Ark Storm (49 page)

Ronald Glass was in his office, Master of the Universe, leaning back in his padded leather chair, feet draped on his desk. He eyed them narrowly as they approached, scowling first, then the scowl faded and the first flicker of fear showed. As Ange had known he would, he pushed it down, turned on the outrage as she and Rac walked into his office, bypassing Romula. Failing to knock, failing to wait.

Glass got his feet off his desk, jumped up. “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, eyes flicking to the security men standing sentry outside his door.

“Just call us Nemesis, Ronnie,” declared Ange, blocking his exit, hands on hips, smiling.

She read him his rights, the smile never leaving her face. Glass cursed her out.

“What the fuck are you doing? What’s this about? You cannot storm in here and arrest an innocent man, you
fuckers
! I’ve done nothing! You’ve got
nothing
on me!”

Ange held up her hand, stopping the traffic of his words.

“Oh, Ronnie, or should I call you
Stud,
that is where you are so, so wrong.”

She nodded to Rac. “Cuff him.”

If he’d played nice, no swearing, no outrage, she would have spared him the cuffs, the walk of shame as they escorted him across the floor, the long way to the elevators. But as she had predicted, Ronnie Glass had not played nice.

She winked at Rac as the elevator doors closed, shutting out the crowds who gathered with the speed of hyenas at a kill.
Job done.

*   *   *

A simultaneous operation in Reno resulted in the arrest of Mandy Hoopman. Within the hour, she was offering up Ronnie Glass on a plate.

152

In Singapore, it was the next day, 1:00
A.M.
Marcel Caravaggio was entwined with his mistress, Jeannette. He had taken her out for a celebratory dinner. So far he had made over one point three million dollars on his California real estate casualty company puts and he expected the trade to move further in his favor. Only then would he exercise the puts and realize his profits. Last he heard, it was raining still, raining down catastrophe. The news reporters had been almost trembling with excitement: rainfall measured in feet not inches, landslides, floods, horror, disaster. All great for the share price. For deflating the share price.

It took some time for the ringing of the bell to register. When Marcel did awaken fully, he was furious. He pulled on his silk robe, checked the peephole, saw two uniformed policemen and a man with an immaculate turban standing at the door.

“Open up Mr. Caravaggio,” said the man. “I heard your feet slapping on the marble. I hear your breathing.”

Marcel was taken into custody that night. He was charged with complicity in a terrorist act. No bail allowed. His accounts were frozen. He lived on three meager meals a day in Changi Prison. Jeannette, ever astute, moved on.

153

IT TOOK JUST OVER FOUR WEEKS FOR THE RAIN TO STOP.

Gwen’s dislocated shoulder was recovering. Not as quickly as she wanted. Dan maintained that she was a lousy patient. Gwen found she needed help with the most basic of functions. Getting dressed and undressed one-handed was infuriatingly difficult. Dan was happy to help.

They rode out the storm in a cottage in Nevada, on the edge of the desert, dry of rain, big of sky, far from the horror. Atalanta visited after five days, bringing with her an ecstatic Leo. She and Jihoon and Curt had managed to evade the storm, driving for Reno as soon as Gwen had flown off in the helicopter. They were sharing a condo there until they all decided on their next move.

Gwen went walking into the desert every day for hours, sometimes with just her dog for company, other times Dan came too. He judged her moods closely. She was judging herself, he knew, for many things. For Messenger’s death, for not alerting the Hazards team earlier.

Hurricane Point House was washed away by the ARk Storm. Gwen had already commissioned an architect, had long meetings with him, Dan sitting in, discussing the new build. The commission was for two houses: hers and Marilyn’s. Miraculously, Dan’s house had withstood the storm, suffering only minor flood damage.

It took a further eight weeks for the floodwaters to abate, for the water system to be purified. Only then did they return to California. Gwen moved in with Dan—temporarily, she maintained.

*   *   *

One week after they had moved back, Gwen was making coffee, gazing out of the window at Leo chasing a jackrabbit on the lawn against a backdrop of a mockingly calm sea, when she received a call that made her eyes open wide. She hung up, slugged back her coffee like a shot, hunted down Dan, and told him about the call. He was on his knees, painting the wainscoting, paint-smeared from his redecoration efforts. Streaks of white lit his tousled hair.

He stuck his brush in the bottle of turps, sat back.

“Well, I’ll be!” He rose to his feet. “You wanna go now?”

Gwen smiled. “I wanna go now.”

Half an hour later, they pulled into the parking lot. Five minutes later, they were in the room.

Gwen hid her shock behind her smile.

“I know you hate hospitals,” murmured the patient, smiling back. “It’s good of you to come in.”

Gwen nodded. She looked around at the white-painted walls, stark and unrelieved, tried to ignore the Clorox-tainted smell, flicked her gaze from the bunch of yellow roses tumbling from an elegantly plain glass vase to the man in the bed. He was pale, shaven-headed, the skin drawn tight over his skull. He looked like what he was: a survivor. He had that glint of triumph in eyes buffeted by shock.

“Look, I want to get this out of the way right up,” said Gwen, fidgeting with her jade ring.

The man leaned back on his stuffed white pillows. The remnants of his smile played on his lips.

“I got you wrong. I made a horrible misjudgment.”

The man nodded. “You thought I was a murderous megalomaniac.…” He shrugged. “People make mistakes…”

Dan made a strangled sound. He brushed his hand across his mouth, desperately trying to hold in his laughter. Gwen glared at him, then turned back to the man in the bed.

“Yes, in short. And as a result, you were nearly killed. It is, I know, a miracle you are here. I am truly sorry, Dr. Messenger.”

The man nodded again. “The miracle is largely thanks to your friend here, who I understand rang the cops. When they came I was near dead. Another five minutes and the docs say I would have been. I spent three weeks in a coma.” He paused and his eyes lightened. “And then I came round.”

“Thank God,” breathed Gwen.

Dr. Messenger eyed Dan. “What’s puzzled me is, how did you know I’d been shot? The cops traced the emergency call to your cell, but then, instead of you being a suspect, as you might well have been, you were quickly removed as a, and I quote, ‘person of interest.’ Privately, the cops told me they reckoned you were some kind of operative.…”

Dan shrugged, said nothing.

Messenger smiled as if this did not surprise him. He turned to Gwen.

“I must also thank you, Gwen. The cops found a listening device and a forwarding device in my study. I have been wracking my brains to think who could have planted it. My favorite candidate is you.”

Gwen’s color rose.

Messenger waved his hand magnanimously through the air. “Think nothing of it. It is after all largely thanks to you and your foresight in planting a bug in my home that I am still here. I have to presume that you, Dan, were listening in to the bugs and heard me get shot.”

Messenger and Dan were exchanging looks; both of them appeared to be enjoying Gwen’s discomfort hugely. Finally, it was all too much, and Gwen started laughing. Soon all three of them were laughing, so long and hard that two nurses hurried in. Tears streaked down Messenger’s face.

“We’re fine!” he declared breathlessly. “Just fine.”

The nurses glanced suspiciously from their patient to his visitors, decided on reflection no harm was being done, and went back to their stations.

Gwen pulled up a chair. Dan leaned on the window ledge. Messenger took a long drink of water. His face sobered then.

“What I don’t get is why Randy hated me enough to try to kill me. I’ve gone over and over all our dealings, what I thought I knew of him.…” Messenger shook his head, disbelief and hurt showing in his eyes. “I’m not mad at him now, waste of energy.” He looked surprised at himself. “My best guess is, he did it for the money. And because the conspiracy thing would have appealed to him. Being a kind of double agent. He would have thought himself so smart to outwit me.”

“Nobody expects to be betrayed,” said Gwen. “If we do, we kinda cut it off at the pass before it happens.” She paused. “What about Weiss?” She could hardly bring herself to say the man’s name.
She
felt mad. That feeling hadn’t waned.

Messenger frowned. “Dead, I heard. Cops said, ‘drowned in the storm.’”

Gwen and Dan exchanged a glance.

“What?” asked Messenger, the ghost of his old impatience showing.

“It was Weiss, or should I say
Hassan
,” Gwen spat out the name, “who stood by and let Sieber do the dirty work. Weiss has plenty of blood on his hands. He was Sheikh Ali’s creature. Ali Al Baharna was the architect of the ARk Storm that ravaged California. Weiss was the builder.”

Messenger looked as if Gwen had just slapped his face. He turned even more ashen. He slumped back on his pillows. “Tell me,” he said simply and plaintively.

Gwen told him. The whole story of how they first heard about Hass/Haas at the Ritz-Carlton, Half Moon Bay, to her last, near fatal visit to Sheikh Ali aboard
Zephyr,
to seeing Peter Weiss being hailed as Hassan, to the helicopter ride, to her escape and Sieber’s death, to her swim to shore and Dan’s rescuing her.

Messenger lay back on his pillows, eyes widened. He muttered curses, exclamations, twined his fingers in an endless, nervous dance.

It took half an hour and two cups of tea brought in by the nurses for Gwen to tell the story.

Dan said little. A large chunk of his part of the story wasn’t for telling. Messenger drained his tea. He looked exhausted.

“If I’d only thought,” he said. “I thought I could control everything, everyone. Randy, Peter … I thought I knew their agenda: money, progress in Falcon, acknowledgement.… I didn’t have a clue,” he added with a flash of bitterness.

“How could you know it all?” asked Dan. “What I don’t get is why Weiss/Hassan converted to Islam. What was the trigger for
that
leap? And what made him Ali’s tool? He had a great job, plenty of money, success on that level.…”

“And a great big void, ready to be filled, even by a horrible purpose,” said Gwen. “He was lonely. You could feel it a mile off. He was an outsider, never one of the boys, never one of the team. I’ve had small doses of Ali Al Baharna’s charisma. He could lay it on when he wanted. He would have sucked Weiss right in. He was the father figure Weiss never had.”

“Knowing what I know, it makes a horrible kind of sense,” said Messenger. “Did he ever tell you about his mother?” he asked Gwen. “I know he looked up to you.”

“He told me she left her homeland, gave up everything to marry his father. I know his father beat on them both, left them, then she killed herself.”

Messenger nodded. “All true, but there’s more. He told me several years back when I suppose
I
was the substitute father figure. Before I gave Kevin Barclay a bigger bonus and Peter took that as a rejection. Looking back, I can see how his behavior changed from then. Just last Christmas.” He batted an arm through the air. “I’m rambling. Seems to happen now. So, Weiss’s mother. She was from Indonesia. Met his father when he was working as a contractor over there, for Exxon I think it was.” He paused, eyed Gwen and Dan. Dan was still leaning against the windowsill, Gwen was still sitting on the chair by the bed, leaning forward, arms on her knees.

“His mother was a Muslim.” said Messenger softly.

“Who gave up her religion,” said Gwen. “Losing my religion! Weiss used to whistle it all the time in the Lab.”

“He had been brought up as a blue-collar Christian. That he told me,” Messenger said. “He lost Christianity, gained Islam.”

“And his ma did the opposite,” noted Dan. “That makes her guilty of apostasy. Punishable by death.”

“Is it?” asked Messenger.”

Dan nodded. “She would have been at risk of an honor killing. At best, her family would have disowned her.”

“How d’you know so much?” asked Messenger.

“Spent three years in Afghanistan. Picked up a bit about Islam.…”

Messenger seamed to glean that Dan didn’t wish to elaborate. He just nodded, absorbed it.

“And with all the Islamophobia here he couldn’t mourn her as a Muslim, maybe felt he couldn’t publicly convert, so he kept it all quiet. Save the beard, save the giving up alcohol. Not that he mastered that one,” Gwen added. “So it all went inside, got twisted up. He was avenging his mother, in a totally sick kind of way.”

Messenger nodded. “In Sheikh Ali he found religion, he found a father figure.”

“He found jihad,” concluded Dan.

154

Messenger and Gwen said nothing. Silence stretched through the small white hospital room as all three thought of the consequences.

“So,” said Gwen at last, resting her hand gently on Messenger’s arm. “What’s next for you?”

He smiled at her. “They say brain injuries can change your personality. Seems half of Falcon is dead. I have no wish to bring it back to life. I’m winding it up.” He smiled. “I’m taking a leave of absence from myself.” He paused. “And I’m donating Zeus to the United Nations Famine Relief Fund.”

Gwen took his hand. “You know, for a murderous megalomaniac, you’re not so bad.”

He grinned back. “Seems my wife might be persuaded to think so too. I’m flying to Germany as soon as they allow me. I’ll recuperate there, with her and my boys.”

Gwen felt a surge of joy.

“And what of you? What will you do?” Messenger asked Gwen.