93

 

NATIONAL COUNTERTERRORISM CENTER, MONDAY

Pauline Southward sat in the library room of the NSA. She read and reread the article, feeling a mixture of excitement and anger. She grabbed up the paper, ignoring the PROPERTY OF NSA stamped on it. She rolled it into a baton and squeezed it into her handbag, then she hurried down the stairs to the underground car park.

She called ahead on her cell as she drove from Fort Meade in her black Porsche 911. Ten years old and it still drove like a dream. It was her indulgence, her reward, her greatest love, she thought with a wry smile. It made all her brutal economies more than worthwhile. It made the commute from Fort Meade to Tyson’s Corner a pleasure. She knew where the speed cameras were and where they weren’t. She drove like a pro, accelerating into open space, feeling the car surge forward, hugging the road, cornering like it was Velcroed to the tarmac. She wove through the traffic, slowed just before she came into the camera’s range.

She got Chief Canning’s PA, Cooper. “Coop, I got something for the Chief and the Project Oscar team. I’ll be with you in twenty.”

She walked into Canning’s corner office twenty minutes later, exactly. They were all waiting for her, save Chris Furlong: Canning standing staring out of his window; Zucker sitting, hands folded primly in her red-trousered lap; Del Russo and Peters standing like sentries, gripping the backs of hastily pulled-up chairs, one to either side of Zucker. To Del Russo’s left, a chair stood empty.

“Chief Canning,” said Southward, addressing Canning’s back.

He turned. “Ms. Southward. Please, take a seat.”

Southward stayed standing. She threw down the copy of the San Francisco Reporter on the polished desk. Her normally pale face was flushed. She glared at Del Russo and Peters.

“Did none of you do the most basic check, the A part of the A to Z?” she asked. “Or were you all searching around the sexy end of the alphabet?”

Canning stared from the newspaper to Southward, then at the vacant seat. Southward sat. Del Russo and Peters stared at her. As if by common consent, they angled their chairs and sat, each facing Southward.

“All you needed to do was Google the guy!” Southward declared.

“ARk Storm!” she said, pointing at the newspaper. “He’s writing about an ARk Storm, a calamitous winter storm that sooner or later is predicted to hit the US West Coast, causing biblical flooding. Read the article!” She jumped up, reached forward, picked up the newspaper, still rolled, brandished it like a weapon. “Today’s San Fran Reporter. It’s the second article he’s written on ARk Storm. It’s the link we’ve been looking for. The method. The delivery system, if you like.”

Canning held up his hand. “Whoa, with the greatest respect, Ms. Southward, are you trying to tell us that somehow Sheikh Ali is plotting to produce an ARk Storm, that he can control the weather?”

Collegial male laughter bumped round the room. Zucker was frowning and regarding Southward speculatively.

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” insisted Southward.

“Jihad by weather,” drawled Del Russo, leaning back in his chair, stretching out his long legs, inadvertently kicking Southward’s ankle. She kicked back, with a stilettoed heel.

“I don’t think so, Ms. Southward,” cautioned Canning. “Be careful,” he added. “Seems to me like you’ve got target fixation. Losing clarity. I know you want to get Sheikh Ali, have from the get-go, but pinning the absurd on him ain’t gonna work.”

Southward jumped to her feet. “Absurd is it? You’re all so pleased with yourselves, you can’t see what’s in front of your own noses. Sheikh Ali is planning jihad on the West Coast of the USA. Sheikh Ali sets up a ‘contingency kidnap’ of one Daniel Jacobsen, who just happens to be writing about a devastating event possibly hitting the West Coast, incidentally justifying the short sales and the put options on California real estate casualty insurance companies.” She shot a look at Zucker, who was watching her with a kind of hyper-alert fascination. “And you guys cannot connect the dots…” she added with quiet finality.

Zucker said nothing. She had never heard anyone talk to Canning in this immoderate, overly emotional way.

“Coincidence,” said Peters. “It does happen and it’s not always sinister or relevant when it does.” He spoke gently, as if trying to calm Southward.

Southward took the time to glower at each of the four occupants of the room.

“Go fiddle then!” She spun round and stalked from the room.

Canning watched Southward half amused, half annoyed. He winced as a shot of acid stabbed his guts. It was a long time since anyone had spoken to him like that. Maybe too long … everyone was so keen to tell him what they thought he wanted to hear.

He pursed his lips, wondering.… The woman was passionate, brilliant, thought outside the box … as did the Jihadis themselves. His stomach gave another squirm of disquiet. He leaned back in his chair, ran his hands over his bald pate, asked himself, just for intellectual completeness, What if you could control the weather? Or worse, what if the wrong person could control the weather?