Black Rain

“My God, they’re going to burn us,” Polaski whispered.

Hawker tried to calm him. “There’s nothing to burn in here.”

Danielle took a breath. That was true. The clearing was barren of any major source of fuel, but smoke was another problem. The fires surrounding them were oily and the smoke hung thick and heavily. It quickly became difficult to breathe. With one eye on the perimeter, she broke into the first-aid kit, pulling out a stack of thin paper respirators. With only a half dozen, she gave one each to Susan, Polaski, McCarter and the porters.

One of Verhoven’s men dropped his night-vision goggles. “We’re blind now. They’ve made the scopes useless.”

“They don’t know that,” Hawker said.

Aside from Verhoven and Hawker, everyone had become jumpy. She sensed it even in herself. She needed information and turned to Devers. “Come on. What the hell do they want?”

“I don’t think they want anything,” Devers said.

“What do you mean?”

“They just keep repeating the same words over and over again. Fire for fire, fire for the plague.” He shouted to be heard above the crackling flames now surrounding them. “They’re either telling us something or telling themselves. Winding each other up.”

In places, the merging tongues of flame had reached an inferno stage, climbing up into the trees, creating their own wind, spi

“That’s it,” Danielle said. She glanced at Verhoven.

“Turn on the damn lights and hit them with a few flares. We’re not waiting anymore.”

Verhoven smiled and pressed the switch. The lights blazed instantly and the generator cranked to life. A blinding glare reflected back at them as the swirls of white and gray smoke lit up like a fog of overlapping ghosts. In truth, the visibility got worse.

Verhoven pressed another key and began firing flares from the canisters pre-positioned in the forest. Two flares went off to the north and then two more in the west; he fired more in the south and the east, flares from canisters that were behind the Chollokwan warriors.

Danielle hoped the sound of the flares launching would startle the natives. And as she looked to the computer screen, she saw holes in the Chollokwan lines where groups of them backed off, but they weren’t leaving en masse, and in a moment the lines began to reform. She turned back to Verhoven, eyes burning from the smoke. “Now what?”

Verhoven was silent for a moment; he turned to one of his men and then looked past him to Hawker. “What do you think? Are they coming in?”

Hawker shook his head. He pointed the rifle toward the towering fires around the edge of the clearing. “If they come in now, they’re silhouettes against the flames; a good way to die, even if you are a White Face.”

Verhoven turned back to Danielle. “You see, they know better. We watch for now. But they’re not coming in. Not tonight.”

Danielle sighed, more convinced because Hawker and Verhoven had actually agreed. “So this is a warning, then. I suppose we won’t get another.”

Devers coughed. “They’re not known for giving one in the first place.”

For the rest of the night, the group watched the flames burn in the circle around them. Occasionally there were new waves of chanting, especially when the higher branches burst into flame, but at no point did the Chollokwan attempt to enter the clearing. As dawn approached, they drifted back into the forest and disappeared.

The jungle around the clearing continued to burn. But though the forest was dry by Amazonian standards, it wasn’t the type of parched brush that lent itself to an inferno. The flames could not reach the critical temperature required to become self-sustaining, especially as it reached the wetter foliage back from the clearing’s edge.

With the cool mists of the dawning hours, the fires began to die. The layer of ash and smoke thi

CHAPTER 22

A bitterly cold morning arrived in Washington, D.C., a morning of cloudless blue skies and plumes of steam on the horizon. The glaring sun lingered, low and bright, but for all its piercing brilliance, it remained a harsh and distant companion, a mere candle on the mantel of the world.

No warmth could be felt on this day, not in the sunlight or in the air. To Stuart Gibbs it seemed appropriate for a day on which the NRI was burying one of its own.

Gibbs had stood in the frigid air, giving the eulogy, keeping it short for the sake of those who had gathered. He’d offered his personal condolences and then moved respectfully away, watching as others stepped forward to console the widow of Matthew Blundin.

He watched as they spoke to her, hugged her and held her hand. He guessed at their words—kind words, no doubt, words of sorrow for her loss and praise for the job her husband had always done. No one would mention that he’d been found on the wrong side of town, shot and robbed on a street known for its drug dealers and prostitutes. No one would ask if his penchant for alcohol or late nights had led to their separation and pending divorce, or if either vice might have had a hand in his demise. They would think these things of course, but such thoughts would not be spoken, for death was not only the great equalizer but also the great eraser of misdeeds. In its wake, Blundin’s errors and habits would be forgotten, his wit and wisdom raised into legend.

Gibbs watched the procession, feeling uneasy and distracted, the rolled-up newspaper in his gloved hand crushed subconsciously in a tightening grip. There was trouble everywhere for him, the team in the rainforest had been attacked by natives, the computer system had been hijacked and made to hack into itself—and his security chief, the one man Gibbs could have trusted to find the culprit, was now dead and buried.

A pang of remorse stabbed at Gibbs. The man deserved better.

To most of those attending, the security chief’s death marked a small footnote in their own particular stories. Even the soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Blundin would move on, as she had already begun to. But for Stuart Gibbs and the NRI, the event was a massive occurrence—existence changing, in scale—and Gibbs couldn’t shake the thought of changed destiny any easier than he could ward off the chilled winter air.

Before long, the crowd began to thin. Soon, even Blundin’s widow and her party turned to go, moving slowly up the path toward the parking lot.

Gibbs lingered for twenty minutes, standing alone, thinking about Blundin, the rainforest project and the various scenarios that now presented themselves. Only as the bitter air began to seep through his coat did he move toward the parking lot himself.

By the time he arrived, his car was alone. But as he reached for his key, another vehicle turned in toward him, a silver Mercedes with tinted windows.

He eyed the car, waiting for it to pass. But it stopped beside him and the rear window descended smoothly into the door.

“Stuart Gibbs?”

Gibbs hesitated. He couldn’t see much inside the car, but there was no reason to deny who he was. “What can I do for you?”

A man with thick, gray hair and wearing a muted, charcoal-colored suit leaned toward the open window. “I noticed your tire was flat,” he said. “I thought you might need a lift.”

Gibbs glanced at the tire. The right rear was indeed flat, though it was a brand-new Michelin and had been fine when he drove in. “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll have someone come out.”

“We need to talk,” the man insisted. “I was at the funeral today with Senator Metzger from the Oversight Committee. I have some information about Mr. Blundin’s death that I think you should be aware of.”