and the sea wrack to the dinghy and launched it into the light swell. The ocean was calm and it seemed to be settling down, as it often did in a fog. Abbey rowed back to the Marea, pulling hard, and in a moment they climbed over the stern. Back in the pilothouse, Abbey ran through a mental list, checking the fuel level, batteries, and bilge. She started the engine, the Yanmar rumbling to life. As she was switching on the electronics, Jackie came in.

  “Let’s find a nice gunkhole somewhere, drop anchor, and get stoned.”

  “We’re going to Shark Island.”

  Jackie groaned. “Not in the fog, please. My head aches from that wine last night.”

  “Fresh air will do you good.” Abbey hunched over the chart. Shark Island was exposed to the wild Atlantic, surrounded by sunken ledges and reefs, and swept by dangerous currents. It was going to be a bitch to get on it. She tuned the VHF to the weather channel and the strangely flat computer voice began reciting the report.

  “Let’s just park here for a while, wait for the fog to blow over,” Jackie said.

  “This is our chance. The sea’s relatively calm.”

  “But the fog.”

  “We’ve got radar and a chartplotter.”

  As the fog bank rolled toward them, an eerie half-light fell on the sea.

  Jackie flopped into the seat next to the helm. “Come on, Abbey, can’t we just chill for a while? I’ve got a hangover.”

  “Weather’s coming in. If we don’t take advantage of the calm sea now, we may be waiting for days. Look—once we land, it’ll take us five minutes to explore that rock.”

  “No, please.”

  Abbey laid a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Jackie, the meteorite is waiting.”

  Jackie snorted sarcastically.

  “Haul anchor, first mate.”

  As Jackie stumbled forward, the fog bank swallowed the boat, shrinking the world into a few yards of gray twilight.

  Jackie slotted the anchor into its stay and smacked in the anchor pin. “You’re a Captain Bligh—you know that?”

  With her eye on the chartplotter, Abbey eased the boat into forward, and swung the bow of the Marea toward Shark Island. “EBay, here we come.”

  26

  Ford waited on the verandah as the minutes passed. The soldiers stood around, weapons at the ready. Six sat in the rocking chair, gazing down the valley, the chair making a faint creaking sound as it rocked back and forth, back and forth. Brutally hot even in the shade of the verandah, the air was dead. A cacophony of sounds reverberated from the mine, where ragged lines of workers labored in an endless loop of horror, an occasional gunshot marking the unceremonious end of another life. Children swarmed over the rock pile and the smoke from cooking fires rose into the white-hot sky. Tuk stood unmoving, his eyes closed as if in sleep. The soldiers shifted nervously, their eyes darting into the sky or over at the double-topped hill.

  The slow rocking creaked to a halt. Six checked the fat Rolex watch on his wrist, and lifted his binoculars to examine the hill. “Forty minute. Nothing. I give you ten minute free.”

  Ford shrugged.

  “We go in house,” Six said to Ford, rising from the chair. “Cooler in there.”

  The gunmen pushed Ford through the house to the back. A shedlike extension had been built out behind the kitchen, next to a pigpen. The room, made of raw lumber, was em
pty except for a wooden table and chair. As soon as they entered the room, the pigs outside began squealing and snorting with anticipation.

  Ford noted dried blood on the chair and in several large smears on the floor that had been halfheartedly mopped up. Flies roared in the stinking heat. A streak of blood led to a door in the back, which opened directly into the pigpen.

  The soldiers pushed Ford into the chair and tied his hands behind his back and to the chair rails. They duct-taped his ankles to the chair legs and wound an old chainsaw chain around his waist and the chair, padlocking it behind, the teeth biting into his skin.

  The soldiers worked with an efficiency borne of practice. Tuk entered the room and stood in one corner, long arms folded in front.

  Outside, the pigs began to scream.

  “Well, well,” said Six, positioning himself in front of Ford. He slid an old Ka-Bar knife out from under his shirt, and smiled. Standing in front of Ford, he hooked the knife under the top button of his shirt, and gave it a little flick. The button popped off. He positioned it under the next button, popped it off, and the next, until the shirt was open.

  “You a big liar,” he said.

  The knife flicked off the last button, and then he hooked it under Ford’s tank top, blade out, and made a neat slice upward, cutting it open. He raised the tip of the blade to Ford’s chin, paused, and gave it a little flick. Ford felt a stinging sensation and the gathering of blood on his chin, dripping down to his lap.

  “Oops,” said Six.

  The knife flashed, making a little cut across Ford’s chest, flashed back, making another. Ford stiffened as he felt the warm blood running down. The knife was extremely sharp and so far he felt very little pain.

  “X mark spot,” said Six.

  “You really enjoy this sort of thing, don’t you?” said Ford.

  Tuk watched from the doorway.

  The point of the knife gently traced a line down his chest toward his abdomen. The point hooked in his trouser button.

  A deep boom rumbled across the valley and echoed among the hills. Six and Tuk seemed to freeze.

  “Oops,” said Ford.

  Six sheathed the knife and exchanged a rapid glance with Tuk. The tall man, with no sense of hurry, strolled out of the room toward the front of the house. A moment later he returned and nodded to Six. The Cambodian barked an order at the soldiers, who untied Ford from the chair, gave him a rag to mop his cuts, and led him back through the house and onto the verandah. A crooked, snakelike cloud of smoke and dust was just dissipating over the summit of a nearby hill.

  “Wrong hill,” said Six, parsing the cloud and sky with his binoculars.

  Ford shrugged. “Those hills all look alike.”

  “I not see drone.”

  “Of course you don’t see it.”

  Ford noted that Six, who up until now had appeared impervious to the heat, was badly sweating.

  Ford said, “You now have sixty minutes before this camp is destroyed and all of you hunted down and shot like dogs. You better make up your mind soon.”

  Six stared at him, his small black eyes tight and hard. “How I get this million dollar money?”

  “Get my backpack.”

  Six yelled an order and a soldier disappeared, returning with Ford’s pack, which had been taken from him on his capture.

  “Give it to me,” Ford said.

  Ford took the pack and removed an envelope. It had already been torn open and examined. He handed it to Six.

  “What this?”

  “That’s the letterhead of Atlantic Vermögensverwaltungsbank, in Switzerland. It contains a numbered back account and authorization code. Please note the amount on deposit: one-point-two million Swiss francs, or about one million dollars. With that money, you’ll be able to settle down somewhere, safe from harm, and live the rest of your days in comfort and ease, surrounded by your children and grandchildren.”

  Six removed a linen cloth from a pocket and slowly passed it across his brow.

  “All you have to do,” Ford said, “is present this letter and the code to collect your money. The bearer of the letter and code gets the money—do you understand? Whoever it is. But there’s a catch.”

  “Yes?”

  “If I don’t show up in Siem Reap within forty-eight hours and report in, the money vanishes from the account.”

  Six mopped his brow again. Ford glanced at Tuk. He wasn’t sweating; he was frowning and staring at the spindly cloud disappearing in the sky above the hill.

  Tuk spoke: “That was a small missile. I think maybe we should send a man up the hill to check it out.” He turned to Ford and smiled broadly.

  Ford checked his watch. “Be my guest. You’ve got fifty minutes left.”

  Tuk regarded him through the slits of his eyes. “That’s enough time.” He turned and said something to Six in dialect, who gave orders in dialect to one of the soldiers, a small, wiry boy of no more than eighteen. The boy put down his gun, took off his ammo belt, and stripped down to black pajama pants and a loose shirt. Six pulled a 9mm out of his belt, checked the magazine, and gave it to the boy, along with a walkie-talkie. The boy disappeared like a flash into the jungle.

  “He will reach the hill in fifteen minutes,” said Tuk. “And then we will see if that was a missile strike—or a fake.” He smiled and stared at Ford, his eyes opening all the way for the first time, giving him a comic, surprised look that was even more creepy.

  They waited. Outwardly Ford remained calm. Khon, apparently, had not had time to reach the double-topped hill. And it seemed he hadn’t been able to lay his hand on much explosives—it had been a rather anemic explosion.

  The tension on the verandah increased.

  “Ten minutes,” said Tuk, with another rotten smile.

  The shoulders shifted uneasily. Six sweated. He read through the letter again, folded it up, put it in the envelope, and slipped it inside his shirt.

  “Five minutes,” said Tuk.

  Another boom echoed across the valley and a fiery cloud rose above the jungle trees, billowing upward. Six fumbled a walkie-talkie off his belt and yelled into it, trying to make contact with the soldier. Nothing but static. He tossed it aside and scanned the empty sky with his binoculars. “I not see drone!” he screamed.

  Ford kept his attention on Tuk. The old man had shifted his attention from the hill to Ford and was staring at him with canny brown eyes. A long, hard stare.

  “Whoever presents the letter, you or your proxy,” Ford repeated slowly, “gets the money.” He looked at Tuk as he said this, and saw understanding in the man’s wickedly intelligent eyes.

  With a single smooth motion, Tuk removed a 9mm pistol from his belt, aimed it at Six’s head, and fired. The white-haired man’s head jerked to one side, his face a mask of pure astonishment, his brains splattering loudly across the verandah floor. He crumpled with a soft flop and lay still, his eyes remaining wide open.

  The soldiers jumped as if shot themselves, swinging their weapons wildly around toward Tuk, their eyes bugging out.

  Speaking calmly in Khmer, Tuk said, “I am in charge now. You work for me. Do you understand? Each of you gets a bonus of one hundred American dollars for your cooperation, payable right now.”

  A moment of confusion and it was over. Each soldier pressed his hands together and bowed toward Tuk.

  The tall Cambodian bent down and neatly slid the letter from Six’s jacket pocket, rescuing it just before the soaking puddle of blood overran the floor. He slipped it into his pocket and turned to Ford with a faint smile. “What now?”

  “Order your soldiers to clear the camp. Of everyone: guards, prisoners, miners. If the CIA finds itself bombing workers remaining in the camp you won’t get your money. The bombs will begin dropping in . . .” he checked his watch, “thirty minutes.”

  Quietly, Tuk went into the house and a minute later returned carrying a bundle of twenties wrapped in plastic. He counted out five twenties for each soldier, then gave each one a
n extra twenty and told them to clear the camp and drive everyone into the jungle—the Americans would begin bombing in thirty minutes.

  As they ran down the trail, firing their weapons into the air, Tuk held out his hand to Ford. “I always liked doing business with the Americans,” he said, with a faint smile.

  Ford managed, with some effort, to smile in return.

  27

  Abbey stared at the green sweep of the radar scope as the Marea chugged along in the heavy fog at five knots, condensation streaming off the windows of the pilothouse.

  “My poor aching head,” said Jackie. “Don’t make me do this.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  “You’re a regular Bligh.” Jackie popped the top off a Tylenol bottle and shook out two pills, then cracked a beer and took a pull. She held it toward Abbey. “Little hair of the dog?”

  Abbey shook her head, still staring at the radar. “There’s that boat again.”

  “Boat? What boat?”

  “There.” She pointed to a green blob on the radar screen, about half a nautical mile behind them.

  “What kind of boat?”

  “I dunno. A smallish one. I think it’s been following us.”

  “How do you know it’s not some lobsterman?”

  “Who’d be lobstering in this fog?” Abbey fiddled with the gain on the radar. “I can’t see shit.”

  “Cut the engine,” said Jackie.

  She did and they drifted, listening. “You hear that?”

  “Yeah,” Jackie said.

  “That boat’s been hanging on our ass for a couple of hours now.”

  “Why would someone be following us?”

  Abbey restarted the engine. “To steal our treasure?”

  Jackie laughed. “Maybe your cover story was too good.”

  Abbey throttled up, keeping an eye on the little green blob of the boat, waiting for it to move. But it didn’t. It just stayed where it was.