Let us assume he isn’t an idiot,” said the Dutchman, Jan Van Den Hauwe. “He wasn’t an idiot when he worked for us—he can’t have become an idiot just because he’s in England.”
“Why can’t he?” said Christophe Revere. “The man is desperate. Desperate to get back here. Desperate people do idiotic things. When I called to tell him his precious lead box was empty, he erupted with fury before begging like a dog. He’s out of control.”
On the screen that dominated one end of the boardroom were the figures that Flowerdew had emailed them after concluding his tests on the rock. They were being analyzed once more by the chief metallurgist, Dr. Joe Parris. He was stooped and extremely thin—his suit flapped as he walked. His thick white hair could have given him a genial grandfatherly look were it not for the austere wirerimmed glasses halfway down his nose. He was well past retirement age but was retained for his skill as the best analyst money could buy. And bought he most certainly was.
Van Den Hauwe continued, “Either he has made all this up,” he waved at the figures on the screen, “in which case he’s insane, or we have here the evidence of the most remarkable substance we have ever analyzed. Dr. Parris?”
The metallurgist was pointing at the screen, following one particular line of data with his index finger, then rifling through the reams of paper in front of him.
“Essentially, yes.” His accent was pure Harvard, his manner brusque. “If this data is not faked—and I would need to be persuaded of that—this substance is revolutionary. It is brand new, gentlemen. Brand new and shiny. There are 118 elements, as you know. Well, this appears to be the 126th, exactly as your man in England claims.”
“He’s not our man,” said Van Den Hauwe.
Parris continued. “Even though it has never been seen before, we know precisely the readings we would be getting from such an element. The figures are on the screen. I can get technical if you wish and tell you about the magic number of protons and neutrons it has—its doubly magic nucleus—but you may not thank me for it …” He waited for a reaction but both men indicated that he should carry on. “I must say, it’s most likely a fake.”
“Never mind that, Joe,” said Revere. “Assume the figures you have are correct.”
“In that case, based on this data, you have the scientific discovery of the century. Any century. And its power will be something to behold.”
There was silence in the room. Coffee and pastries had been brought in an hour ago, but nothing had been touched. Each man was alternately pacing and gazing at the information from Flowerdew’s lab.
Van Den Hauwe spoke next. “Would you guess, please, at its nuclear abilities?”
Joe Parris took off his glasses. “Unprecedented. Immeasurable. Extraordinary.”
The Dutchman considered this. “Our business is oil, always has been. We’ve spent many years trashing nuclear power and highlighting its dangers. But if we get this rock and the seam it comes from, we will be going nuclear, will we not?”
Parris rubbed his eyes. “Two things: first, there is no seam; this will have come many, many hundreds of thousands of years ago, from an exploding star, a supernova. There may be other rocks, however; my guess is that would be likely. And second, yes, whether you like it or not, element 126 will be a strong neutron emitter—very useful as a start-up source for a nuclear reactor. The security implications are profound, of course.”
Revere looked up from his graphs and equations. Joe Parris walked the length of the table toward the co-chairs of Greencorps. He sat down next to Revere and leaned forward. He paused, collecting his thoughts, then spoke more quietly, as though he thought someone else might be listening.
“Even with a small number of these rocks, there is enough power for any country, any organization, any terrorist group to go nuclear. Hell, we could go nuclear. Greencorps could become a nuclear player. This is a game changer, gentlemen.” He leaned back in his chair, looking from Revere to Van Den Hauwe.
“And would kill oil the world over.” Revere stared at the figures on the screen as though he might have missed something. “Oil stocks would crash through the floor. As soon as word gets out of a new super-nuclear energy—nuclear 2.0 if you like—our whole industry could collapse. Who wants to dig a smelly, dirty oil well if a small piece of rock can do the job? We have to control this.”
“One more thing, if I may …?” said Parris.
Revere nodded. “Go ahead, Joe.”
“It’s not just nuclear start-up. Pocket nukes—very small nuclear weapons—would become a reality. They are things of urban legend at the moment. But with this? If you could get a critical mass together, they would appear very quickly. These rocks are a nuclear start-up kit in a bag.”
“You say there may be more, Joe, but we only know of this one,” said Van Den Hauwe, pointing at the data.
“It seems unlikely to me that there would be only one,” said Parris. “This started its journey with the enormous explosion you get at the death of a star—a supernova followed by a massive neutron explosion. It’s hard to believe that it arrived on its own. Somewhere there will be others. When word gets out about what we are looking at here, there’ll be a frantic search for more.”
“In which case,” said the Dutchman, “we could be on the verge of a new gold rush.”
“With terrifying consequences if the wrong people get there first,” said Revere.
Van Den Hauwe smiled. “You forget. We are the wrong people, Christophe.”
As soon as Dr. Parris had gathered up his papers and left there was an urgent knock at the door. The Greencorps bosses looked up and saw the silhouette of Roshanna Wing waiting.
“Yes, Roshanna!” called Revere.
She came in, carrying her laptop open on her palm. “You need to see this,” she said and swiveled it around on the table in front of them. It showed a page from the Western Daily News. Roshanna stood back as they both read the account of Flowerdew’s assault on Itchingham Lofte and members of staff at Cornwall Academy. They looked in amazement at the photo of their former employee with the broken bottle in his hand.
Revere zoomed in on his face: manic and wildeyed. “Well. There we are. He’s lost it, Jan. There must be no link to us. Where is he now, Roshanna?”
“He’s disappeared, sir,” she said. “Apparently he took off after this attack and hasn’t been seen since. I’ve called his house and mobile, but there’s no reply from either.”
Christophe Revere spoke to Roshanna but was looking at his partner. “We don’t want anything more to do with Flowerdew, but we do want his rock. Go to Cornwall, Roshanna. Take help with you. Get the rock and make it safe for us.”
Van Den Hauwe nodded. “Are you OK with that, Roshanna?”
“Of course,” she agreed. “I’ll take Berghahn and Collins—we’ll leave in the morning.”
“No, you need to leave right away—we’ve wasted enough time on this already.” The Frenchman dismissed her, and after she had left said to his partner, “And when we have it? What then?”
“We make sure the really wrong people get a sniff, that’s what. These are high stakes, Christophe, the highest there are. We play this right, we allow a rock or two to find their way to a terrorist cell somewhere, and the nuclear boys will be sunk without a trace. For good. But if we play this wrong …” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. The two Greencorps bosses looked at each other.
The Frenchman said, “I still think it might be nothing. But if it is something, it needs to be our something.”