Vapor (10 page)

Come on, damn it.

With all my strength, I pulled the SUV’s driver side door. Dry wind sucked at my oxygen as I forced it ajar.

“They’re almost here,” Graham whispered. Although I recognized his voice, I could barely see him through the thick veil of dirt.

The key was in the ignition. I turned it and the SUV came to life. Then I shifted my gaze to the dashboard. “The gas tank is less than a quarter full.”

“Is that enough?”

“It’ll do the trick.” I turned the key, cutting the engine. “Less liquid means more fumes. See if you can find the jumper cables.”

I stepped away from the SUV. Graham caught the door. As he climbed partway into the cab, I tried hard not to look at the reliquary. Like it or not, I was going to be parting with it in a matter of minutes.

I forced myself to look at the man I’d killed. His bloodstained shirt contrasted sharply with the dark ground. Kneeling down, I yanked the garment off his corpse.

Beverly, hunched over, appeared. She walked backward toward me, dragging the second corpse behind her.

Shifting my gaze, I looked across the landscape. Seven sets of headlights swept toward us, moving in a zigzag search pattern. Although the dust storm shielded the plane, I knew it wouldn’t be long before they spotted it. “Take off his shirt,” I said. “I’ll be back in a second.”

I ran to a small patch of dead vegetation. Removing my machete, I cut off some sturdy twigs. As I raced back to the SUV, I saw Graham extracting cables from the cab.

I took his place at the driver’s side door. Then I used my machete to cut a hole in the seat. After removing some soft foamy material, I pressed a lever beneath the steering wheel. The hood released with a small pop.

“I’ve got the cables.” Graham hustled toward me. “What now?”

“Follow me.” I took a step back and strong winds blew the door shut. I rushed to the hood and unlatched it. Then I passed the shirt to Graham and took the cables. “Twist this up and dip it in the gas tank. You don’t need to soak it. I just need a few drops.”

As he hustled away, I connected the jumper cables to the SUV’s battery. Then I dropped the free ends and hurried to the first man’s corpse.

“I got it.” Beverly held up the second man’s shirt.

“Put it in the gas tank,” I said. “Let it stick out a couple of inches. But first, help me get these bodies into the truck. Not all the way though. We need to keep the doors ajar.”

Bending over, I grabbed the first man by his armpits. Despite the dry heat, his skin felt cold and clammy. Swiftly, I dragged the corpse toward the SUV. The sand attacked me along the way. It didn’t matter which way I turned my face. The flying dirt was everywhere.

I glanced over my shoulder. Grit sailed into my visage. Only my goggles kept it from entering my eyes. Blinking, I noted the SUV’s position. Then I lugged the corpse to the door. Graham yanked it open and stepped out of the way.

I pushed the corpse onto the front seat. Leaning over it, I turned the ignition and the engine fired to life.

Graham released the door. It blew inward, thumping against the corpse’s legs. “I’ve got the gas.” He held up the bloody shirt.

“Wrap that around these.” I passed the bundle of twigs to him. “Shape it into a torch.”

I ran around the vehicle and helped Beverly load the other corpse into the passenger seat. Then I darted to the hood. After grabbing the free ends of the jumper cables, I hurried to the gas tank and watched as Beverly snaked the second shirt inside of it.

“The lights,” she said quietly. “They’ve stopped moving.”

Ice crept down my spine as I looked at the headlights. They peered through the dark winds from about fifty yards away.

Abruptly, they blinked off.

I glanced at the reliquary. My gaze lingered for a moment. Then I placed the foamy material on the ground, using my boot to keep it in place. I touched the jumper cables to the material. A small spark appeared.

Dropping the cables, I covered the spark with my hands. Gently, I blew on it, giving it life. The foam started to burn.

“Light your torch,” I told Graham. “And make it fast. This fire won’t last long.”

He touched the torch to the foam. The cloth burst into flames.

“Get up the hill.” I grabbed the torch from him. “And pray this works.”

Jeremy Pascal frowned as his car slowed to a crawl. Fifty yards away, he saw dim lights. They blinked on and off at irregular intervals. He assumed the lights belonged to the reconnaissance vehicle. But why were they blinking like that? Was the car’s battery failing? Or was the blowing dirt sporadically blocking the beams?

“Park here,” he muttered softly.

The driver pressed the brakes. The car ground to a halt and Pascal lifted his binoculars. Staring through the windshield, he thought he saw several shadows scurrying about the area. But the dust storm made it impossible to be certain.

“Can you see anyone?” Pascal squinted into the lenses.

“Nope.” The driver turned off the ignition. “Want me to try calling them again?”

“Don’t bother. The storm is probably blocking satellite reception. Anyway Herman and Mickles are good at what they do. I’m sure they’ve got everything under control.”

Pascal’s massive hand unlatched the door and shoved it open. The wind threatened to slam it shut, but his arm held firm. Wrapping a scarf around his face, he stepped outside and quietly closed the door. He was reasonably certain Herman and Mickles had already captured the salvage team. But he’d learned long ago never to take any situation for granted.

Two large box trucks and four SUVs pulled to a halt. Their lights darkened. Their engines fell silent. Numerous men emerged from the vehicles.

Pointing his fingers, Pascal signaled a flanking maneuver. His men pulled out guns and divided into two groups.

Crouching down, he led one of the groups to the northwest. He stayed low and maintained an easy pace, avoiding any sudden movements.

An uneasy feeling started to nag at Pascal. He wasn’t all that surprised that Herman and Mickles hadn’t picked up his calls. What really bothered him was the lack of flares. His team knew better than to hunker down and invite suspicion. They should’ve been out in the open, giving signals.

Soft crackling echoed across the soil. Puzzled, he froze in place.

The ground rumbled. An earsplitting boom struck the night sky, drowning out the brutal air currents. The blinking headlights disappeared, replaced by a giant fireball.

Shielding his eyes, Pascal stared at the fire. “What the hell?”

Adopting a moderate pace, he strode forward. Mid-sized flames licked the dark sky, sucking at the oxygen. Large chunks of metal and plastic lay near the mangled wreckage.

He scanned the area for Mickles and Herman. Seeing no one, he circled to the side. Something sharp stung his face. His hand flew to his cheek and came away bloody. Grunting in frustration, he backed up a few steps. The explosion had sent smaller pieces of glass and metal airborne, adding a new element of danger to the dust storm.

Kneeling in the dirt, he studied the wreckage from a safe distance. The force of the explosion had caused a small hill of dirt to collapse. It partially covered the SUV’s metal remains. Several fires raged inside the vehicle, crackling loudly.

Farther to the north, he noticed a medium-duty truck, half buried under a mound of dirt. He figured it belonged to the salvage team.

Peering through his binoculars, he noticed the truck’s front left tire was flat. A large piece of cargo, shaped like a box, was lashed securely to the flatbed. He was pleased to see the explosion hadn’t damaged it.

He waited for the wind to die down. Then he inched forward. Something crunched under his boot. It felt hard, yet soft. Glancing down, he noticed a bloody, dirt-covered object.

It was part of a hand.

Looking around, he saw other bits of flesh lying on the ground. Quickly, he put the pieces together. Mickles and Herman must’ve confronted Reed’s salvage team. A fight had raged between the two sides, largely drowned out by the heavy wind.

During the battle, someone had accidentally shot the gas tank. The fuel had ignited. The truck had exploded. Everyone, from the looks of it, had died.

Pascal strode forward, ignoring the spinning glass shards as they carved thin lines across his body. Upon reaching the SUV, he saw part of a charred corpse lying on the ground, smeared with blood and dirt.

Using his boot, he nudged the body, turning it over. The face had melted away, but Pascal recognized enough to know it was Mickles.

Pascal swung his long knife over his head. The blade slammed into the melted roof and cut through it easily. His throat opened.

And he shouted a primal scream.

“Mr. President.” The unwelcome voice was loud and grating. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

President Walters’ blood boiled. Hank Gar was an old colleague from his days in the Senate. They’d been at each other’s throats from the beginning, taking opposite sides on every major political issue. The president didn’t mind opinions that differed from his own. After all, that was the nature of politics. But he didn’t like snakes.

And Senator Gar was a snake.

The senator had achieved his position through ruthless means, engaging in fear mongering, false rumors, and lies. After joining the Senate, he’d only gotten worse. It was widely suspected among Washington insiders that Gar participated in all sorts of questionable activities. But reporters, who appreciated his boisterous personality and colorful sound bites, generally gave him a pass.

“How are you, Hank?” The president offered his hand. “And how’s Lizzie?”

Senator Gar strolled forward. He was a political cartoonist’s dream come true. A thick, bulbous head rested comically on his short, stocky frame. He’d combed his wispy white hair backward, in a vain attempt to obscure a small balding patch on his crown. His exaggerated facial features consisted of bulging eyes, a skinny nose, floppy ears, and a big, round mouth.

The senator pressed President Walters’ hand. “I’m fine, Mr. President. And Lizzie’s well, too. She’s a busy woman, juggling all those nonprofits of hers.”

“I bet.” The president studied the senator’s appearance, noting the man wore an expensive black suit, a white collared shirt, and a red power tie. Clearly, he had something important to discuss. “What can I do for you?”

“I don’t want to waste your time, so I’ll cut to the chase. Recently, my staff came across some disturbing information. It seems some taxpayer dollars have gone missing.”

The president’s heart iced over. “Oh?”

“They were taken from the Columbus Project.”

“Let me explain—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President. But I can’t just gloss over this. Your administration has lost hard-earned American money.” Senator Gar cocked his head. “Unless, of course, you took it for yourself.”

The president steeled his backbone. “How dare you.”

Senator Gar shrugged. “Regardless, someone took it.”

“So, is that why you’re here? To give me a heads-up before the press conference?”

“Who said anything about a press conference?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll level with you,” Senator Gar continued. “America doesn’t need another scandal, especially of this magnitude. Polls show the public’s faith in the presidency is already at an all-time low. The last thing I want to do is add fuel to the fire.”

The president frowned.

“Face it. This scandal will destroy you, now and in the history books. You’ll be remembered as the most crooked leader in our nation’s history. But I can give you a way out.”

“Is that so?”

The senator nodded. “All I want is a little favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Your endorsement.” Senator Gar smiled. “I’m running for president in the next election. And you’ll be supporting my candidacy.”

The cottage house, although tiny, promised big things. Ed Hooper’s eyes shifted across it, taking in the peeling siding, the filthy windows, and the lopsided roof. The paint, once a vibrant red, had dulled to crimson. Modest was too kind a word to describe the dwelling.

It was a dump.

Opening his car door, he stepped outside. The evening air reeked of urine and garbage. Twisting his neck, he took in the other nearby single-family homes. He stood in the middle of Washington Highlands, one of Washington D.C.’s poorest and most dangerous neighborhoods. It was a far cry from Spring Valley. And yet, a small connection existed between the two worlds.

After leaving the Samuels’ residence, he’d taken a few minutes to search the Internet for information on the various people depicted in the old photograph. Since they were all part of the same administration, he’d initially received millions of hits. But when he’d added the search term,
Separative
, the hits had diminished to just a handful. One of those hits led him to a three-year old article from the
Washington Chronicle
. It was entitled, “The Separative Takes Over the World.” The article was archived, so he’d been forced to purchase it. But it had been well worth the cost. In fact, it had been so helpful he’d decided to seek out the author herself for a little extra information.

Hooper trudged up a dilapidated staircase and rapped on the door. Footsteps pitter-pattered toward him. A deadbolt shifted. The door inched open. “May I help you?” a woman asked with perfect enunciation.

She was short and middle-aged. Her eyes were laser bright. Her hair was poofed up and pushed backward, drawing attention to her high forehead. She wore a black sweater and black pants. Her quiet, confident demeanor hinted at a high degree of intelligence.

Hooper smiled. “Are you Ms. Zora Zubin?”

“That depends. Who are you?”

“Ed Hooper.” He showed his credentials. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Secret Service?” Her face twisted in suspicion. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“We should talk inside.” Hooper tried to walk through the doorway. But Zora stood her ground. With a shrug, he backed up a few inches. He wasn’t particularly surprised. Most reporters knew better than to let authority figures into their homes without a warrant. “Or we can talk here.”

Zora stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “I don’t know what this is about, but you’ve got the wrong person. I don’t care for President Walters, but I’d never try to hurt him.”

“I’m not here about the president. I’m here about an article you wrote three years ago for the
Washington Chronicle
.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “You’ll have to do better than that. Three years is a lifetime in my business.”

“It was called, ‘The Separative Takes Over the World.’” He brought up the article on his smartphone and passed it to her.

“Oh, yes.” She fished a pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all.” Hooper tilted his head. “How long have you been a smoker?”

“Ever since I came to this godforsaken city.” She slid a cigarette between her lips and lit it. “So, why do you care about my article?”

“It might have something to do with a case I’m working on.” Hooper gave her a reassuring smile. “So, why’d you write it?”

“Because it was—is—an amazing story. Five members of the cabinet are longtime friends? And they used to meet together, in secret, to discuss intellectual matters? That’s the stuff Pulitzers are made of.”

“Then how come you never published any follow-up pieces?”

“Ask my editor.”

Hooper arched an eyebrow.

“That first story was going to be part of a series,” she said. “But shortly after it appeared, my editor killed the whole thing. He claimed it was due to lack of interest.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“I’ve been in this town long enough to know when pressure is being applied.”

Hooper nodded. “Okay. Well, how’d you first learn about the Separative?”

She blew out a ring of smoke. “Through Simona Wolcott. She was their ringleader. I met her years ago, right here in D.C. We became good friends. Every Sunday night, she hosted informal gatherings in her parlor. They weren’t very large, just ten people in total. But what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in intellectual heft. They’d debate philosophy, literature, mathematics, politics, and pretty much anything else into the wee hours of the night. They called themselves the Separative.”

“Do you know why?” Hooper asked.

“It was an inside joke. You see, they considered themselves collectivists.”

“Ahh, I see. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

“Something like that.” She paused to blow out another ring of smoke. “Anyway it sounded interesting so I begged her to let me sit in on a meeting. Boy, was that a long night.”

“It was boring?”

“Try humiliating. It was like playing a game of chess with a Grand Master. One moment you think you’re winning, the next moment you realize you’ve been set up for checkmate since the first move.”

“Were they all that smart?”

Exhaling another puff, she stared off into space. “Oh, yeah. But Simona? She was in a league of her own.”

Hooper consulted his notes. “Your article mentioned ten members, but only discussed those with cabinet positions. Who else was in the Separative?”

“I’ll have to get out my old notebooks. Wait here.” She tossed the butt onto her porch and stamped it out with her shoe. Then she walked into her house. Ten minutes later, she reemerged, clutching a couple of spiral notebooks.

Flipping through the books, she recited some basic information. Hooper scribbled down names and titles. Before long, he’d compiled a complete roster of the Separative.

George Kaiser: Secretary of Transportation, U.S. Government

Kate Roost: Secretary of the Interior, U.S. Government

Barney Samuels: Secretary of Energy, U.S. Government

Patricia Samuels: Co-founder, Chairman, and CEO, Fizzter Computers

Janet Baker: Secretary of Agriculture, U.S. Government

Bert Bane: Secretary of Defense, U.S. Government

Mary Jordan: Executive Director, Forestry Club

Carly Nadas: Executive Director, PlanetSavers

John Tipper: Executive Director, United Nations Environment Programme

Simona Wolcott: ?, ?

Hooper’s brain worked in overdrive. Some of the world’s most prominent people had refined their philosophies within the Separative. “It’s like a Who’s Who of bureaucrats and environmentalists.”

“I know, right? That’s why I wrote my article.”

Hooper checked his notes. “What about Simona? Where did she work?”

“She worked as an independent consultant. But she was more than that. I’m not lying when I say she was the smartest person I’ve ever known. Even then I knew she possessed the type of mind that only comes along every few centuries.”

Hooper sensed something in her voice. “It sounds like you were more than friends.”

“Just for a while.” She bit her lip. “I fell hard for her. Really, really hard. But she might as well have been on a different plane of existence. She was so full of passion, but she just couldn’t transfer it to her personal life. She truly lived for her work.”

“What can you tell me about her work?”

“Her expertise lay in geocybernetics. In other words, she studied the relationship between people and nature. She also loved to model incredibly complex systems. In fact, she spent several years trying to model humanity as a self-stabilizing cybernetic system.”

“People as nodes in a network?” Hooper shuddered. “That’s a pretty depressing view of the world.”

“And unrealistic too, as it turns out. Before we met, she’d tried to build a comprehensive model of a small community. She gathered tons of data. Then she attempted to put it together, to model connections between the pieces. Her goal was to establish predictive power. But her model just wouldn’t reflect reality. So, she gathered more data. And oddly enough, the model became even more screwed up. Eventually, she was forced to abandon the project.” Zora smiled wistfully. “Of course, she never admitted it was a failure. She just said she lacked the computing power to make it work.”

Hooper glanced at his notebook. Simona’s background was interesting, but not particularly useful. Still, the conversation had proven helpful to his cause.

He was beginning to suspect the Separative wasn’t just some defunct social club. It was a living, breathing organization. Its members had risen in the ranks and now occupied some of the world’s most powerful positions. With Patricia Samuels handling the computer end of things, it seemed possible they’d used their newfound authority to siphon massive amounts of money away from the Columbus Project.

But to what end?

Thirty-two billion dollars had vanished over the last eighteen months. What could they possibly do with that much money? It boggled Hooper’s mind just to think about it.

Hooper decided to move on to the other members. But first, he had one more question to ask. “Do you still keep in touch with Simona?” he asked. “Maybe you have an address or a phone number?”

“It wouldn’t matter if I did.”

“Why not?”

Zora’s face crumbled. “I don’t know what happened to her.”

“She disappeared?”

Zora nodded.

“When?”

“About eighteen months ago.”