The Storm

  “It has been an interesting day,” Jinn said, “more so for you than for me.”

  His English was good, tinged with an accent, but he’d definitely been schooled, perhaps in the UK.

  “It’s going to get a lot more interesting when we don’t turn up at our extraction point,” Kurt said. “A lot of people have their eyes on you, Jinn. And getting rid of us will only make the scrutiny more intense.”

  “Resigned to your fate, then?”

  “Unless you’re here to let us go,” Kurt said.

  “Not afraid to die?”

  “It’s not on our to-do list, but we’re not kidding ourselves. The question is, are you?”

  Jinn looked puzzled, a good thing in Kurt’s eyes. Though he had no idea where he was going with this, anything that put their host off balance would be helpful at this point.

  “I do not kid, as you say,” Jinn replied.

  “Sure you do,” Kurt said. “You build toys in your basement and blow them up. You’re playing some kind of game and you’re oblivious to how rapidly it’s coming to an end. NUMA is onto you. That means the CIA, Interpol, Mossad will soon be onto you as well. Especially when we don’t turn up safe and sound. Kill us and you’ll have nowhere left to run.”

  “What makes you think we are running, Mr. Austin?”

  “If you’re not, you should be. Trouble’s coming at you from all sides. Your attack on our catamaran proves that you’re desperate. The firefight tonight and the two guys you killed prove your vulnerability.”

  A soft, rumbling laugh bubbled up from somewhere inside Jinn. “I would say your position is far more vulnerable than mine.”

  “And I’d tell you we have a way out for you.”

  Joe glanced at Kurt from the corner of his eye as if to say “We do?”

  Kurt was grasping at straws, making up a story as he went along. It was the only card he had left to play. He needed to sow a little seed of doubt in Jinn’s mind and make him believe, however preposterous it sounded, that Kurt and Joe and NUMA could help Jinn avoid the trouble that was surrounding him.

  Jinn moved to Kurt’s left.

  “I neither want nor need whatever it is you’re attempting to offer me,” Jinn said. “I simply came here to tell you that you were going to die.”

  “No surprise there,” Kurt said without batting an eye. “But let me ask you this: Why do you think my government sent us instead of a squadron of predator drones or Stealth fighters carrying bunker-busting bombs? Come on. You might be safe here from some of your enemies but not from the U.S. government. You know that. You’re on the A-list now. Like the reactor and enrichment facilities the Iranians are building. And you’re no different than dozens of other threats they’ve eliminated over the last few years. There are no borders for a guy like you to hide behind anymore. But you have something the Bin Laden’s of this world don’t. You have something to barter with. Technology.”

  Jinn held his place. Clearly he was thinking about Kurt’s words, a fact almost too good to be true. Now Kurt had to push him. If he could just buy some time and some freedom, he and Joe might have a chance.

  “You expect me to believe what you’re saying?”

  “Let me be clear,” Kurt said. “I wouldn’t give you the time of day. You’re a killer and a thug. But I work for Uncle Sam, I do as I’m told. Our orders were to come here, infiltrate and report back. To make contact with you later if possible through third-party channels. They want what you have.”

  “Do I look like a fool to you?” Jinn asked, growing angry.

  “I wouldn’t answer that,” Joe said.

  “Your government doesn’t make deals.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” Kurt said. “We’ve been making deals for two hundred years. You ever hear of Werner von Braun? He was a Nazi, a German scientist who built rockets that killed thousands. We took him under our wing after the war because he had knowledge we needed. Viktor Belenko was a Russian pilot who brought us a MiG-25. We take baseball players, ballet dancers, computer programmers, anyone with something to offer. That might be unfair to the poor farmers and peasants who want to come, but it’s good for you. It gives you an out.”

  “Enough of this.” He turned.

  “This country is falling apart,” Kurt shouted. “Even your money and power won’t keep you safe if anarchy strikes. And I’m guessing you have other problems in the outside world or you wouldn’t have to kill off your guests and hide down here in the first place. I’m offering you a way out. Release us and let us report what we saw, and my government will contact you in a more professional manner.”

  Jinn didn’t even consider the offer, despite Kurt’s well-played deception. He turned and smiled. “Before long, men from your government, among others, will be begging me to contact them. And your bleached bones lying in the sand won’t make a bit of difference.”

  Jinn waved to the guards. “Teach this one a lesson, and then take them to the well. I will meet you there.”

  Jinn walked out, Sabah followed, and the four men who remained moved forward.

  A few punches landed first to soften them up and then another series of blows from extendable metal batons. The strikes were heavy, but Kurt had taken worse and he managed to twist and bend so they landed in a more glancing fashion.

  Joe did the same, ducking and moving like the boxer he was.

  One baton caught Kurt above his eye, splitting the skin and leaving a bleeding gash. Kurt pretended it had knocked him woozy. He slumped in the chains, and the men around him seemed to lose their enthusiasm. A halfhearted kick hit him in the back, and the men laughed among themselves.

  One of them said something in Arabic, and then they reached down and hauled Kurt up to his feet. They undid his cuffs and dragged him out. Through eyelids intentionally at half-mast he saw Joe being forced to march next to him.

  They were out of the frying pan. The question was, where would they land?

  The first part of that answer arrived as they reached the main entrance to the cave. Sunlight beamed through in orange shafts. It was late afternoon, the hottest part of the day. They were marched outside and led to the tail end of an SUV. While the other guards held their arms, a rather vicious-looking man tied their hands to a hitch with two-foot lengths of rope.

  “This can’t be good,” Joe said.

  “I think we’re about to get keelhauled, desert style,” Kurt replied.

  The vicious-looking man laughed, climbed into the SUV and began to rev the engine repeatedly. Kurt tried to come up with a way out. His only thought was to climb onto the SUV before it took off, but the outside of the vehicle was smooth, and with their hands tied there was no way to hang on to it.

  The engine revved again.

  Joe looked over at him.

  “I got nothing.”

  “Great.”

  The SUV lurched forward, Kurt and Joe were yanked along, they stumbled and nearly fell, but they got their feet going and managed to stay up with the vehicle by running. To Kurt’s surprise the driver didn’t accelerate beyond that. He merely rolled along at an idling speed, dragging the two prisoners at the pace of a fast jog.

  The guards behind them laughed as Kurt and Joe struggled to keep up.

  The SUV moved out past the entrance to the cave and onto a track that crossed the sand.

  “What about now?” Joe asked. “Anything come to you?”

  Kurt was jogging hard, his feet sinking into the soft sand. “No,” he said.

  “Come on, Kurt,” Joe said.

  “Why don’t you come up with something?”

  “You’re the brains of this team, I’m the good looks,” Joe said.

  “Not after you get dragged face-first through the sand, you won’t be.”

  Joe didn’t reply. They’d begun to climb a low hill and it was even harder to keep up. The rear tires of the SUV were kicking sand into their faces. They topped the hill and came down the other side. Kurt was glad to see another flat section.


  The desert sun was beating down on them, the air temperature close to a hundred degrees. After two or three minutes of running in the heat, both of them were drenched with sweat, more water their bodies couldn’t afford to lose. In the far distance, Kurt saw another rock formation. It had to be at least a mile off, but it seemed to be in their line of travel.

  Joe caught his foot on something, tripping and almost falling.

  “Stay up,” Kurt yelled, looking ahead.

  Joe managed to keep running. Kurt tried to think.

  If they made it to the rocky section coming up, he would look for a stone to scoop up. It would be risky to try to grab something off the ground, but there was no way he and Joe could keep running much longer.

  Before either of those things happened, the SUV turned south and approached a group of parked vehicles. It rolled to a stop, and both Kurt and Joe fell to the ground.

  Lying on the sand, trying to catch his breath, Kurt saw Jinn and several of his men standing beside what looked like an old abandoned well.

  Jinn walked over. He must have seen Kurt’s eyes lingering on the well. “Thirsty?” he asked.

  Kurt said nothing.

  Jinn leaned close. “You don’t know the meaning of thirst until you’ve crossed a desert in search of the smallest oasis. Your throat closes up. Your eyes feel like they’re boiling dry inside your head. Your body can’t sweat because it has no more water left to give. That is the life of a Bedouin. And he would not fall after a mile or two in the desert.”

  “I’m pretty sure he’d be riding a camel and not getting dragged by a truck,” Kurt rasped.

  Jinn turned to his men. “Our guests would like some refreshment,” he said. “Bring them to the well.”

  The guards untied Kurt and Joe and hauled them up, pushing and shoving them toward the well. As they reached the opening, Kurt realized they wouldn’t be getting a drink. The smell of death rose up from below.

  He turned and kicked one of the guards, shattering the man’s ankle and lunging for his weapon. Joe sprang into action at almost the same instant, ripping his arm free and coldcocking the man to his left.

  The speed of the assault seemed to take the guards by surprise. These men had been denied food and water for the entire day. They’d been beaten and dragged through the desert. They’d looked all but dead lying on the sand only moments before.

  Four of Jinn’s men rushed in to help their comrades, but the Americans fought like spinning whirlwinds. For each man who landed a punch, another took a blow to the face, a kick to the knee or an elbow to the gut.

  One guard tried to tackle Kurt, but Kurt dodged and tripped him, sending him into another guard. As those two crashed into the sand, Kurt jumped to his feet. He saw a pistol on the ground and lunged for it. But like a football player diving for a fumble, he was immediately covered by three of Jinn’s men, also grabbing for the gun.

  It discharged, and one of Jinn’s men cried out in pain, his fingers blown off. But before Kurt could fire it again, a heavy blow hit the back of his head, and the gun was ripped from his grasp.

  Beside him, Joe had been tackled as well.

  “Pick them up!” Jinn shouted. “Throw them in!”

  Kurt struggled mightily, but Jinn’s men had him by his arms and legs. They carried him toward the well like a spectator crowd surfing at a rock concert.

  Joe was faring no better. One guard had him in a half nelson, pushing him forward, about to shove him over the edge.

  As Kurt reached the well, he shook a leg free and kicked one of the men in the face. The man fell back, caught his ankle on the low adobe wall and tumbled backward, headfirst, into the well. His scream echoed for a second and then abruptly stopped.

  The group holding Kurt wobbled like a table on three legs and then heaved him toward the opening.

  As they released Kurt, he twisted, saw the low wall and the small A-frames made of iron jutting up from it. He threw his arms out, caught it and held on.

  A second later Joe was shoved into the pit. He grabbed Kurt’s legs, perhaps instinctively.

  The added weight pulled Kurt down until only a death grip on the scalding-hot bars held them up.

  A shadow moved in front of the setting sun.

  Jinn held a baton in his hand. He swung it back and whipped it forward toward Kurt’s fingers. Before it hit, Kurt let go.

  He and Joe dropped straight down. They fell twenty feet, crashed into a pile of sloping sand and slid another ten feet to the bottom.

  The impact jarred Kurt, but the slope of the sand and a pair of decaying bodies acted like an air bag of sorts, absorbing much of the impact. He ended up in an awkward position, facedown against the floor.

  Stunned and all but knocked cold, Kurt forced his eyes open. Joe lay a foot to the left, piled up against the wall like a rag doll thrown in the corner. His arms were under him, one leg was bent up at an odd angle. He wasn’t moving.

  A sound above caught his ear, Kurt didn’t dare move, but from the corner of his eye he saw Jinn leaning over the edge of the well. A group of shots rang out, and dirt and chinks of rock flew around the bottom of the well. Something sharp cut Kurt’s leg, and a bullet or rock fragment hit inches in front of his face, kicking dirt into the air.

  Kurt held still, not flinching, not moving, not even breathing.

  He heard shouting in Arabic and distorted words from far above. A flashlight came on, pointed down the well. The beam danced around them almost hypnotically. Kurt remained still. He wanted them to see him as nothing more than another dead body at the bottom of the well.

  More words were exchanged. The light snapped off and the faces disappeared.

  A minute later the sound of engines starting up echoed down the gullet of the well. Kurt listened to the vehicles driving off until he could no longer hear them. He and Joe had been left for dead. At least for the moment they weren’t, but if they didn’t get out of the well, it was just a matter of time.

  CHAPTER 26

  GAMAY WALKED INTO THE MAKESHIFT LAB TO CHECK ON Marchetti. She found him hunched over an experiment that involved a heat lamp, several temperature probes and a tall, narrow beaker full of water, the top layer of which looked murky.

  “Am I right to assume there are microbots in that beaker?”

  Marchetti sat straight up. “Oh, Mrs. Trout,” he said, holding his chest. “You snuck up on me.”

  “Not really. You’re just very into your work.”

  “Yes,” he said, tinkering with one of the probes and checking a display.

  “Care to tell me what it is?”

  “I’m just trying to figure something out,” he said, sounding as if he’d rather not talk about it.

  She sat across from him and stared into his eyes. “Why is it men don’t like to share their hunches?” she asked. “Are you so afraid to be wrong?”

  “I’ve been wrong a million times,” Marchetti said. “I’m more afraid to be right, actually.”

  “About what?”

  “I have a hunch as to what might be occurring out there.”

  “And yet you’re keeping it a secret,” she said. “Like most men I’ve known, you want proof before you speak, or at least a reasonable amount of corroborating evidence.”

  She waved her hand over the setup. “This looks like an attempt to get that to me.”

  “You really have a marvelous sense of intuition, Mrs. Trout. I bet Paul can’t get away with anything.”

  “He’s learned not to try.”

  “A wise man,” Marchetti said, offering a sheepish grin. “You’re right of course. I have a hunch that the microbots are indeed responsible for the temperature anomaly. I remember hearing of a plan to stop global warming. It involved years of continuous rocket launches and the dispersal of millions upon millions of reflective discs in orbit around the planet or perhaps only over the poles, I really can’t recall for certain. These reflective discs would block a portion of the sunlight, reflecting it back into space. A small percentage. Jus
t enough to counteract the effect we’ve begun feeling.”

  She remembered hearing something about it.

  “Obviously there were huge problems with the idea,” Marchetti continued, “but the concept intrigued me. I’ve often wondered if it would really work.”

  “There are precedents,” Gamay said. “After large volcanic eruptions, the ash in the air spreads around the globe, doing much the same thing as these discs you’re talking about. Famines in the sixth century have been blamed on ash dimming the sun’s output and causing crop yields to fall. Eighteen fifteen has been called the year without a summer because the average temperatures around the globe were surprisingly low. The eruption of Mount Tambora in Indonesia is the prime suspect.”

  “I feel a similar principle may be at work here,” Marchetti said. “Not in the atmosphere but in the sea.”

  He pointed to the experiment. “I’ve attempted to re-create a solar warming-and-cooling cycle in this water sample. But there’s a problem with my theory. Even with the murky layer of bots at the top, it behaves almost like regular salt water.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The microbots absorb some of the heat, but nowhere close to what would be required to cool the water in the manner we’ve seen.”

  “How large is the difference?”

  “Very substantial,” he said. “Close to ninety percent deviation. And that’s a lot in anyone’s book.”

  “You mean in your experiment you found—”

  “Only ten percent of the cooling we’ve recorded out there in the open ocean. Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  She looked around. She didn’t have to ask if he’d done the experiment right or if he wanted to try it again. He’d been secluded up here for hours, and he’d been an engineer before becoming a computer programmer. She guessed he knew what he was doing. Besides, she saw six other setups that looked identical to the one in front of them. She assumed they were controls.

  “So what does that mean?” she asked. “And this time pretend you’re a woman and share.”

  “There are two possibilities,” he said. “Either something else is responsible for the majority of the cooling or the microbots are cooling the ocean through some other process or mechanism that we’ve yet to observe or discover.”