The Storm

“What could do that?” she asked. “Toxic waste? Some type of anaerobic compound?”

Ever since he double-checked the numbers, Kurt had been racking his brain for a possible cause. Volcanic activity, red tides, algae blooms—all types of things could result in dead zones and deoxygenated waters, but none of them explained the temperature drop. Upwelling of deep cold water might, but that usually brought abundant nutrients and higher levels of oxygen to the surface, causing an explosion of sea life in the local vicinity.

It was a problem, perhaps even a problem Kimo and the others had been killed for discovering. But it didn’t tell them anything directly.

“I don’t know,” he said. “We’ve gone over everything they sent off, including Kimo’s e-mails to you, just to see if we missed anything. So far, we’ve come up blank.”

A flash of concern appeared on her face. “You looked over his e-mails to me?”

“We had to,” Kurt said. “On the chance he’d inadvertently sent you some vital piece of data.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t really expect to. But we can’t leave any stone unturned.”

She sighed, and her shoulders slumped. “Maybe this is too big for us. Maybe we should leave it up to some international organization to investigate.”

“What happened to all that determination from a few hours ago?”

“I was angry. My adrenaline was pumping. Now I’m trying to be more rational. Maybe the UN or the Maldives National Defense Force can handle the investigation. Maybe we should just go home. Now that I’ve met you and your friends, I can’t bear the thought of anyone else being hurt.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Kurt said. “We’re not leaving this to some agency that has no real interest at stake.”

She nodded her agreement as Kurt’s phone chirped.

He pulled it from a pocket and clicked answer.

It was Gamay.

“Making any progress?” he asked.

“Sort of,” she said.

“What do you have?”

“I’ve sent you a photo,” she said. “A snapshot from the microscope. Pull it up.”

Kurt switched into the message mode on his phone and pulled up Gamay’s photo. In black-and-white but crystal clear, a shape that looked both insectlike and strangely mechanical. The edges of the subject were sharp, the angles perfect.

Kurt squinted, studying the photo. It resembled a spider with six long arms extending forward and two legs at the rear that fa

In fact, the whole thing looked positively machinelike.

“What is it?”

“It’s a micronic robot,” Gamay said.

“A what?”

“That thing you’re looking at is the size of a dust mite,” she said. “But it’s not organic, it’s a machine. A micromachine. And if the sample I took is any indication, these same machines are seared into the residue from the fire in great numbers.”

He looked at the photo, thinking about what Gamay had just said. He tilted the phone so Leilani could see. “Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,” he mumbled.

“Try four and twenty million,” Gamay said.

Kurt thought about their earlier conversation and the theory that the crew had set fire to the boat to rid themselves of something more dangerous.

“So these things got on the boat, and the crew tried to burn them off,” he said, thinking aloud. “But how’d they get aboard in the first place?”

“No idea,” Gamay said.

“What are they for?” he asked. “What do they do?”

“No idea on that either,” she repeated.

“Well, if they’re machines, someone had to make them.”

“Exactly our thinking,” Gamay said. “And we believe we know who that might be.”

Kurt’s phone pinged again, and another photo came up. This time it was a page from a magazine article. A photo in the corner showed a businessman stepping out of a gaudy orange Rolls-Royce. His mahogany hair was pulled back into a long ponytail, and bushy beard covered most of his face. His suit looked like a navy blue Armani or some other double-breasted Italian cut.

“Who is he?” Kurt asked.

“Elwood Marchetti,” Gamay said. “Billionaire, electronics genius. Years ago he designed a process for printing circuits onto microchips that everyone uses today. He’s also a huge proponent of nanotechnology. He once claimed nanobots will do everything in the future, from cleaning cholesterol out of our arteries to mining gold from seawater.”

“And these things are nanobots?” Kurt asked.

“Actually they’re larger,” she said. “If you think of a nanobot as a Tonka truck, these things are earthmovers. A similar concept, still microscopic, but about a thousand times bigger.”

Leilani was studying the photo. “So this guy Marchetti is the problem,” she said firmly.

Kurt reserved judgment. “How do we co

This time Paul answered. “According to an international patent on file, this is very close to one of his designs.”

Kurt’s own sense of righteous anger was building, he noticed Leilani wringing her hands.

“Is he using them for something?” Kurt asked. “Experimenting?”

“Not that we know of.”

“Then how’d they end up in the sea?” he asked. “And more important, how’d they end up on the catamaran?”

Paul’s guess came through. “Either they escaped from the lab like the killer bees forty years ago or Marchetti is using them for something without letting the rest of the world know.”

Kurt clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. “We need to pay this guy a visit.”

“I’m afraid he lives on a private island,” Paul replied.

“That’s not going to stop me from knocking on his door. Where do I find it?”

“That’s a rather good question,” Gamay said.

There was an odd tone in Gamay’s voice, and Kurt wasn’t sure he followed. “Are you saying no one knows what island he lives on?”

“No,” she told him. “Just that no one knows exactly where it is right now.”

Kurt felt as if he and the Trouts were having two different conversations. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Marchetti is building an artificial island,” Paul explained. “He calls it Aqua-Terra. He launched the core last year and has been outfitting it ever since. But because it’s mobile, and because he chooses to stay in international waters, no one’s quite sure where he is at any given time.”

Suddenly, Kurt remembered hearing about it. “I thought that was just a publicity stunt.”

Leilani spoke up. “No,” she said, “it’s real. I read something about it. Six months ago it was anchored off Malé. Kimo said he wanted to see it if he got the chance.”

“Okay,” Kurt said. “You guys find out whatever you can about these microbots. I’m putting a call in to Dirk. As soon as we track down Marchetti, I’m going to pay him a visit. I’m sure a floating island isn’t too hard to find.”

CHAPTER 10

JINN AL-KHALIF WALKED ACROSS THE DESERT UNDER A moonlit sky with Sabah close beside him. The sands he’d known since childhood shimmered like silver beneath his feet. They reminded him of the night his family had been attacked in the oasis more than forty years ago. A night when predators disguised as friends had slinked out of the desert and murdered his brothers and mother. It was a lesson in deception he had never forgotten. And one that seemed to be repeating itself.

“No word from Aziz?” he asked, speaking of the Egyptian general who had promised support for his plan.

Sabah was calm and stern in the cool night air. “Like you suspected, Aziz has reneged on his promises. He no longer has any interest in supporting us.”

A flicker of light reached them from the distance. Out on the horizon, near the coast, a line of thunderstorms had begun to form. The rains had not yet pressed inland, but soon the desert would begin to feel the relief of unexpected showers; the final proof of his brilliance. And yet things were threatening to fall apart on the very cusp of victory.