CHARLOTTE’S DAY WAS GOING FROM bad to worse. First she’d set Brooklyn up for an epic fail only to see her turn it into a huge victory. And now, something was going wrong with the computer weather models she was using for Kinloch Abbey. She was inputting the different situations given to the team by the judges, but the results weren’t turning out like they’d predicted.
“Are you sure you entered it correctly?” one of her teammates asked her.
“Of course I am,” snapped Charlotte. “Are you sure you read the numbers correctly?”
Across the room, Brooklyn struggled to mask her glee. She was the problem with Charlotte’s weather model. She’d hacked into the Kinloch computer and every so often would tweak some of its code. She made sure it wasn’t so much that it would attract attention, but just enough so that the results came out wrong.
“Five minutes,” one of the judges announced. “All work needs to be completed in five minutes.”
That was all the time that was left for the teams to vie for the top ten spots and advance to the final day of the competition. FARM didn’t need it. They’d already completed the scenarios and submitted their work for final judging. But the tension at the Kinloch table was escalating.
“Look at Abir,” Paris said under his breath to the others. “I’ve never seen him so angry.”
“Catriona, too,” whispered Sydney. “She looks like she’s going to take over the keyboard from Charlotte.”
“Normally I wouldn’t enjoy this,” said Brooklyn, “but after what she did to me, I’m loving every second.”
“Let that be a lesson for all of us,” Paris said to the others. “Do not mess with Brooklyn.”
This brought a laugh even from Kat and Rio, which they had to stifle when Charlotte looked up and glared at them.
A few minutes later a buzzer sounded, and the judges told the teams to stop working and submit their data. Brooklyn cracked a smile as Charlotte angrily clicked her send button.
They broke for lunch in the dining commons, which was more like a nice restaurant then a typical office cafeteria, but they were all too nervous to enjoy the meal. Afterward, all the teams returned to the lab so that Stavros Sinclair could meet them and announce who’d advanced to the final round. This was the second of his three scheduled appearances and the one for which the team had trained the most at Pinewood.
Unlike the previous day, Monty was across town participating in a symposium at the Pasteur Institute. In her absence, Paris was the alpha, a responsibility he took seriously.
“Remember your assignments,” he said. “If the Purple Thumb attacks now, it won’t be one of the kids on the teams. It’ll be an adult. So look at faces for anyone who’s out of place.”
“We’ve got it,” Rio said.
“Good,” he responded. “Because this operation is hot. We are a go.”
Once again Stavros Sinclair was wearing his customary black jeans, black boots, and gray T-shirt. As he went from station to station and mingled with the teams, he kept his hands clasped behind his back. This served two purposes. First, it made him lean forward, which gave the impression that he was interested in whatever someone was telling him. More important, it kept anyone from trying to shake his hand. Among his many eccentric traits, Sinclair was a germophobe.
Two large bodyguards followed him on either side, and Brooklyn wondered if this was always the case or a response to the possible threat from the Purple Thumb.
Even during this face-to-face “personal” time, many of Sinclair’s comments seemed scripted. There were variations of “Are you having a good time?” and “I think your proposal shows great promise” and “This is a very creative approach.”
In fact, one of the only original interactions came when he reached the FARM table and smiled at Brooklyn. “Ah, Father Hurricane!” he said happily. “What did you say his name was again?”
“Benito Viñes,” answered Brooklyn.
“What a wonderful story,” said Sinclair. “How did you know about my breakthrough with the cloud?”
“I read about it in your biography,” she said. “I found it very inspiring.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “I find you very inspiring too. All of you.”
For Brooklyn this was a heady moment. She was actually talking with Stavros Sinclair, someone who she’d read about and admired for years. It didn’t hurt that across the lab Charlotte was watching with uncontrolled envy.
After Stavros completed his tour of the workstations, he moved to the front of the room to address everybody. Paris and the rest of the team scanned the faces in the crowd, looking for any possible threats. They were relieved that Sinclair had his bodyguards in tow. It would be difficult for anyone from the Purple Thumb to get past them.
“First of all, I want to congratulate you all on your wonderful projects,” Sinclair said, addressing the room. “I’m afraid I came up with this on short notice, which didn’t give you much time to prepare. Still, your work has exceeded my expectations, so please, give yourselves a hand.”
Polite applause rippled through the lab.
“For centuries the idea of creating artificial rain has been mocked as pseudoscience,” he continued. “People say it’s hocus-pocus and make-believe. But you’ve shown that there’s much more to it than that. If we can manufacture rain, then we can help solve the problems of drought and famine around the world.”
Sinclair continued to talk about the project, and the team kept their eyes moving, looking for anybody out of place. For some reason, Paris found himself focusing on the bodyguards. Who would be in a better position to hurt Sinclair than the people who were supposed to protect him? Of course, they must have passed through extensive background checks to get their positions, but it was still possible.
“Many people assume that nature and technology are working against each other, but nothing could be further from the truth,” Sinclair said as he continued his speech. “Right now in Sinclair Scientifica labs, our scientists are studying cloning methods to regrow the Great Barrier Reef. We’re developing prosthetic limbs so lifelike, they re-create a person’s fingerprints. And now, with your help, we’re trying to bring water to areas dying of thirst. At Sinclair Scientifica we are moving forward with our eyes set beyond the horizon.”
The speech was inspiring, and the room erupted in applause.
“Ten teams are about to advance to the final phase of the competition. There’s a lot of money at stake: a million euros to the winners. But more important, the future of our planet’s at stake. Together we must protect it.”
Paris flinched and almost sprang into action as someone approached Sinclair, but he held back when he recognized that it was one of the judges bringing him the final results.
“This is very exciting,” Sinclair said as he opened the envelope. “Here are the ten teams who will advance.”
He read the names, and after each team was announced, there were muffled cheers from the one who’d just received the good news and applause from the others. The top ten came from around the world and included teams from China, India, South Africa, France, and the United States. Despite their difficulty with the computer, Kinloch Abbey had made the cut. He’d listed nine teams, however, without mentioning FARM.
“And last,” he said. “The team from Aisling, Scotland, the Foundation for Atmospheric Research and Monitoring.”
The team celebrated with high fives and hugs while Sinclair continued on to thank the teams who were not advancing.
“Stay sharp,” Paris reminded them. “It’s in this chaos when he’s most vulnerable.”
“Congratulations!” Juliette said when she came over to them. “We will get another day together.”
Paris was focused on Sinclair when out of the corner of his eye he saw a man enter the room and head toward the tech guru.
Paris moved forward, pushing Juliette out of the way in the process.
The man was bald with a beard and wire-framed glasses. Something about him triggered an alarm in Paris, who picked up speed. He was about to jump into action when Sinclair acknowledged the man and they had a brief conversation.
Paris stood and stared at them, his heart racing.
“What’s wrong?” Sydney asked, coming up behind him.
Sinclair left the room, and just before he followed, the man turned to face the room.
That’s when Paris recognized him. That’s when everything came together.
“What’s wrong?” Sydney repeated.
“That man,” Paris said, nodding at him. “I’ve seen him before.”
“Yesterday or today?” she asked.
Paris shook his head. “Five years ago.”
“What?”
“Five years ago that man and those two bodyguards were outside the candy factory as it burned,” he said, remembering the moment vividly. “I saw them from underneath the truck.”
“Wait,” said Sydney. “They’re the ones who tried to kill Mother?”
“Yes,” he said. “Which means that they’re part of Umbra.”