Polar Shift

35

The thirty-story tubular structure that houses the National Underwater and Marine Agency sat on an East Washington hill overlooking the Potomac River. Sheeted in green reflective glass, the building was home to thousands of NUMA's oceanographers, marine engineers and the labs and computers they worked with.

Austin's office was a spartan affair on the fourth floor. It had the usual accoutrements, including a desk, a computer and a filing cabinet. The walls were decorated with photos of NUMA research vessels, charts of the world's oceans and a bulletin board festooned with copies of scientific articles and news clips. On the desk was a favorite photograph of Austin's mother and father sailing on Puget Sound. It was taken in happier days, before his mother died of a lingering disease.

The office's plainness was partly deliberate. Because the nature of the Special Assignments Team's work was largely clandestine, Austin wanted to blend into the NUMA backdrop. The other reason for the purely functional nature of his office stemmed from the fact that he was often away on missions that took him around the globe. His workplace was the world's oceans.

On the same floor was the NUMA boardroom, an imposing space with a ten-foot-long conference table built out of a section of wooden hull from a sunken schooner. Austin had chosen a smaller and less regal space than the conference room to plot strategy. The small study lined with shelves that were stacked with books about the sea was a quiet place often used by those waiting to make presentations.

As Austin sat at an oak table in the center of the study, he thought about Churchill's war room, or the Oval Office, where decisions were made that affected the future of the world. He had no infantry divisions or powerful fleets, he mused. He had Joe Zavala, who would much rather be driving his Corvette convertible with a lovely woman at his side; Barrett, a brilliant computer nerd with a spider tattooed on his bald pate; and the beautiful and intelligent Karla Janos, whom Austin would have preferred to be talking to over cocktails.

"Paul and Gamay are on their way back from Maine," he announced. "They hit a dead end trying to persuade Margrave to call off his plans."

"That means we have only one option," Karla said. "We've got to stop this insane scheme."

Austin gazed across the table at Karla, studying the creamy, unblemished skin and perfect mouth, thinking how unfair it was for a simple threat to the world to intrude on the potential for romance. Karla noticed that she was the object of Austin's coral blue eyes. She raised a finely arched eyebrow. "Yes, Kurt?"

Caught in the act, Austin cleared his throat. "I was wondering how your uncle is doing?"

"Technically, he's my god-grandfather, but he's doing well. Simply exhausted and worn out. The hospital wants to keep him for a few days. He's got to stay off his ankle. But he'll probably escape as soon as he gets some rest."

"I'm glad to hear he's doing well. I can drop you off at the hospital after our meeting. When we're through here, I'm driving down to an event near Manassas National Battlefield to brief Dirk Pitt, NUMA's director."

"Is Pitt refighting the Civil War?" Zavala said.

"He's satisfied with the outcome, as far as I know, but he got roped into a charity deal near Bull Run. He'd like to get filled in before the White House session. What have you got, Joe?"

"Good news. I asked Yeager to scour the records of shipbuilders. I thought if we could figure out where the transmitter ships were built we might be able to track them down. But even Max drew a blank. Next I went after the dynamos. I thought they might be commercially made."

"The generators we saw aren't the kind of thing you'd pick up at your neighborhood electrical supply house."

"Only a few companies manufacture equipment that size," Zavala said. "I followed up on every one, checking their sales for the past three years. They all went to power companies except one order supposedly shipped to a factory in South America, which is owned by Gant's foundation. The same multinational company that owns the factory has a shipyard in Mississippi. Seemed a funny combination of property for anyone to own, especially a nonprofit lobbying group."

"You're sure the foundation owns them?"

"Positive. I checked through the foundation's filings as a nonprofit. They own the shipyard through a straw company set up in Delaware. I had someone from NUMA follow up with a bogus story about retrofitting a big research vessel for us. The company itself is apparently legit. The management said they had just wrapped up a major retrofit job-they wouldn't go into details-and would be interested in making a bid."

"So the ships are still there?"

"They left several days ago. I accessed the NUMA satellite archives. Four ships left the boatyard last week."

"Four?"

"Three transmitter ships and what looks like a passenger liner. They seem to be headed toward South America."

Barrett had been silent since watching the computer simulation. "Thanks for your hard work, Joe. I'm feeling guilty as hell about all this. I can't stop thinking that this tragedy is my fault."

"Not at all," Karla said. "You could never know that your work would be used in a destructive way. It's no different than my grandfather. He was simply interested in pure science." Karla was shaking her head when a smile appeared on her face. "Topsy-Turvy," she said.

She laughed at the bewildered expressions around the table.

"It's the title of a bedtime poem my grandfather used to tell me. Not very good poetry, as I recall, but he said it was something that I would always have if I needed it." She scrunched her brow as she tried to remember the words.

Topsy-turvy,

Turvy-topsy,

The world stands on its head.

The sky's on fire,

The earth's afraid,

The ocean leaves its bed.

Her recitation was greeted by a deep silence, which Karla broke on her own.

"Dear God," she said. "I've just described auroras, earthquakes and tsunamis."

"A polar shift, in other words," Austin said. "Tell us more."

"I'll try. It's been a long time." She stared at the ceiling. "Each rhyme starts with the same topsy-turvy couplet, and then the verse itself changes. The next one goes, 'The key is in the door,/We'll turn the knob and hitch the latch,/To still the ocean's roar.' It goes on for several verses, then ends with my favorite one: 'Say good-bye to night. /All's well once more, /As Karla dreams,/For all the world is right.' "

Barrett whipped a ballpoint pen and notebook out of his pocket and slid them across to Karla. "Could you write down every verse?"

"Yes, but-" Karla seemed flustered. "Do you think all this gibberish means anything?"

"Just curious," Barrett said.

"We should follow any lead, no matter how seemingly frivolous," Austin said. He glanced at a wall clock. "I've got to get moving. We'll meet back here in a couple of hours."

He asked Zavala to talk to the Trouts and have them follow up on the transmitter ships, then turned to Karla. "I can give you that ride Austin offered to the hospital," he said.

"I'll see Uncle Karl later. If I go now, he'll demand that I help him escape from the hospital. I'd like to go with you to see Mr. Pitt," she said.

"I don't know," Austin said. "It might be safer if you stay out of sight."

"Maybe, but I don't feel like being stashed in a safe house. There's a good chance that whoever ordered my murder doesn't know that I'm still alive."

"I'd like to keep you that way."

"My grandfather's work started this nonsense. I owe it to him to stop his research from being perverted."

Seeing the determined jut to Karla's jaw, Austin knew that no argument he advanced would be able to sway her.

Fifteen minutes later, Austin and Karla were picking up a car from the motor pool in the NUMA garage. As Austin drove out of the garage exit to join the Washington traffic, he and Karla were observed from behind the one-way windows of a van crammed with the latest electronic listening and watching equipment. The letter on the van's door identified it as belonging to the Metropolitan Transit Authority.

Doyle sat inside the van puffing on a cigarette as he and a helper monitored several screens that showed the street scene around the NUMA building. Hidden cameras in the van and a similar vehicle parked outside NUMA's main pedestrian entrance recorded the face of everyone leaving the building and compared it to images in its database. The facial recognition system was capable of checking more than a thousand faces a second.

The monitor alarm buzzed. The signal for a hit. A picture of Austin behind the wheel of a turquoise Jeep Cherokee that had emerged from the garage was projected on one of the screens. Below Austin's face was a summary of personal data. Doyle's hard eyes gleamed with excitement. Bingo! He had just ordered his helper to get into the driver's seat and follow the Jeep when a second monitor buzzed. The picture of the attractive young woman who was a passenger in the Jeep filled the screen. The database identified her as Karla Janos.

Double bingo!

A smile came to Doyle's thin lips. He couldn't wait to see Gant's expression when he told him that Karla Janos was alive and well and consorting with the enemy. As the van pulled away from the curb and tailed the Jeep, Doyle called a motel in Alexandria where six Harley-Davidson motorcycles were parked. Minutes later, six men emerged from the motel, hopped on the motorcycles and roared off to rendezvous with Doyle.