Jinn fumed; he despised being questioned in this manner. “We had little choice. Now that the horde is concentrated, it is in a more vulnerable state. If the Americans found it, it’s possible—however unlikely—that action could have been taken before we initiate the final part of our plan, here and now, in this crucial growing season. If that had been allowed to happen, all our efforts would have been for nothing.”
“What’s to stop that in the future?”
Jinn puffed out his chest. “Once the weather pattern has been diverted, the horde can be dispersed again. Through its natural reproduction process it will grow large enough and spread far enough that even a concerted effort by all the world’s nations will be insufficient to destroy it.”
“Where will it go?” Mustafa asked.
“Everywhere,” Jinn said. “Eventually it will spread to all the oceans of the world. We will be able to affect not only the weather over our continents but across every landmass in the world. The rich countries of the world will pay us tribute to provide what they once received for free.”
“And if they attack the horde?” Xhou asked.
“They would have to burn the entire surface of the ocean just to damage it in any significant way. And even if they did, the survivors would reproduce and the horde would come back to life like the forest after a fire.”
The members of the consortium looked around and nodded to one another. They seemed to truly understand the power of the weapon Jinn was wielding. A weapon they had a hand in.
“Jinn has done correctly,” the Sheik said, supporting his Arab brother.
“Agreed,” Mustafa said.
Xhou remained less than satisfied. “We shall see,” he said. “It is my understanding that specialists from NUMA are on their way to Malé to begin investigating. If the horde is still vulnerable because of this concentration, I suggest we disperse it.”
“Now is not the time for that,” Jinn said. “But don’t worry, we know who was on the catamaran and we know who they’re sending to investigate. I have a plan in place to deal with them.”
CHAPTER 5
THE ISLAND OF MALÉ IS THE MOST POPULATED OF THE twenty-six atolls known as the Maldives. In centuries past Malé had been the king’s private island, the citizens living on the other islands spread out across two hundred miles of ocean. Now Malé was the nation’s capital. A hundred thousand people lived on it, packed into less than three square miles.
In contrast to volcanic islands like Hawaii or Tahiti, the Maldives have no peaks or rocky outcroppings. In fact, the highest natural point on Malé is only seven feet above sea level, though multistory condos and other buildings sprout in every section of ground right up to the water’s edge.
Flying there from Washington, D.C., was a daylong trip. Fourteen hours to Doha, Qatar, a three-hour layover, which seemed short by comparison, and then another five-hour flight that took great willpower even to board after so much time in the air already. Finally, after all that, travelers touched down at their destination. Sort of.
Malé itself was so small and so built up that no room for an airport remained on the circular-shaped island. To reach it meant landing on the neighboring island of Hulhulé, which was shaped something like an aircraft carrier and pretty much covered entirely by the airport’s main runway.
Aboard a four-engine A380, Kurt watched other passengers grip the armrests with white knuckles as the plane dropped closer and closer to the water. Just as it seemed like the landing gear would clip the waves, solid ground appeared and the big Airbus planted itself on the concrete runway.
“Whoa,” a voice said from beside him.
Kurt looked over. Joe Zavala had been jolted awake by the landing. His short black hair was a little disheveled and his dark brown eyes wide open as if he’d been zapped with a cattle prod. He’d been sound asleep until the wheels hit the ground.
“How about a little warning next time?”
Kurt smiled. “And ruin the surprise? A little adrenaline spike like that will get the day started right.”
Joe looked at Kurt suspiciously. “Remind me not to let you choose my ringtones or alarm. You’d probably pick an air horn or something.”
Kurt laughed. He and Joe had been through a decade of adventures together. They’d been in endless scrapes and fights and faced dozens of moments that loomed like utter disaster until somehow they’d managed to turn the tide, usually at the last second.
Kurt had risked his life many times to pull Joe out of the fire. Joe had done the same for him. Somehow, that gave them the right to needle each other mercilessly in the downtime.
“The way you snore,” Kurt said, “I don’t know if an air horn would do the trick.”
Thirty minutes later, after a quick run through baggage claim and customs, Kurt and Joe found themselves in an open boat, otherwise known as a water taxi, crossing the narrow straight between Hulhulé and Malé.
Kurt was studying the open water. Joe had his nose in a crossword puzzle he’d been working on for half the flight.
“Five-letter word for African cat?” Joe asked.
Kurt hesitated. “I wouldn’t go with tiger,” he replied.
“Really?” Joe said. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure,” Kurt said. “How come you look so tired?”
Joe normally traveled well. In fact, Kurt often wondered if he had some secret handed down from generations of explorers in his family that allowed him to cross a dozen time zones and feel no ill effects of the journey. But right now, there were dark circles under Joe’s eyes, and despite his rangy, athletic physique, Joe looked bushed.
“You were in D.C. when the call came in,” Joe said. “Ten minutes from the airport. I was in West Virginia, with fifteen kids from the youth program. We’ve been running cross-country and doing confidence courses all weekend.”
In his spare time, Joe ran a program for inner-city kids. Kurt often helped with the outings, though he’d missed out on this one.
“Trying to keep up with the teenagers, huh?”
“It keeps me young,” Joe insisted.
Kurt nodded. The fact was they were both athletes. To withstand the rigors of NUMA’s Special Projects branch, one had to be. There was literally no telling what would come their way, only a fairly high probability that it would be strenuous, demanding, and likely to exhaust every last bit of mental and physical energy a man or woman had.
To survive such rigors, both men kept themselves in great shape. Kurt was taller and more lean and agile. He rowed the Potomac or ran nearly every single day. He lifted weights and took tai kwan do, as much for the agility, balance, and discipline as for its value in combat.
Joe was shorter, with broader shoulders and the build of a boxer. He also played soccer in an amateur league and swore he could have gone pro if he’d only been just a little faster. Right now he seemed obsessed with finishing the crossword.
Kurt grabbed the paper out of his hands and tossed it into a basket. “Rest your eyes,” he said. “You’re going to need them.”
Joe stared forlornly at the folded bit of newspaper for a second, shrugged, and then tilted his head back against the headrest. He shut his eyes and began soaking in the warm sun for the ten-minute ride across the strait.
“You come here for vacation?” the water taxi’s pilot asked, trying to make conversation.
In a white linen shirt with his sleeves rolled up and his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, Kurt looked every bit the tourist arriving at an eagerly awaited destination. The taxi driver couldn’t know any different.
“We’re here on business,” he said.
“That’s good,” the man replied. “Lots of business on Malé. What kind do you do?”
Kurt thought about that for a second. It was all but impossible to explain exactly what NUMA’s Special Projects Team did since they basically did a little bit of everything. The truth came to him, simple and quick.