THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller (25 page)

“It’s incredible,” he said at last. “It’s . . . I don’t know the word. Apocalyptic. Biblical. But how likely is it that this will ever happen?”

Swenson shook her head. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Agent Decker. It’s not about likelihood. It’s a certainty. The only variable is time.” She tapped the keyboard once again and a map of the world appeared on the screen. “A mega-tsunami occurred quite recently in Lituya Bay. It stripped timber and soil off to a height of five hundred and twenty meters above sea level. Here.” She pointed to a spot in south Alaska. “Mega-tsunamis can be formed by a number of natural forces, not just by the collapse of mountain ranges. Underwater landslides, for example. Or a giant meteor or comet entering through the atmosphere and smashing into the sea. Like the one that caused the extinction of the dinosaurs. While such celestial collisions are extremely rare, landslides caused by seismic activity occur quite frequently – relatively speaking – both on land and under water.

“The Lisbon earthquake of 1755, for example, is said to have triggered a fifteen-meter wave that caused widespread destruction in Morocco, southern Spain, and as far away as Bimini in the Bahamas. Volcanic island collapses happen far less often. The last one occurred about four thousand years ago, on the island of Réunion in the Indian Ocean. Here,” she added, pointing to the map. “Luckily for us there are no mountain ranges in danger of slipping into the ocean any time soon. Of course, you never know. Nature works on her own timetable. Then again, the way we’re messing with the planet. With global warming and–”

“But from where,” Decker insisted, “would it be likely to originate, if such an event were to occur?”

“According to Dr. White, the next mega-tsunami will originate from here.” She pointed to a dot off the northwest coast of Africa. “There are seven volcanoes on La Palma in the Canary Islands. One still quite active – the Cumbre Vieja,” she said.

Swenson explained the science to him, how water builds up in volcanoes within vertical sheets of permeable rubble over thousands of years, like gigantic reservoirs, held back by impermeable dykes of hardened lava. “One day, due to seismic activity,” she said, “the water inside Cumbre Vieja will begin to heat, the pressure build, and the walls will come tumbling down – like dozens of Hoover Dams colliding against each other, a line of giant dominos, five hundred billion tons collapsing into the sea. The water will move away so fast that it won’t be able to flow back behind the landslide, thereby creating a large air cavity displacing far more water than the volume of the landslide itself. It will release five thousand trillion joules of kinetic energy, and create a dome of water almost one thousand meters high, and thirty to forty kilometers wide. And what goes up, of course . . . ”

“ . . . comes down,” he finished.

She nodded. “It will rouse waves more than a hundred meters tall off the coast of Africa, fifty meters tall as far south as Brazil, and sixty meters tall off the coast of Florida and the Caribbean four thousand miles away. That’s eighteen stories high.” She paused for a moment, then added, “It’s funny you should ask about that. James spent most of last year on La Palma working on a new book about the Cumbre Vieja. He . . . ” She stopped midstream.

“Yes?”

Swenson stared at Decker, her eyes suddenly cold. Then she shook her head. “No. Nothing.” She glanced down at her watch. “Wow,” she said. “I didn’t realize the time.” She stood up from behind the desk.

“Just a minute. What were you going to say?”

Swenson hesitated, glanced out the window. “Nothing.”

“Yes, you were.” Decker stood up. He leaned against the desk. “Look, Ms. Swenson, you can either answer my questions here, or I can take you back to New York. It’s up to you. And while I’d greatly enjoy your company on the long drive home, I feel obliged to warn you that – since Nine Eleven, when it comes to matters of national security – the government doesn’t look too kindly on those who obstruct justice, wittingly or unwittingly. Have you ever actually read the Patriot’s Act?”

“He’s gone,” she said.

“Who?”

“Dr. White!” She glanced about the room as if the scientist might suddenly appear from behind the bookcase. “It looks like he hasn’t been here for days. And he’d never leave, not voluntarily. Not with his wife so sick.”

“Unless he’s hiding.”

“From whom?”

“I don’t know. Do you?” Decker stared at Swenson. She was still holding something back. He could see it in her eyes. He could sense it. “You must have some idea.”

“A foreigner. I saw him for the first time the night James disappeared. About five feet seven, or eight. Short. Dark. Dark eyes. Slim. Middle-Eastern or North African, I’d say.” She shrugged and wrapped her arms about her chest, hugging herself. Decker was fascinated by the way she moved. She seemed confident and fearful all at once. Then her face completely changed, running from a kind of abstract, dull distaste to loathing, to genuine surprise. And then, finally, to horror.

“Like him,” she said, pointing at the window.

Decker turned. The face that he had stared at for days, the eyes and nose and mouth of Salim Moussa were pressed against the glass. And in his hand was a gun. Decker reached for his Beretta. He turned and took a bullet in his chest.

When Decker awoke, he was handcuffed to a radiator, and Swenson was standing above him. He immediately recoiled into the snake position, and took her down in one smooth movement. With his free hand he pinned her to the floor. He wrapped his fingers around her throat. She choked and sputtered. She coughed. Then he noticed the wallet in her hand.
His
wallet. Decker loosened his grip. He brought her close to him, clenching her head in the crook of his arm. The unforgettable smell of burnt gunpowder permeated the room.

“I don’t know,” she gasped, relaxing, then bucking like an alligator, twisting in his grasp. He squeezed her even tighter. She stretched, and reached out for his face, trying to scratch his eyes. He pressed the soft spots immediately behind her earlobes. Swenson screamed. “I don’t know,” she repeated, growing still. Her voice was laced with fear now. “I swear I don’t.”

Decker noticed a series of bullet holes in the front door. The shots had been fired from within. “I believe you,” he said. Then he shook his wrist and said, “The key, please.” He relaxed his grip slightly, just enough for her to reach into her jeans. A moment later, Decker was free. Only then did he release her.

She shimmied across the floor. “That’s big of you,” she said as soon as she was out of reach. She struggled to her feet. She shook the wallet in her hand. “IDs can be faked, you know.”

Swenson bent down and picked up his Beretta from behind the desk. “Oh, I get it,” she said. “Because I’m a woman, I can’t shoot, right?” Without looking, she pressed the release button behind the combat trigger guard. “I grew up on a ranch in South Dakota, Agent Decker.” The magazine popped out in her hand. “I think I prefer the 9000 to the 92FS. Must be the polymer frame. Here.” She slid the empty gun across the floor. “I was just trying to scare him off.”

Decker picked up his Beretta and returned it to his Bianchi holster. “Looks like you succeeded,” he said. He parted his topcoat and blazer, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. He was wearing a Kevlar vest underneath. A flattened slug was clearly visible, buried just to the left of his heart. He picked it out and handed it to Swenson.

She stared at the shiny object in her hand with both disgust and fascination, as though it were some hideous benthic beast, freshly hauled out of the deep, potentially lethal. Then she walked over to the window – pierced by a single bullet hole – and glanced about the porch. The yard was empty. “I think he’s gone,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”

Decker was impressed by Swenson’s calm demeanor. Most people would have been shaking like a leaf about this time.
She’s got grit, this girl
, he thought, and he found himself drawn to her even more. He followed her into the kitchen. As Swenson fiddled with the kettle, he sat down at the breakfast table. He watched her fill the kettle, watched her turn and settle it upon the stove. Then she looked up, her eyes moist, indecisive, torn. Her lips were almost tremulous. She stared directly at his face and said, “Will you help me, Agent Decker?”

Decker smiled. After a few seconds, he replied, “What am I meant to say?” He shrugged his shoulders, throwing the last few words away. “You saved my life.”

“I’m worried about James,” she answered, riding over him. She sat down at the table. “He’s been acting so strange lately. At first I thought it was because of Doris. But now . . . ”

“Go on,” he said. “What is it?”

“Maybe it will help. I don’t know. The truth is James has got some serious financial problems. There. I said it. Doris’s medical bills are huge and the health coverage at the Institute isn’t what it should be, believe me. He’s even started stripping his retirement accounts, his TIAA-CREF.”

“Where is he now?” he asked. “With Doris?”

She shook her head. “No, that’s just it. He hasn’t been at the hospice to see her in days. I don’t know where he is. Nobody does. He’s just . . . disappeared.” The kettle whistled like a train. Swenson stood up and poured the boiling water on the tea leaves. “And now this guy,” she added. She handed him a steaming mug of tea. Her voice was calm but Decker could plainly see the worry in her eyes. “The man who’s been following me,” she said, sitting down again. “Who is he? What does he want with me?”

“I don’t know.” Decker took a small sip of his tea. “The fact that he came here makes me think he might be after Dr. White as well. If that’s the case, maybe White’s hiding someplace.” Decker shrugged. He took another sip. English Breakfast. “Can you think of anywhere he might have gone, some place he likes to be when he wants to get away? A weekend cabin? Or a boat?”

Swenson shook her head. “I’ve looked everywhere,” she said. “It’s like he’s vanished off the face of the earth.”

“Don’t worry,” Decker said. “I’ll make a few calls. He’ll turn up.” Then he stood, and stretched, and added, “Come on. I think we’d better go.”

“You don’t think that creep is coming back?” Swenson stood up, so close to him that he could smell the fear on her skin.

“I doubt it. Not by himself at least.” He handed her his tea.

Swenson put the mugs down in the sink. She turned the water on. The faucet coughed and sputtered. Air bubble, Decker speculated. He noticed a handful of clean dishes stacked tidily in the plastic dish drain. The knives were all in one compartment. So were the spoons. So were the forks. Yet there were unwashed dishes in the sink. It looked like Dr. White had left in quite a hurry.

They walked together through the living room, back to the front door. Swenson checked to make sure it was locked behind them before turning and looking at Decker on the porch. “Well, thanks,” she said. “Although I’m not exactly sure what for,” she added, reaching up and massaging her neck.

“Thank you, Emily.” It was the first time Decker had used her Christian name and it felt comfortable in his mouth, strangely familiar. “Here,” he said, reaching into his jacket. “Take my card. If anything unusual happens, anything at all. If you feel you’re in danger, or you just want to talk. My cell is with me twenty-four seven.”

She examined the card, looked up at him and smiled. It was a brittle smile, still fragrant with fear. “Thanks,” she said. Then she walked away.

Decker followed her with his eyes. When she had gone about ten yards, she turned, and lifted her hand, and waved a little wave.

Decker stood there for a moment longer as Swenson vanished around the corner. Her wave reverberated deep inside him like the strumming of a lone guitar. He shook his head, stepped off the porch, and shuffled back along the walkway toward his car.

It had been a long, long time since he had felt something for a woman. The other night had just been sex, a grim release, a plea for human contact. Far too long. And, as luck would have it, since he was working this case – and she was involved – there was nothing he could do about it.

Tuesday, February 1 – 4: 27 AM

Kazakhstan

Gulzhan Baqrah dreamed of torture. He often dreamed of his most intimate encounters, of the battlefield at night, up close inside a ditch, with a knife against some foreign throat; or down an alley, under a new moon; or in a dark interrogation room, searching for answers. But this dream was different. Someone had accused his foremost protégé of collaborating with the Zionists. And there he was, trussed up like that by his elbows, simply hanging there from the ceiling like a side of camel meat. Gulzhan ducked his head, stepped through the narrow doorway, and descended down the concrete steps into the cell.

When he finally straightened up, he rose through dank olfactory layers of fetid rank humidity, of human feces, blood and vomit. But Gulzhan didn’t care. He was staring at the prisoner, admiring his physique, the solid graceful contours of the muscles in his back.

Such a waste
, he thought. Gulzhan sighed and turned and noticed a pair of rimless tires on the floor. He recognized them instantly. They were standard interrogation fare: two rubber, non-conductive footstools designed to keep the innocent inquisitor at bay, above the flooded concrete floor whenever the jumper cables were in use. This made him recollect the scent of burning human flesh, a smell that he had hated once, found nauseating – a long, long time ago – but to which Gulzhan had grown accustomed over the years, until now the sweetness brought to mind a simpler time, one of diminished ambiguity, like the aroma of freshly baked bread, or the perfume of some favorite aunt, just back from Akmola by train.
After a while, the brain adapts.