The Storm (NUMA Files 10)

At the forward end, banks of solar panels reflected the sun while a group of large windmills turned with gentle grace.

Nigel turned to Kurt. “They’re denying us permission to land.”

Kurt had expected that. He reached over and flipped a switch. A canister he’d rigged up to the tail boom began to emit black smoke. He doubted it would fool anybody for long, but it couldn’t hurt.

“Looks like we’re having an emergency,” he said. “Tell them we have no choice but to set down safely or crash.”

As the pilot relayed the message, Kurt grinned at Leilani. “Have to let us land now.”

“Are you always so incorrigible?” she asked.

Joe replied, “From what I’ve heard Kurt here was the type to skip school and sign his own notes and have all the teachers fawning over him when he came back from his ‘illness.’”

Leilani smiled. “I call that resourceful.”

With a line of smoke trailing from it, the JetRanger angled for the helipad that bridged the gap between the roof of the pyramid-like buildings. The descent was smooth, almost too smooth.

“Make it look good,” Kurt said.

The pilot nodded, he waggled the

stick, shaking the copter to simulate some type of trouble, then stabilized as they got closer and safely touched down on top of the big yellow H.

Kurt pulled off his headset, popped open the door, and stepped out. Stretching his legs, he gazed at the sights around him. It was like being on a rooftop restaurant and getting the best view in the house.

The sails he’d seen were at least a hundred feet tall, all marked with a bright blue stripe and the name aqua-terra. A scent lingered in the air, but it was so out of place, it took a moment for Kurt to recognize it: fresh-cut grass.

Another sight heading his way appeared similarly out of place. Wearing orange slacks, a gray shirt and a flowing purple robe decorated with green-and-blue paisley was a man who looked a lot like Elwood Marchetti, and a little like a peacock.

A thick brown beard on his face and circular red sunglasses completed his dizzying ensemble.

A thin man with strawlike blond hair trailed behind him. He wore a business suit and appeared to be upset.

“Mr. Marchetti, you shouldn’t be greeting these people,” the man said. “They have no right to land here.”

Kurt looked past Marchetti to the suit. “We had engine trouble.”

“A convenient time to get it.”

Kurt smiled. “I’ll say. Fortunately for us, your island was right here.”

“It’s a lie,” the man said. “They’re obviously here as spies or to attempt an audit.”

Marchetti shook his head and turned to the aide. He put his hands on the man’s arms and gripped him like an old-time revival preacher, healing someone from the crowd.

“It grieves me,” Marchetti began. “Truly grieves me. To think I’ve made you so paranoid and yet not given you the wisdom you need to see clearly.”

“Blake Matson,” he said, directing the aide’s attention back to Kurt. “This isn’t the man. This fellow doesn’t even resemble the man. The man comes in boats and ships, he brings guns and lawyers and accountants. He doesn’t wear boots and bring beautiful young women with him.”

Marchetti was taking in Leilani as he spoke.

“Excuse me,” Kurt said. “But what on earth are you babbling about?”

“Tax man, my friend,” Marchetti said. “The IRS, the various European equivalents and members of one particularly irksome South American country that seem to think I owe them something.”

“Internal Revenue Service,” Kurt said. “Why would you be worried about them?”

“Because they don’t seem to get the idea that I have now become external to their world and thus am not part of their revenue stream or in any way, shape or form interested in any of their so-called service.”