He became aware that his body was in an uncomfortable position and tried to move. His efforts proved useless. He was manacled at the wrists, and while he could barely feel the metal digging into his flesh, he couldn’t move his arms more than a couple of inches. He still didn’t have enough control over his legs to determine if his ankles were similarly bound.
He tentatively opened his eyes and immediately shut them. Wherever he was had to be the brightest room he’d ever been in. It was almost as if he were standing on the surface of the sun.
Merrick waited a beat and opened them again, squinting against the harsh light that scoured the room. It took a few seconds for details to come into focus. The room was roughly fifteen feet square with walls made of dressed stone exactly like the walls of his cell, so he knew he hadn’t been taken from the prison. There was a large picture window along one wall. It was securely barred and the glass looked like it had been recently installed. The view outside was the most desolate he’d seen, an endless trackless sea of fine white sand baking in the glare of a remorseless sun.
He turned his attention to the people in the room with him.
There were eight men and women seated at a wooden table; unlike the guards, they weren’t wearing masks. Merrick didn’t recognize any of them, though he believed the big one to be one of the guards and the handsome youth with blue eyes to be another. They were all Caucasians and mostly younger than thirty-five. He had lived in Switzerland long enough to recognize the European cut of their clothes. On the table was a laptop computer turned toward the eldest of the group, a woman in her late forties judging by the silver threads shot through her hair. A web camera jacked into the computer was focused on Merrick at the foot of the table.
“Geoffrey Michael Merrick,” an electronically filtered voice intoned from the computer’s speakers. “You have been tried in absentia by this court and have been found guilty of crimes against the planet.” Several heads nodded grimly. “The product your company patented, your so-called sulfur scrubbers, has pacified governments and individuals into believing the continued burning of fossil fuels is a sustainable option—especially the burning of so-called clean coal. No such thing exists, and while this court admits that power plants so fitted with your devices have made a slight reduction in sulfur emissions, that in no way mitigates the billions of tons of other noxious chemicals and gases poured into the atmosphere.
“Your tactical victory in producing these devices is in reality a strategic defeat for those of us who truly strive to save our world for future generations. The environmental movement cannot allow itself to be swayed by the parlor tricks of individuals like yourself or energy companies who profess to be green while continuing to peddle their poisons. Global warming is the single greatest threat this planet has ever faced and every time people like you develop a slightly cleaner technology the public believes the threat is being diminished when in fact it grows worse every year.
“It is the same with hybrid cars. True, they burn less gasoline, but the pollution expended in their development and production far outpaces what the consumer saves by driving such a vehicle. They are merely a ploy to give a handful of conscientious people a sense that they are doing their share to help the environment, when in fact they are doing the opposite. They believe the misguided notion that technology can somehow save the planet when it was technology that doomed it in the first place.”
Merrick heard the words but couldn’t get his mind around what they meant. He opened his mouth to speak but his vocal cords were still paralyzed so he gave a sort of croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Who—who are you people?”
“People who see through your charade.”
“Charade?” He paused, trying to gather his wits, knowing the next few
minutes would determine if he walked out of here on his own or was dragged like poor Susan. “My technology has proven itself time and again. Thanks to me there is less sulfur being produced now than since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution.”
“And thanks to you”—even through the electronic filter the voice from the computer managed to impart sarcasm—“levels of carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, particulate ash, mercury, and other heavy metals have never been higher. Nor has the sea level. The power companies hold your scrubbers as proof of their environmental concern when sulfur is only one small component of the filth they produce. The world must be shown that the environmental threat comes from all sides.”
“And to show them you kidnap me and beat an innocent woman half to death?” Merrick said without thinking through his predicament. He had debated this issue hundreds of times. Yes, his work had reduced sulfur levels but as a result more power plants were being built and more pollution was pumped into the atmosphere. It was a classic catch-22. But he was familiar with the arguments and felt a surge of confidence that he could talk his way out of this.
“She works for you. She is not innocent.”
“How can you possibly say that? You didn’t even ask her name or what she does.”
“The specifics of her job are unimportant. That she is willing to work for you is proof enough of her complicity and culpability.”
Merrick took a breath. He had to find a way to convince them he wasn’t their enemy if he was going to get out of this alive. “Listen, you can’t hold me responsible for the world’s continued demand for more energy. You want to clean up the environment, convince people to have fewer children. China will soon pass the United States as the world’s biggest polluter because they have a population of one point two billion. India, with its billion citizens, isn’t too far behind. That is the real threat to the planet. And no matter how clean Europe and America become—God, we could go back to horse-drawn carriages and plowshares—we would never be able to counteract the pollution produced in Asia. This is a global problem, I totally agree, and a global solution is what is needed.”
The men and women at the far end of the table sat unmoved by his speech and the computer’s silence stretched ominously. Merrick fought to remain strong, to not give in to the fear sliding like oil through his gut. In the end he couldn’t do it—his voice turned strident and fresh tears came to his eyes.
“Please, you don’t need to do this to me,” he pleaded. “Is it money you want? I can give you all the money your organization will ever need. Please, just let us go.”
“It is too late for that,” the computer said. Then the electronic filter was switched off and the person on the other end of the link spoke in his own voice. “You have been tried, Geoff, and found guilty.”
Merrick knew that voice all too well, though he hadn’t heard it in years. And he also knew it meant he was going to die.
11
CABRILLO didn’t have time for his shower and only barely managed to change out of his workout clothes and get to the Oregon’s bridge before Sloane and her group were escorted in by Frank Lincoln. He glanced around quickly as he heard them mounting the outside stairs. The bridge was in its normal state of disrepair and neglect; no one had left any of their high-tech toys lying around to belie the true nature of the vessel. Eddie Seng was again playing helmsman, wearing a battered one-piece utility suit and a baseball cap as he stood casually behind the old-fashioned wheel. Seng was perhaps the most meticulous planner on the Corporation payroll, someone for which no detail was too minute. Had his temperament not been one that thrived on danger he would have made a great accountant. Juan noted Eddie had set the fake telegraph handles to All Stop and had even changed over the unused carts to show the coast of southwestern Africa.
Juan tapped the faded and stained map. “Nice touch.”
“Thought you’d like that.”
Juan had given no thought to what Sloane Macintyre would look like until the moment she walked through the door. Her hair was coppery red and in a tangled bush from so much wind and sun, giving her a wild and untamed look. Her mouth was a bit too wide and her nose too long, but she had such an open look to her face that these minor flaws were nearly indistinguishable. With her sunglasses dangling at her throat he could see she didn’t have the green eyes of a romance novel redhead but wide-set gray ones that seemed to take in her surroundings with a quick glance. She carried a little extra weight that made her body more curvy than angular, but the flesh under her arms remained taut, which made Juan think she was a swimmer.
With her were two men, a Namibian who Cabrillo assumed owned the Pinguin, and another Caucasian with a prominent Adam’s apple and a sour look on his face. Juan couldn’t imagine many scenarios that would place an attractive woman like Sloane in his company. And by their body language he could tell that while Sloane might be in charge, her partner was extremely angry with her.
Cabrillo stepped forward, extending a hand. “Juan Cabrillo, captain of the Oregon. Welcome aboard.”
“Sloane Macintyre.” Her grip was sure and firm and her gaze was level. Juan saw no trace of the fear she must have felt when they were being fired on. “This is Tony Reardon and Justus Ulenga, master of the Pinguin.”