The Leviathan Effect

by James Lilliefors

  “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.

  JAMES WU 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 advise
r 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.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Thursday, October 6, 7:23 A.M.

  THE 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.

  Much of the East Coast of the United States is under a Hurricane Warning this morning as Alexander continues to barrel its way through the Atlantic Ocean. Alexander has been upgraded to a category three hurricane with sustained winds of 120 miles per hour. Landfall is now projected for late Saturday or early Sunday.

  The storm has been blamed for at least seven deaths in the Carolinas along with extensive property damage and flooding, which has rendered many roads impassable.

  President Hall has declared a state of emergency in North Carolina, Virginia, and Maryland.

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

  “Thanks for coming,” she said. “I’ve thought about what you said. I should have told you why I really called the other day.”

  “You mean it wasn’t because of Janus.”

  “It was. But it was more than that. Weights?” she said.

  “All right. Upper-body day?”

  She forced a smile and pulled two dumbbells off the rack. Her green eyes glittered in the artificial light. Her hair was down and she wore no makeup today. It gave her a confident, no-nonsense look he liked.

  “Under the circumstances, doesn’t it seem a little frivolous to be spending the morning trying to enhance our physiques?” he said.

  She shrugged. “Routines are what keep us sane. My dad used to say that a lot. Anyway, that’s not really why we’re here.”

  “No? Good.” Mallory watched her reflection in the full-length mirror.

  “I’ve changed my mind about something,” she said. “I’ve decided that maybe we can share information, as you put it. On a limited basis.”

  “Okay. What changed your mind?”

  “Something that happened last night.”

  “In Baltimore.”

  “Yeah.”

  Dr. Ruben Sanchez, murdered at his residence in the Baltimore suburbs. Mallory finished a set of curls with twenty pounds and set the weights down. He knew that she wanted to talk to him on her terms and sensed that if he waited, she’d open up. He also knew that she was taking a risk, breaking protocol and, maybe, the law.

  “We’re meeting with someone today,” she said, speaking just above a whisper, as she lifted and then lowered a pair of ten-pound dumbbells.

  “Okay. It’s about that, isn’t it?” He nodded at the televisions. Alexander.

  “Mmm hmm.”

  Lift, lower. Inhale, exhale.

  That was all he needed to hear, really. He could begin to figure other things now. Cross clues. “Can I take a guess who you’re meeting with?”

  “Okay.”

  Inhale, exhale.

  “Victor Zorn?”

  Her eyes slid to his in the mirror and he saw that wild look that he liked. “How would you know that?”

  “Just a guess.” He watched her set the weights back and shake out her arms. “And who else?”

  “What?”

  “Who else are you meeting with?”

  “Why do you think there’s anyone else?”

  “Another guess. I’m thinking there must be two or three others for this to work.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Zorn isn’t a known quantity. He doesn’t have the creds. But if he walks in with two or three or four legitimate people, it’s a different ball game. Again, I’m just speculating.”

  She glanced at him in the mirror, rubbing her hands on a towel. “You’re good. Three,” she said. “Morgan Garland. Dr. Jared Clayton. Dr. Sue Romfo.”

  Mallory coughed, pretending not to be astounded. He adjusted the weight on a pulley machine and sat down at the workout bench for a series of overhead tricep extensions. The names answered one question, but immediately raised others.

  “When’s the meeting?”

  “One o’clock.”

  She was lifting again, watching his eyes in the mirror.

  “The four of them are going to be there?”

  “Apparently.”

  Mallory pulled the overhead bar to chest level, then let it ease back up with the pile of weights. “But Vladimir Volkov won’t be part of it.”

  “Pardon?”

  He studied her reaction, letting the pulley bar return.

  “Who is Vladimir Volkop?”

  “Volkov,” Mallory said. “Supposedly, Victor Zorn is Volkov’s proxy. Volkov is a Russian billionaire. Second generation oligarch, I’m told. Made his fortune in oil and banking. Supposedly has some strong, but secretive, connections with the Kremlin.”

  “Volkov.” She watched him in the mirror.

  “Yes.”

  “And how would you know that? Or any of this?”

  He shrugged, standing. “Well. I can’t say, really. Only that it comes on pretty good authority.”

  “Who is Volkov? What’s he done?”

  Mallory sat on a bench and considered. He could tell her everything he knew or he could cherry-pick. He decided to tell her everything. It was going to be a trade. Plus, he kind of liked her and wanted to help.

  “From what I understand, he’s put together a consortium of research companies—geo-engineering, energy, weather—over the past ten, maybe fifteen years. He’s established something of a monopoly on the serious end of the climate control industry.”

  “Are you saying this is really about Russia, then?”

  “I don’t know,” Mallory said.

  “We’ve been led to believe it’s China.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “How would Volkov have done all this without setting off alarm bells?”

  “I guess very carefully. I don’t know. A lot of the deals were evidently put together through Victor Zorn, using various shell companies and intermediaries. He took advantage of an industry that isn’t carefully monitored. Scooped up individual scientists and research firms in very discreet ways.”

  “So who is Mr. Zorn?”

  “Not clear. His bio says he’s American, but I think he may be Russian. From what I’ve learned, he may have had connections with organized crime at one point. Have you heard of the Izmailovskaya syndicate?”

  “Of course. One of Moscow’s oldest mafias.”

  “Supposedly he was involved with them for a number of years.”

  She finished another set of curls, set down one dumbbell, then the other.

  “Tell me about Dr. Sanchez,” he said.

  “Oh.” She reached for a towel and rubbed it over her face. “He was a friend,” she said, looking at herself now. Mallory saw her eyes moisten in the mirror. “A man I had enormous respect and affection for. I saw him two days ago.” She sat, still catching her breath. “I don’t want to get too paranoid but I think he was killed because of what he was going to do.”

  “Really.”

  “I think so.”

  “What was he going to do?”

  “I think he was going to talk. He had a couple of contacts in the media and was about to share what he knew.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Something we had discussed two days ago. That was the first time I heard the name Victor Zorn, actually. We were supposed to meet again this morning.”

  “What did Dr. Sanchez say about Zorn?”

  “He told me what you just told me. That he
was consolidating research facilities involved with climate studies. That he was a very clever and charismatic man. Dr. Sanchez thought he was about to make a move of some sort.”

  “What kind of move?”

  “I don’t know. I guess maybe we’ll find out today.”

  They were startled by a sudden rumbling. Thunder.

  “I’ve been wrestling with going outside of the circle on this,” Blaine said, speaking just above a whisper. “I shouldn’t, but last night changed that. Something inside this circle isn’t right. Someone. I can’t figure out what, or who, exactly, but it scares hell out of me.”

  A man in a blue windbreaker walked in the door. It was the same person Mallory had seen the other morning. Black shoe-polish hair. Secret Service, probably.

  “Want to stretch a little bit?”

  As they stretched, she told him about the anonymous email threats, the warnings about “natural disasters” that weren’t natural, speaking succinctly in a soft, even tone. Trade completed. If it had come from anyone else, Charles Mallory probably wouldn’t have believed any of it. Coming from Blaine, he did.

  “I know I shouldn’t have said any of that,” she told him afterward. “Before last night, I wouldn’t have.”

  “It’s good that you did.”

  She sighed. “How about you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yesterday you said we’re like two intelligence agencies that aren’t willing to share information. So what else have you got for me? What aren’t you sharing?”

  “Oh.” Mallory watched her steady green eyes. He decided to tell the rest of what he had learned. The seven names. There was no sense in holding anything back now. Afterward, he wrote them out for her on a scrap of paper.

  “Okay,” she said, tucking it in a pouch of her gym bag. She draped a towel around her neck. “And so? What do you think this is really about?”

  Mallory didn’t say anything for a while. He didn’t want to speculate too much about that. He was formulating a theory, still, coming back to the details that didn’t make sense, but would ultimately stitch it together.

  They were sitting on benches in front of the mirror, watching reflections of each other. Sweating slightly.