“Read this,” he said and flung a file on Francesini’s desk.
Francesini picked up the file, opened it and began to read. Starling poured himself a coffee and sat in the chair beside the desk. His eyes never left Francesini’s face. He was smouldering.
“Well?” he asked when he saw Francesini look up. “There’s little doubt now, is there?”
Francesini shrugged, still erring on the side of caution. “It’s still supposition and theory, sir. We need expert advice on this. And I don’t mean a bunch of gung-ho generals leading the way. If it’s purposeful and genuine oil exploration using new techniques and we go in with all guns blazing, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“There will be hell to pay if we don’t,” Starling countered.
“I understand that, sir, but I need twenty four hours before I can recommend what you’re asking.”
“And what will you do if I agree to wait that long?” Starling would only concede this because he trusted Francesini’s judgement completely, and valued it.
“I’ll go to Massachusetts, sir; to the Woods Hole Institute.”
“What’s up with our own specialists?” Starling asked. “I know they’re clever buggers at the Institute, but can we trust them?”
“It isn’t a question of trust, Admiral. If we hand this to our own specialists we could be in danger of having this taken out of our hands. I know it may not seem reasonable to go outside of the C.I.A., but in this case I am prepared to back my own judgement.”
There was a profound logic in Francesini’s argument. The admiral often found himself fighting his own corner because of internecine warfare breaking out between departments at Langley. And there always seemed to be small, wounding security leaks between heads of departments. By going to the specialists in the Woods Hole Institute, they could swear them to secrecy under the dire threat of draconian measures if they dared pass on anything the department had released to them.
Starling acquiesced. “OK Remo, twenty four hours. Meanwhile I will get an assault team on standby.” He stood up. “Incidentally, was that you’re idea to get the US Submarine Oregon on Khan’s tail?”
Francesini shook his head. “No sir that was Cooke’s. He told me that satellite imagery is fine if the weather’s ok, but the submarine’s a better bet. If you can get one!”
Starling chuckled. “We ought to promote that boy. Good, sound thinking. And with the Oregon on station.”
Francesini interrupted his boss, holding his hand up. “Ah, no such luck I’m afraid. Operational priority has taken the Oregon off the case. She’ll be miles away by now.”
Starling’s eyebrows knitted together in an instant frown. “So who’s keeping an eye on the Taliba now?”
Francesini didn’t want to tell him, but he had to. “I’m afraid we’re back with the satellite.”
“You’re still not convinced?” Captain de Leon asked Khan.
They were in Khan’s cabin and had been discussing the sudden outbreak of fire in the rope locker.
“That fire was no accident, I’m sure of it.” Khan insisted. “But Allah is still with us.” He reached for the familiar bottle of tablets. A glass of water was beside him. The pain was more advanced now. He swallowed the tablets and gulped the water down. De Leon could see the pain in Khan’s face and almost feel it himself.
“You should be in hospital,” he told him.
Khan reacted angrily. “No! In two days the Trinity will be complete. I will live to see it. I must live.” He kept striking the top of his desk lightly with a clenched fist as he spoke. “Two days, Captain. Two days.”
“Inshalla,” the captain said.
Khan looked up at de Leon through hooded eyes and nodded gently. “You think like an Arab too. It is good.”
“You are paying me a lot of money.”
“Ah,” Khan said lightly. “And would you sell to a higher bidder?”
De Leon shook his head. “Not my soul, but my mother? Maybe.”
Khan laughed softly. “Then I am glad I am not your mother.”
The ship rocked suddenly as a gust of wind slammed into the hull. Khan looked over to the cabin window. Outside the sky was overcast and he could see the storm clouds moving quickly.
“How long do we have, Captain?” he asked.
“Forty eight hours at the most,” de Leon told him. “The wind is strengthening from the south east. At the moment we are safe, but if the winds strengthen any more, we can expect a hurricane, here in the Gulf, within two days.
“What about the rig?” Khan asked.
De Leon shrugged. “The direction of the storm is unpredictable, but we have to assume the rig will be hit. To think otherwise would be neither logical nor sensible.”
Khan gave this some thought, and then shrugged. “No matter; once we have Marsh and the Challenger under water, the third bomb will be in place and the Trinity will be complete. Then the hurricane can do what it likes.” He stood up from his desk with some effort. A thought crossed his mind. “Incidentally, have you arranged for the freighter?”
De Leon nodded. “As you asked sir. It’s offshore about fifteen miles. We’ll call it in after nightfall.”
Khan was satisfied. “Good. Then I’ll leave everything to you, Captain.”
De Leon gave a perfunctory nod. “Anything else, sir?”
“No, nothing else. Thank you Captain.”
De Leon thought that Khan might have mentioned the fire again, and was relieved that he didn’t. Heart attacks he could handle; paranoia he couldn’t. He threw up a gratuitous salute and left the cabin.
Khan glanced out of the window and offered up a prayer. His heart trembled and a sudden fear flashed through his mind. He reached for the water bottle and his tablets.
Two days, he thought; just two more days. Inshalla!
As the light of a grey day filtered through the windows of his office at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute in Massachusetts, Professor Alan Schofeld grappled with the desperate thoughts running through his mind, fervently wishing that his conclusions were wrong.
But they were not; of that he was absolutely convinced.
He turned away from the window, his expression as grey as the overcast sky outside, and picked up the report from his desk that he had received that morning. It had been delivered by hand, by two senior officers in the C.I.A. who had considered it important enough to bring it in person.
Schofeld had decided that it was his own natural and professional scepticism that had persuaded him to ask them for time. His initial reaction was perhaps a trifle condescending, but now, having had time to consider the impact of what he had read, he realised just how shamefully patronising he had been.
The two men from the C.I.A. had introduced themselves as James Starling and Remo Francesini. They had agreed to leave the report with him but had sworn him to absolute secrecy. Schofeld had reluctantly agreed to their request, wondering what all the fuss was about. Now it all seemed so preposterous and churlish of him. What he had concluded after studying the document and researching the facts was quite frightening, and he wished he had never seen it or the two men who had brought it to him. He had used several computer programmes to convince himself of his own diagnosis. He had used computer modelling to try and break down his own argument, based on the information he had before him, but finally he had come to the inevitable conclusion that the two men from the C.I.A. had every right to swear him to secrecy.
He leaned back on his desk, the report still in his hand and wondered if Starling and Francesini already knew just how big and dangerous a threat it contained. And now he knew he had been invited to sup at the Devil’s table and he didn’t like it at all; it frightened the life out of him.