The Mayan Apocalypse (10 page)

M
organ's office was on the top floor of the twenty-six-story Morgan Natural Energy building in downtown Oklahoma City. The building reflected his father's love for the new and the old. Unlike the tall glass rectangles that loomed over many cities, the Morgan Natural Energy building sported smaller windows and an earth-toned facade. Under his father's leadership, the architect managed to create something that honored the past while embracing the modern. Shortly after construction ended, one architectural reviewer described it as a “building without identity, which neither detracts nor enhances the Oklahoma City skyline.” To Morgan's surprise, his father had taken that as a compliment.

The limo driver pulled into the subterranean parking garage through an entrance reserved for upper-level execs. To outsiders, a limo, a private entrance, and private elevator might seem the affectation of the wealthy. At one time, that would have been true, but the twenty-first century had evolved into a dangerous place where executives like him could be kidnapped and held for ransom, or simply be killed by a zealot from any number of causes.

The driver, one of several used by the company, each trained in evasive driving and personal protection, opened Morgan's door and escorted Morgan to the basement's private elevator. Morgan ran a microchip cardkey through the slot of a security lock, placed his thumb on a black piece of glass, and waited until he saw the green indicator light flash and heard three soft beeps. The elevator was a “capture container.” If someone tried to defeat the security system, the
elevator would open, allowing entrance and then initiating a lockdown until the police arrived. Twice a year, the head of security held a meeting with all key personnel in order to remind them of procedures and the growing threat from foreign and homegrown terrorists. It still surprised Morgan how many people hated oil companies.

Once inside the lift, Morgan looked up and to the left. A small, dark glass plate filled the corner. Behind it was a security camera. There was also a microcamera hidden in the display that flashed floor numbers as the cab moved up and down the shaft.

“Alpha floor,” Morgan said. The voice recognition software responded with the same words, and the elevator began to rise.

What a world we live in.
Morgan hated living in a security cocoon. For a short time there was concern in the company that the plane crash that took his wife and son had been the result of foul play. Police, FAA, NTSB, and the company's private security investigators found nothing to prove the point. It was just an accident.

Just an accident.
When the two people you love most die, it's not “just an accident.”

Twenty-six floors later the elevator doors parted, and Morgan exited into a plush, contemporary chrome-and-glass lobby.

A receptionist desk sat empty fifteen feet away from the elevator. It was a throwback to the original design, a time when security was less demanding. Because no one came to this floor without an invitation, no receptionist was necessary.

Five offices and one massive conference room filled the floor space. Morgan's office was twice as large as the others, and the conference room was filled with high-tech toys.

Large double doors made from walnut stretched to the ceiling. There were no signs or plaques to identify this as the entrance to the CEO's office. Morgan twisted the polished brass doorknob and crossed the threshold into his cavernous office. No man needed an office this large. It was a showpiece for visiting foreign executives, major stockholders, and state and national politicians. Beyond that, Morgan often thought, it was wasted space.

As the door automatically closed behind him, Morgan crossed the room, treading on royal blue carpet. The room was decked out in warm wood tones of walnut with ebony trim. His desk, which had belonged to his father, was a gift from a grateful senator and large enough to sleep on. The kneehole could house a small family.

A trim woman in a close-fitting brown pantsuit stood behind his desk, silhouetted by the bright morning light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows. She straightened as Morgan drew close. “You're here early.”

“Working out seemed more like work today.” He rounded the desk as she stepped away.

“Isn't that why they call it working out?”

Janie Horner stood tall and straight as if someone had surgically implanted a steel rod in her back. She not only
stood
that way, but Morgan had seen her
sit
for hours without her shoulders ever touching the back of her chair. He guessed he wouldn't last ten minutes sitting like that, and he was as fit as a man could be.

“I suppose so.” He plopped down in his brown-leather executive chair, also a holdover from his father's day, and tapped a key on the computer keyboard set to one side of his desk. The thirty-inch monitor came to life, revealing several windows. His computer was networked with Janie's. A glance told him his calendar was still free, something he had requested Janie to arrange, but there were several phone messages.

Most of the messages looked routine, the kind of matters he dealt with daily, but there were several from Lisa Campbell.

Janie rested a hand on the desk. “Is there anything I can do for you this morning?”

“No. I'm going to spend some time planning and thinking.”

“Shouldn't that be the other way around?” She smiled, flashing expensively maintained teeth. Morgan paid her more than most execs received in other firms. Janie was intelligent, intuitive, and knew as much about Morgan Natural Energy as Morgan did. He considered her indispensible.

“So that's what I've been doing wrong.” He paused and looked at the messages. “Let me ask you something.”

“Anything, boss.”

“This Lisa Campbell.” He pointed at the displayed message. “She called me on my cell phone this morning. Did you give her my number?”

“Of course not. I never give out personal information about you or anyone in the firm. What did she want?”

“I missed the call and haven't called back.”

“So you don't know her? She's a stranger, and she's calling you?”

“She's not really a stranger, Janie. I've met her. In fact, I gave her a lift to San Antonio from New Mexico.”

“I don't understand. If you know her—”

“I told her where I work, and she knows who I am, but I didn't give her a business card and certainly didn't give her my cell phone number.”

“Who is she?”

Janie sounded defensive, jealous, and protective. “A reporter. She's an all right person, but…”

“But what?”

“She put me off. Came across a little too pushy.”

Janie nodded. “Saying a reporter is pushy is just being redundant. You flew her from New Mexico to San Antonio?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was going to give her my card, but…it doesn't matter.”

“Do you want me to call her and tell her you're unavailable?” Janie stiffened.

“No. You're my administrative assistant, not my protector.”

“Okay, boss, but I'm here if you need me. I know how to handle the media. Is she from a big paper? Network?”

“No, she works for a small Christian outlet. I think they're only online.”

She put a hand to her hip. “Really? A Christian newspaper?”

“They may call it a newspaper, but I don't think paper is involved
anymore. A lot of dead-tree publications can be found only on the Net these days.” He turned to the window, putting Janie at his back. “It's nothing to bother you with.”

“You are certainly popular with the ladies.”

He spun back around. “What?”

“Did you look at all your messages?”

Morgan scooted closer to the monitor and saw the name “Candy Welch.” He groaned, then hoped Janie hadn't heard. “That's tonight. I forgot all about it.”

“She must be a special girl to be forgotten so easily.”

“Come on, Janie. I've been out of town, and I have a few things on my mind.”

Janie grinned. “Just not Candy Welch.”

“Don't be cheeky, Janie.”

“Was I being cheeky? I didn't mean to be.”

“Now my sarcasm alarm is going off.”

That made Janie grin. “Then my work here is done. Do you want me to make reservations? Are you picking her up?”

“No. I'll think of a place.”

“You should take a gift. I'll pick something up at lunch.”

“You're the best, Janie.”

“Tell me something I don't know.” Janie moved to the door that led to her private office. “You know where to find me.”

“That I do.”

Morgan turned his attention to the stock market and commodities and tried to focus. For some reason, Lisa Campbell kept coming to mind.

I
have something for you.”

Quetzal opened his eyes, raised his designer sunglasses, and squinted against the late afternoon light glinting off the expansive pool. “I was napping.”

“I'm sorry to have to awaken you, your majesty, but while you've been baking yourself in the Atlanta sun, I've been working.”

Quetzal raised the back of his lounge chair and took a long sip of iced tea. “Don't sound so put upon, Charles. You live in comfort and have more money than you can spend. Take a load off and enjoy a day. We're paying enough rent for this place.”

“That's not why I do this. You know that.”

“You're out to save the world. I get it. I'm doing my part. Just because I'm not a computer and science whiz like you doesn't mean I don't contribute. Now, did you bring me something important, or should I go back to napping?”

Quetzal saw Balfour roll his eyes but said nothing. The thin man moved to a lounge chair adjacent to Quetzal. He held a manila folder. “I found something—or, should I say, I found someone.”

“You've been mining data again, haven't you?” Quetzal took the envelope and opened it, removing several sheets of paper and photographs. He went right to the pictures. “I don't recognize him. Should I?”

“His name is Andrew Morgan. He's the CEO of Morgan Natural Energy in Oklahoma City. As you know, we took photos of everyone who came to the Roswell presentation.”

“Yes, I know that was going on. I believe it was my idea.”

“If you say so, but it wasn't.” Balfour shifted his weight. “Because tickets were purchased in advance, we have his name.”

“Who's that with him?”

“A reporter. Her name is Lisa Campbell.”

Quetzal grunted. “Pretty little thing. It's a shame she's a reporter.”

“If it's all right with you, maybe we can return to Morgan. You might not recognize him, but I do. I did some cross-checking. He's one of our supporters. Not big-time, but he's poured a few thousand into our nonprofit.”

“I like this guy already.”

“I've done some research on him. He started contributing about six months ago. Sometime before that, his family was killed in a plane crash.”

“Pity.”

“Your grief moves me.” Balfour, always too nervous to sit for long, rose and began to pace in front of Quetzal. “The guy is worth billions. And that's him personally. His company has huge resources.”

“Do you think you can turn him?”

Balfour frowned. “Don't you mean, ‘Can
we
turn him?' ”

“Isn't that what I said?”

“No it isn't.” He stopped pacing. “Look, the guy has money and he can use our help. Together we might make this work.”

“So how do we make contact?” Quetzal lowered his sunglasses.

“I'm working on that.”

Quetzal then lowered the back of the lounge chair to the horizontal position again. “Work harder.”

“Parakeet die?”

“Huh?” Lisa looked up from her cell phone and into the pleasant eyes of her editor, Rodney Truffaut.

“Your parakeet. Did it die?” He pulled a worn, straight-leg chair next to her desk.

“I don't have a parakeet.”

He nodded as if in solemn thought. “If you did, and if it died, I bet this is what you'd look like.”

A moment later, Lisa got the implication. “I'm that transparent, am I?”

“You are to me. What's bugging you?” He leaned back and crossed his legs.

She turned in her seat. “I can't reach Andrew Morgan for an interview. If didn't know better, I'd say he's avoiding me.”

“Sure you got the right number?”

She nodded. “I did a little investigating. The corporation number was easy. Getting his cell phone was tough.”

“You got his cell phone number?” Truffaut laughed. “How'd you do that? Nothing illegal, I hope.”

“You know me, I'm a stickler about staying on the right side of the law. It's a bad Christian witness for me to bend the rules to fit my purpose.”

“No matter how tempting it is.”

Lisa smiled. “It is tempting, I'll admit that. I tried the usual channels and then resorted to the direct approach. I called the hotels in Roswell, asked if Andrew Morgan stayed there. I told them we had met while in town, and I said I needed to get in touch with him. Believe it or not, the front desk had his cell number and gave it to me as if I were Morgan's mother.”

“The clerk shouldn't have done that.” Lisa saw the corners of his mouth dip.

“I'm a little conflicted about it myself, but it's not as if I'm stalking the guy. And he did give me a lift in his jet. I thought we hit it off. Besides, the interview could be good for him.”

Truffaut cocked his head. “That a fact? How can an interview with a Christian publication be all that good for him? From what you told me, he's a touch prickly about Christianity.”

“A touch? A cactus would avoid him. I came on a little strong. Maybe that's why he's avoiding me.”

“Strong? You?”

“Sarcasm is beneath you, boss.”

“Not at all. Sarcasm and I have been friends for years. So are you going to give up?”

“I don't give up. You know that. I'm hoping he's just busy. I'll find a way to make contact. Maybe a text message.”

“That should do. He doesn't answer your calls, but he's bound to answer a text message.”

She huffed. “There's that sarcasm again.” Lisa paused. “You're right.”

“Well, of course I am. That's why I get the big bucks.” He stood. “Give him time. What's Garrett up to?”

“I went over my research with him. I have him reviewing it again and writing a quick five hundred words of background. I want to see his skill level.”

“Good for you. Go easy on him at first. The kid has talent and more creativity than he knows what to do with, but he's raw. Mother him when you have to, but don't hesitate to apply your spectator pumps to his rear end if he gets mouthy or lazy.”

“What do you know about spectator pumps?”

He grinned. “I've been married for over thirty years. My wife has more shoes than a Payless store.”

“Yeah, but you love her anyway. Besides, how many tools do you have in that shop of yours?”

“I think I hear my phone ringing.” He winked and walked away.

Lisa considered calling again. It was her nature. More than once someone had called her pushy and aggressive. She always denied it, saying she was “assertive, not aggressive.” But she knew she could be annoying. Her father once said journalism was the only career that would pay her to be nosey.

She set the phone down and wondered what Andrew Morgan was up to.

Morgan's head hurt. Probably because his neck hurt. The ache in his back contributed to his general discomfort. McNair had been right—he was overdoing it at the gym. Still in his late thirties, Morgan was far from old, but there were days when he stayed up too late, got up too early, worked out too hard, and worried so much that he felt the AARP sneaking up on him.

He left the conference room proud of the new ideas his engineers had come up with for extracting shale oil. That was the part of the business he enjoyed most: creativity, engineering, and geology. Sitting behind a desk wearing a suit and tie sapped him of joy. He once threatened to do away with casual Friday and make the whole week casual dress. He never did. If he were the head of an Internet company or some Silicon Valley software company, then he could kick around in sandals, jeans, and T-shirts with witty sayings on them.

The oil business, however, was many decades older, and some traditions refused to die. His father always wore a suit, white shirt, and tie, so Morgan wore business attire. By ten in the morning, his feet longed for sneakers.

Outside his window wall, the sun was setting, something he normally welcomed, but not this afternoon. He had more work to do, although some wouldn't call an evening with a beautiful woman work.

He had spent the day reviewing reports from the CFO's office, reading a stack of papers written in the foreign language of lawyers about new testing standards, trying to analyze the fluctuating price of a barrel of local crude oil, and watching a CNN report on the Mexico eruption. He shook his head. The numbers of people dead, injured, and displaced grew by the hour. The video filled him with dread, concern, sorrow, and—he hated to admit this—pleasure. One more sign that the Mayans were right.

“Just the beginning.” He spoke to his empty office. “One more proof.”

“Did you say something?”

Morgan turned to see Janie enter the room. “Just thinking aloud.”

Janie moved to his desk and set a stack of correspondence on it. They were smaller than letter-size and printed on heavier, ivory stock.

“Oh, man. Is it that time again?” He sank into his chair.

“Some people like sending birthday and anniversary wishes.”

He grunted. “Yeah? Well, let them sign these things. Do we have to do this every week?”

“No, we could do it once a month, but the stack will be four times larger. Besides, this is an easy week. Just four senators, six congressmen, and one president.”

“Our president or someone else's?”

“This week, it's ours. You know he opened up some offshore drilling again?”

Morgan pressed his lips. “Of course I know that, Janie. It's my job to know such things.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Anything you say, sir.”

Morgan did his best to look imposing, but it never worked with Janie. She was as funny as she was loyal. It was one of the reasons he hired her. He didn't want an administrative assistant who was afraid of his every move. He needed just what he got with Janie: professionalism, honesty, and a quirky attitude.

“Just leave them. I'll sign them before I leave.”

“Blue.”

“What?” He shifted the stack to the side.

“Wear your blue blazer. It shows off your eyes. No tie. Go with the gray slacks—”

“I'm fully capable of dressing myself for a date, Janie, but thanks for the coaching.”

“But I haven't told you what color socks to wear.”

Morgan rose. “And you're not going to.”

She raised a hand. “Okay, okay, just trying to help my boss out. By the way, your girlfriend called again.”

“This is my first date with the woman. It's a little premature to call her my girlfriend.”

“Not her. Lisa Campbell. Are you going to call her back?”

“Why should I? I did the gentlemanly thing by helping her get home. That doesn't obligate me to long phone messages.”

“You sure you don't want me to tell her to get lost? I'm good at that. It's part of my skill set.”

Morgan had no doubt of that. “No, she'll stop soon enough.”

“I doubt it. She doesn't seem the type.” Janie raised an eyebrow. “If you know what I mean.” She walked back to her office.

Morgan had no idea what she meant.