The Doomsday Equation (18 page)

C
AN YOU FIND
a secure line?”

Janine reads the text on her phone. The bearded man cringes; they are driving fifty miles an hour over the Bay Bridge, heading to San Francisco. Janine, steering with a knee, texts back: “Um, yeah, this one.”

Seconds later, her phone rings. She presses a button and a voice comes onto the speaker.

“I won’t repeat this,” the voice says.

The audio quality is bad, choppy, with static. But the bearded man feels a moment of awe. This must be the master Guardian, the one calling the shots.

“We have access to the code.”

The bearded man doesn’t understand. The code? He looks at Janine, who seems to blink rapidly. Processing, troubled.

“Didn’t we always have the code?” she asks into the phone.

“Sabra, there was no point in telling you we didn’t have it when we knew we’d get it.”

She smiles, willing herself to find some external expression that doesn’t match her fury. What was the point of going through all this, the months of prelude—the years—if they
didn’t have the code in the first place? I’m not your fucking Sabra. That’s Hebrew, not the right language. I’m Syrian, Christian, Arabic, and no less righteous.

“Actually, we don’t have it,” says the quiet, patient voice.

“What?” She thinks: Wasp. But she senses he’s so much deeper than that. Calmly: “We know where it is. Exactly?”

“Look up!” the bearded man says.

Janine, who had been focused on the conversation, notices she has drifted into the lane to her right. She swerves back.

“Hello, Eli,” says the voice on the phone.

“Hello.”

“We must have the code,” Janine says.

“That’s why I have called you. It is your time.”

The bearded man sees Janine grimace. “You are a Guardian. Since my father found you. We are like siblings, Sabra.”

He tells her what they need to do.

She hears a click.

The van has nearly passed over the bridge. The bearded man marvels at the magnitude of downtown San Francisco. The massive man-made kingdom. Not long for this world.

“The code?” he asks.

“For the weapon. It needs a code. So it can go bang. And apparently we don’t have it.”

“But . . .”

“It will be easy to get. The one who has it—he’s a . . . tortured fellow, pathetic, lost in the things of this world. Easy enough to get his cooperation.”

O
LD LINGUINE.

Jeremy flies down the hallway at the Mandarin, past a cart, a housekeeper’s cart, pushed against the wall. Towels and soaps, and on top, a haphazardly balanced plate of half-eaten pasta. He hears footsteps behind him. Urgent whispers of his two stalkers: Andrea and a tall, thin woman, a shock but not a complete stranger. He saw her the night earlier at a café, then at a bar, then on the street.

Then in the car that tried to run him over.

Now at his heels.

“It’s pointless, Jeremy!”

He passes the housekeeping cart and swoops his arm around the edge, trying to push it behind him into the hallway. Slow the women. His aim is true; the cart topples behind him, giving him maybe an extra second.

His legs explode off the swirls of red and black on the carpet.

He hears a click. A click. A gun?

Finds the extra gear. Reaches the elevators, pauses, hears the women leaping over or crashing through the toppled cart.
The elevators are a trap, a cage. He keeps running, toward the end of the hallway, a sign: exit. The stairs.

An urge strikes him to yell, what, “Fire”? Bring people out of their rooms, their dawn beds, create more chaos. Something prevents him, pride, maybe. He wants to confront, not run. At the stairs, he turns back, allows himself to look. They’re coming, Andrea and the woman, no longer sprinting, hustling, confidently. They’ve got Jeremy in their sights, a helpless gazelle.

He scans for a fire alarm; shouldn’t there be one right here on the wall? Not to be. He opens the stairwell doors.

Up.

Steps echo as he bounds. Two steps at a time, three. The twelfth floor, thirteenth, fourteenth, thighs burning, lungs tight, stairs looming endlessly. A cavern with a dead end.

One of the women says: “Take the elevator to the top.”

He keeps on, hearing the door open on one of the floors. They’re maybe two floors behind him, feet chasing sound. But now one of them has gone for the elevator bank, heading, where, presumably the top floor so she can come down. One will be behind him, the other in front. Unless he hurries. To the top, and then what?

“Jeremy!” Andrea is the one behind him.

He sees a sign: “Nineteenth Floor,” and, beneath it: “Roof Access.”

He reaches for the handle. He pushes down. It opens. He pauses. Andrea, alone, is beneath him. Surely he can blow past her, shove her out of the way, one-on-one, and were this Pamplona, he’d be the bull.

What’s he running from?

A gun? The unknown?

Do these women want to kill him?

He opens the door to the roof. As he does so, he sees the fire alarm. Reaches for it; not yet. He needs Andrea. She needs him, but he needs something from her, a truth, a story. An idea surfaces.

He shoves the door closed and spills onto the roof. Darkness, a twist of neon in the distance, from the side of a building. Coca-Cola. He feels frigid air, foggy drizzle, tarry gravel beneath his feet. He blinks, willing sight. Looking for a foe; has the other woman made it up here?

He sees no one. Just the expansive roof, scattered storage units, a rectangular cement room, probably for electrical equipment, Internet, locked off by a heavy metal door.

He hears the door open behind him. Looks back and sees both women, purposeful, but not sprinting. He starts walking to the side of the roof.

“I know,” he says.

“What do you know?” Andrea asks.

“About the attack. Why?”

She and the woman look at one another.

“It’s on here,” Jeremy says. “All of it. In here, my backpack. The future foretold, all the evidence.” He blinks. He’s trying to piece something together, anything. Trying to sound like he’s holding cards. “It has to do with the Russians, a rogue executive.” He pauses. “A missing bomb.”

The women step forward.

“Bomb?”

“Stop lying!”

“Jeremy, I can help you. You’re a brilliant man, brilliant. But you’re lost in an alternate reality.” Tiny pause. “You killed Harry.”

“No.”

“I saw the . . . I saw the stains. The blood. I’m only looking out for you.”

“You’re not telling me something.”

No answer.

“I can give you what you want.”

“Which is what?” Andrea looks at the woman. Something silent passes between them.

“But first you have to tell me what you know, Andrea.”

“I’m telling you. I am. Telling. You. The lieutenant colonel was missing.” She clears her throat. Her arms are crossed. She juts her chin toward the tall woman, the dangerous fawn with the gun.

“Okay.”

“What do you know about it, Jeremy?”

“So he’s no longer missing.”

“What?”

“You said he ‘was’ missing. So he’s no longer missing.”

“He’s dead, Jeremy.”

Jeremy takes it in. He watches the women circle. “I know.”

Andrea takes a deep breath. “You know who killed him.”

“You did.”

“Very funny.”

Jeremy looks at the taller woman, the mute gun toter, circling around to his left. She’s practically silhouetted by the darkness.

Jeremy says: “You tried to run me over in the car. Last night, outside the McDonald’s.”

Andrea: “She wasn’t trying to run you over. She was trying to scare you.”

“Why?”

“So you’d get into the car with me. So you’d help me. She’s with me, a trusted colleague.”

“She’s helping you to do what?”

“Figure out what’s going on. With Lavelle, the lieutenant colonel. He mentioned you. He warned me.”

Jeremy shakes his head.

“Before he disappeared. He was nervous. He mentioned you. You have a vendetta, Jeremy. You hate him, us, for ruining your dreams. It’s about you.”

“And Harry?”

Andrea shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“He was working with you too.”

“Yes, I told you.”

“Doing what?”

“I told you: helping us to understand the world, how conflict works. I showed you mine, Jeremy. Show me yours.”

“See for yourself,” he blurts out. He takes off his backpack. “If I show you, you’ll let me live.”

“Of course. Jeremy, I’m not a—”

“The future foretold.”

Jeremy throws the black backpack in the direction of the tall woman, roughly, more toward the corner of the roof. It spins, like a Frisbee, lands, and slips and slides toward the corner, the edge of the hotel. She starts loping toward it and as she makes her break, Jeremy makes his. He’s heading right for Andrea.

Within steps, he’s on her, then past. She reaches out an arm, but he shakes it. Steps later, he pulls open the door leading to the stairs. He ignores the sounds behind him. He knows they’ll be preoccupied, but for only the briefest second.

Minutes later, after an elevator ride, he’s sprinting down.

He feels the iPad and keyboard. They’re tucked awkwardly between his back and his shirt, which in turn is tucked into his pants. In his pocket, the tiny wireless mouse. Portable Jeremy. The women have doubtless realized now that they were left empty-handed. Wonders how they feel having discovered
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Dating
.

Why would they want the computer?

He feels relief, then a thrill. There’s the beat-up Toyota, on the corner. Inside it, Nik, the dutiful Nik; should Jeremy expect anything less?

He sprints to the car to discover his assistant mouth deep in a donut. A half-eaten dozen between the two front seats. Jeremy paws a maple-frosted and stuffs it into his mouth. The smell mixes with a sanitized odor of dog, Nik having done his best to spray away the scent of Rosa, his dog. On the floor of the passenger seat, Nik’s old leather bag, which Jeremy nudges aside as he climbs in.

Jeremy points ahead on the road and Nik puts the car in drive and accelerates.

“Youliedtome.” Jeremy’s words—You lied to me—get swallowed by a mouthful of donut.

Nik shakes his head: what? The corpulent assistant points to a coffee in the middle compartment.

Jeremy swallows a thick chunk of half-chewed donut, follows it with coffee.

I said: “Let’s go save the world.”

Nik looks at him, blinks. Is this sarcasm from his boss? Drama? Not the kind of thing that Jeremy ordinarily would say.

Jeremy tells Nik where to drive.

I
S THIS ABOUT
the break-in? At the office, and my apartment?” Nik asks.

“Nik, did you know about Evan and Andrea? You knew. I know you knew.”

“So much for pleasantries.”

Jeremy points left, directing Nik onto Broadway, a four-lane thoroughfare that travels from the Embarcadero—downtown—through North Beach, toward the Golden Gate Bridge. The bridge. That view.

It’s drizzling, dark, the barest hint of morning, pre-morning, predawn.

“This is what it’s going to be like, Nik.”

Nik turns left, doesn’t respond. He’s used to Jeremy brainstorming aloud, using Nik as a silent sounding board. He’s not sure what Jeremy means, which is: this is what the world will look like when it’s been darkened by nuclear weapons.

“Kind of peaceful,” Jeremy says. “I really need to fill in the blanks, Nik. Did you know about them?”

“You remember that party, the one with the theme?” Nik’s response, spoken quietly.

Jeremy nods. The Binary Bash; come as a One or a Zero. Another cocktail party, not in Jeremy’s honor, but he was one of the signature guests mentioned on the evite. “Andrea wasn’t there,” Jeremy says.

“I heard Evan on the phone. Arguing, trying to convince someone of something, laughing. I thought it was Andrea.”

Jeremy doesn’t say: why didn’t you tell me? That’s just not Nik’s style.

“Another thing I’m wondering: Has anyone messed around with your computer? Any sign of hacking?”

Nik takes his eyes off the road—also not Nik’s style—and turns to Jeremy. No driving risk, really; the only car on the street is a taxi, and it’s parked in front of a twenty-four-hour corner food mart. Nik looks back at the road. He passes through a green light, cresting a hill. Jeremy can see the gateway to North Beach, announced by the neon from Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club and the more traditional Condor Club on the right. Classic San Francisco: new-money nudity and old-money nudity right across the street.

Jeremy’s thinking about something Andrea said: that Jeremy had emailed her about Evan. Was she lying? If so, wouldn’t that be the strangest lie? Obviously, Jeremy would know whether he emailed or not.

Wouldn’t he? Not if Nik co-opted his email. But why?

He’s struck by the strangest thought, which he expresses aloud. “What if my computer is doing something on its own?”

“Still straight?”

“Not possible. Yes. Right on Van Ness.” He opens the cover on his iPad. He looks at the map. Red, red. Countdown clock at just around thirteen hours. He thinks back to the Binary
Bash. Nik wound up talking to that woman from CNET, the reporter with the limp and the thick glasses.

“Remember that reporter you dated?”

“We just went out a couple of times.”

“I’m going to need you to do something for me. I need you to tell her, and others.”

Jeremy opens Yahoo mail and zips an email to Nik:
The conflict machine predicts there will be an attack. Tonight at 8 pst. In San Francisco. It will lead to nuclear war. Nik, tell the reporter you know. Tell them Jeremy Stillwater will stake his reputation on it. And that they should not hesitate to tell the world—before it is too late.

“Nik, I sent you an email. It explains something very important. I need you to spread the word. For now, it is better that it comes from you than from me. I’m persona non grata. But frankly, that doesn’t matter. The press, such as it is, will eat this shit up. It’s a 24/7 news cycle, a cycle that needs filling. So even if they think this is nuts, they’ll print it and spread it, and link to it. It’ll light up Twitter. Even if people think it’s nuts, they won’t be able to ignore it.”

“Is this about Evan and Andrea?”

“No. I don’t know. Then I need you to find Emily, and Kent. You have to take them somewhere.”

Just ahead, a traffic light turns yellow, and Nik slows. At the light, he turns to Jeremy.

“I do a pretty decent job keeping your affairs organized.”

“I know.”

“So I must not be a complete idiot.”

Jeremy turns to look and Nik looks away, back to the road. Jeremy takes his meaning: stop treating me like a child.

“I think there’s going to be an attack, Nik. That’s what this
thing is telling me. I sent you an email with the details. You’re the only one I’ve told. But there are a lot of variables. With your permission, I’d like to think about it for a second.”

“An attack.” Nik accelerates through the green light. The car makes a whining noise. Jeremy sees Nik wince. His assistant takes care of the little things, like making sure his car, tattered though it might be on the outside, is kept up, the oil changed, the dash dusted, the handful of compact discs kept in their cases and stacked neatly in the center console.

“An attack.”

“Then all-out nuclear war. Tens of millions dead.”

Nik swallows. Jeremy sees him pull a hand from the steering wheel and touch his chest, the shirt above the cross that hangs around his neck.

“Maybe it’s wrong.”

“It was right, Nik. The computer was right. About the Middle East, the stuff with the Pentagon.”

“I thought—”

“Andrea came clean. The government lied. They manipulated me. I’m not sure why. But I’m sure they did.”

“You haven’t told anyone?”

“About the Pentagon?”

“About the . . . the attack, the thing the computer is telling you.”

Jeremy sees Nik glance in the rearview mirror. Jeremy looks over his shoulder. A dark car has materialized. No, a van. Its windshield wipers rapidly dust away the drizzle, obscuring the face of the driver. A woman, short hair?

Nik takes a right onto Van Ness. The van and its driver continue straight.

“Left on Bay,” Jeremy says, not answering Nik’s question. “Go past the Safeway. I need a minute.”

Jeremy looks at the iPad, and his eyes glaze over. He’s trying to add everything up—the clues, the computer’s prediction, the murder, or is it murders. He doesn’t doubt that Harry is dead, but Lavelle, the lieutenant colonel. Is he? And if so, so what?

He’s the guy who oversaw Jeremy’s visit to the Pentagon, who approved it, who made it a lie. At least according to Andrea. They told him they wanted to test his technology, then told him it didn’t work, then offered to send him to the Middle East to see for himself. Then pulled the plug. A dog-and-pony show. Were they using his technology? Are they using it now? How? He’s the only one who can get inside the machine, right?

He thinks about Harry’s cryptic messages. A note, a symbol. V, victory, or something else. Country codes, Israel, the West Bank; and superpowers, China and Russia; and Morocco, a crossroads, a land of great insignificance, at least in the larger scheme.

All the codes coming together at the point of the symbol with numbers that don’t correspond to a country code, that don’t correspond to anything obvious.

He thinks about cooling conflict rhetoric in the Fertile Crescent, which includes Israel and Ramallah, both represented in the country calling codes. The computer has told him that this softening language is the most pointed evidence of an incoming attack. How can that be? Could the softening language from that region be a trap, a deliberate showing? Might the leaders of, say, Israel, or the Arab nations be lulling people to sleep and then planning an attack? That makes no sense; cooperation between these eternal enemies?

He makes a mental note to look into the details of language from the Middle East. Who is saying what to whom?

And what of the intensifying language of war from around the globe—Mexico, Russia, North Korea. The world is heating up. It’s a tinderbox. Isn’t it always?

Where do the Russian arms dealers fit in, if at all? A missing bomb or a red herring?

Maybe there’s going to be an attack; maybe the computer is lying. Maybe someone messed with the computer. But there’s no doubt that Harry is dead.

“At the least, it’s a murder mystery.”

“Which way?”

“Toward the right, past the courts.”

The volleyball courts. And the marina, down by the waterfront, the Golden Gate Bridge looming ahead. In silence, they drive down Bay, passing between the water on the right and, on the left, the high-rent fitness-centric businesses: the sporting goods outlet catering to the overzealous exercisers, the indoor rock-climbing facility, even, for the kids, a house of jumpy castles so that San Francisco’s toddlers can get their cardio on.

On the grass that leads to the beach, someone has erected a placard with a picture of a lion on its hind legs.

“The Lion of Judah.”

Jeremy feels the car swerve. He looks up. Nik seems transfixed by the protestors.

“Nik!”

He jerks back the wheel. “Sickening.”

“You’re really broken up about the lions.”

“Of course it’s going to get shot.”

Poor Nik. So boyish. “You know much about the Middle East?”

“My parents, obviously.”

They’d been missionaries all over the world, including in Jerusalem.

“So you know the lion is the symbol for Jerusalem,” Jeremy says. “The Lion of Judah.” Then Jeremy shakes his head. He takes in Nik. Studies his pasty sidekick. Looks back out the window.

“All roads lead there—to Jerusalem.” Almost under his breath. Then: “Where do Harry and Evan fit in? They fit in. It’s all connected.”

“Evan’s not reachable. He’s out of town.”

Jeremy blinks. He just saw Evan. Is Nik lying to him?

“You asked me to find out and so I called his office and his assistant told me that he’s out of town on personal business through the weekend. I told her that I was someone’s assistant too and so she felt comfortable.”

“A rare bit of manipulation.”

“And she said he has an important meeting. Something top secret. Even she didn’t know what. She said, ‘You know how important bosses think they are.’”

“Hmm.”

“Where are we going?”

Jeremy points to a sign. There’s an arrow. It reads: “Log Cabin.”

“He left me something.”

“Who?”

Jeremy doesn’t answer. He’s thinking not only about Harry, and the admonition: log cabin. He’s thinking about Emily, who tells Jeremy that he misses the forest for the trees. She means that Jeremy always thinks about winning, confronting every little battle, rather than about the big picture. When it comes
to Emily and Jeremy, it means that he doesn’t think about the overall health of the relationship; he thinks about scoring one more point.

In the case of the “log cabin”—and Harry—Jeremy kept thinking it was a reference to the fight. Maybe that is what Harry was referring to. But there’s another possibility.

Harry came all the time to the log cabin. It was where he did his thinking, wandering in the grassy knoll of the Presidio, a former military base that symbolized war and came to symbolize the transition to peace. And, Harry would prick Jeremy, no Internet access, so Harry could think in peace, let his brain roam without interruption or digital crutch.

From the edge of the grove next to the log cabin, there’s a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. The view represented in the puzzle in Jeremy’s dream.

“Not the trees, Nik, the forest.”

“What forest?”

“Peace. Nik.”

They wind up in the darkness, climbing toward the log cabin. Jeremy looks out and sees the very beginning of light, and the tip-top of the bridge. It’s the same view from his dream, the puzzle.

The road veers to the left. A few more turns to the log cabin, answers.