Louise Berker was behind her desk in Environmental Opinion Associates, and Rex Longworthy was sitting uncomfortably in the guest chair.
“We’ve been at this tipping point much too long, Rex, don’t you agree?” she said.
“Of course, Louise. But a precipitating event is inevitable, don’t you agree?”
“Inevitability is not my point. We need to be poised to exploit any event. Quickly. All the work to recruit that girl, Snowfeather, to bring the media along. The Treaty needs to be ratified. Soon or not at all. We must act while the momentum is with us.”
Rex frowned. “What are you suggesting?”
“Have you thought about the ecological consequences from a major spill in the Panama Canal?”
Rex smiled. “That would do it, all right. Close to home. Especially if it involved nuclear waste. It would be a PR godsend.”
“Better still if we could predict something of that magnitude.”
“Obviously. The demonstrations could be planned in advance. The media alerted. What are you suggesting?”
“Consider it done, Rex.”
He paused. “I see. The G-A-N could pull this off?”
Berker just put a single finger on her lips and smiled.
——
Two hours later, a staff employee of the Smith Sub-Committee on Domestic Terrorism was assigned to review the following conversation captured through routine monitoring of suspected terrorist cells. But the staffer failed, through geographical ignorance, to notice that the discussion related to the Pacific and Atlantic side locks in the Panama Canal, and that control of the “mule operators” meant operational control of the lock-side towing trains responsible to take ships through them. Missing also was the context: the nearly simultaneous arrival on opposite sides of the Panama Canal lock system of two separate shipments of large amounts of very high level nuclear waste. As a result, the intercept was stacked for routine analysis, a process that would take another two weeks.
“You are confident that the mule operators are under control.”
“Absolutely. The Gatun locks, the Pedro Miguel locks, and the Miraflores locks. We have the capability to affect simultaneous transits, from the East, and from the West.”
“So it doesn’t happen in Gatun Lake?”
“Not optimum. Damage could be contained. Much better in the locks on either side. More environmental impact, you see.”
“You know this better than I do.”
“Thank you. So, to what do I owe the honor of this call?”
“The time is right.”
“I hoped you might call now. There are two shipments that can be simultaneously—”
“Dealt with.”
“Exactly. So do we have the authorization?”
“You do.”
“Excellent.”
——
Vincent was nervous, but determined. It was 3:40 A.M. and the Pioneer Square district was nearly deserted, the nearest street lamp cloaked in fog. Carrying the copied keys, he walked past a series of dark storefronts. He paused before a window, squinting inside at the books arrayed on a small display. To the right, lurking in a pool of blackness, Vince found the recessed doorway by feel. Holding his breath, he slipped a key into the lock and turned.
A few minutes later, he was in the stairway behind the Earth Planet Bookstore.
The agent had warned him during his last briefing that, if caught, Vincent was on his own, that nothing would be linked back to the Smith Sub Committee.
“No problem,” Vince had said. “I doubt they would call the cops.”
The agent had looked at him coldly. “You will be better off if they do.”
Vince had shrugged off the warning, after all he was the son of third generation cops. His tiny flashlight cast a fleeting puddle of light on the worn linoleum stairs that danced along the worn and stained carpet of the hallway. No problem here, Vince thought. The building’s ventilation and heating system had been turned off. The air was cold, and heavy with mold spores.
Vincent stopped, listening to the sound of his own breathing. A siren sounded, wailing faintly in the distance. He moved on slowly, his sneakers almost soundless on the rug.
The door Snowfeather had described was closed. Vincent paused, turning off his light. There was no sound and no light within. He clicked his tiny flashlight on again. Cautiously, Vincent tried the handle.
Locked. What did you expect?
His copy of Snowfeather’s key wouldn’t move the tumbler at all. Checkmate. Nice, try Marconi. Enough spy stuff. Time to go home. But he paused, studying the lock in the glow of his pocket light.
Okay, he thought, at least the key fits, so it’s the right blank. And the other key did work outside. Probably a copy of a copy of a copy. One more try.
Vincent pulled the key toward him; then turned it hard. The tumbler moved slightly. Encouraged, he pushed in, then pulled again and twisted. The tumbler turned smoothly.
You’re in, Marconi! The door opened into the room, releasing a smell that hit him like the stench from a freshly opened crypt. Vincent held his nose, stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The air was cloying, as if he had entered a fetid swamp after half the inhabitants had died. His tiny light darted around the room, catching glimpses of hanging leaves, twisted vines, and dripping water. The room was so large that the spot from the flashlight barely reached the other side. In the center of the room, seven stumps were arranged in a circle around a crude altar.
Stepping cautiously toward the stumps, he could feel the slippery surface give way slightly as he approached. Then something wet moved under his foot. “Damn,” he whispered involuntarily. He pointed the flashlight downward. Something white slithered away into the blackness. Vincent shuddered, and fumbled in his backpack for the larger flashlight. After a frustrating minute, he gave up.
The altar was in the exact center of the stump circle. Fashioned from a gnarled tree, it held a small scroll, fastened to the side with crudely carved wooden fingers. He climbed over a stump and leaned forward, shining the tiny lamp against the parchment.
This must be it.
Vincent fished out the digital camera from his backpack. Need to get all the words and the signatures. Ornate block letters, painstakingly inscribed in dried blood, spelled out a manifesto:
“Gaia the wounded, Gaia the threatened, Gaia the injured, Gaia the infected. We, your antibodies, pledge our very lives to the eradication of man, the infestation. Homo Ecophagus.
“Signed in our blood this first day of your retribution.
“Tan, Gloris, K, D, E, F.
“From Gaia to Gaia.
“Death to all humankind.”
Something touched his foot. Vincent kicked at it, swallowing a curse. He worked with frantic speed, taking three pictures, as rapidly as his fingers would function. The flash produced afterimages that glowed in the darkness. “Death to all humankind,” danced in negative relief while he stood rooted to the spot, waiting for his night vision to reestablish itself. His breath came in rapid, short gasps.
Don’t panic now.
When his eyes had finally readjusted, Vincent examined the glowing digital images. Excellent. What were the agent’s instructions? He fumbled, trying to connect the camera’s output to the satellite phone he had been given. Damn, he thought. I need light. I’ll need to take this outside.
“Don’t wait until you get out,” the agent had cautioned. “This could be your insurance.”
“Fine for you to say!” he whispered to himself, disconnecting the camera and slipping it into his backpack. “I can’t see in here!”
What was that? Vincent held his breath, listening for the sound. The back of his neck was tingling alarm.
“Having a good time?”
Jesus! He jumped a full foot.
It was a harsh female voice. Vincent was struck dumb. With a series of distinct clicks, three separate flashlights glared in his eyes. He squinted, clutching his backpack. “Come here,” the voice said.
For a brief moment, Vincent imagined himself reconnecting the camera, standing defiantly in the flashlights, suppressing the impulse to run, waiting as the whisper of data transfer invaded the silence. But Vincent’s heart was thumping wildly and his hands were shaking uncontrollably.
Too late, he thought. Numbly, Vincent stared into the flashlights. Too fucking late.