Solstice Page 12

  Sunnyvale, Northern California, 1842 UTC

  'What the fuck do you call that?'

  Pete Jimenez stared at the picture in the cheap plastic frame with chilli peppers and sombreros on it, the sort of mass-produced item you picked up in the tourist stores at the airport. There was a growing sneer of distaste wrinkling his pockmarks. It was too hot in the room. The freeway leading out through Silicon Valley to San Jose was packed with slow-moving cars full of angry people. The world felt ugly just then, felt at the end of its tether, writhing underneath the relentless burning brightness of the sun.

  'Looks like ET with fur on,' Vernon Sixsmith said, and wiped his brow. The air was stuffy and thin, as if there weren't enough oxygen in the atmosphere.

  'Yeah. And not much fur, at that. Not much of anything here I can see. 1 guess we should stand down the SWAT team. These guys bill heavy by the hour and I don't think we got much for them to do here.'

  'Yeah,' Sixsmith said. 'In a minute. No hurry.'

  They hadn't expected much of the apartment. Barnside had had men crawl over Charley Pascal's place before. The address wasn't hard to find. The Pascal woman had quit the Sundog research team in Sunnyvale a year ago, after a long bout of absenteeism and a string of arguments with the management. By that stage, they guessed, she'd picked up all the information she needed.

  At some stage too, she'd quit the apartment, continuing to pay the rent but, as far as they could work out, living somewhere else, probably with the rest of the Gaia crew, probably in the Bay Area, but no one could be sure. The woman was just plain elusive.

  The apartment was in a block of buildings put up to cater to the growing single population of the Valley, the army of bright young computer things who were flocking in from all over the world to feed the digital industries that ran from close by San Francisco airport all the way out to San Jose. Charlotte Pascal was long gone, every item of clothing with her, that much was obvious on their first visit. Jimenez and Sixsmith fine-combed the apartment, opened the drawers one by one, looked under the cushions, talked to the solitary neighbour who was still around — a dopey-looking German girl with close-cropped blonde hair dyed partly pink — and found out nothing they didn't know the moment they came through the door. Charlotte Pascal had walked out of this apartment three weeks or more earlier, with the rent paid up until the end of the year, and she hadn't told a soul where she was going.

  All this was a week before. Then Barnside sent them back again. Jimenez watched Sixsmith taking the call from Langley, and the look on his face said it all: My, what a persistent man.

  Barnside asked for a closer look, so that was what he got. Jimenez flicked through the letters that had stood in the box in the apartment block mail area. Credit card bills, junk circulars, flyers from the local Chinese restaurant. Charlotte Pascal had nothing that could even count as personal in her correspondence, and the oldest item dated back to May 24. Jimenez shook his head and said, 'Vernon, we're wasting time here. We can get the lab people in, see what they say, if Langley's so keen.'

  'Yeah.' Sixsmith nodded. 'In a month's time when they get around to typing the stuff out. You heard what Barnside said. He wants this stuff now.'

  'Well, maybe he can tell us how we're supposed to get it, because for the life of me I don't know. This woman looks like she was some kind of hermit or something. No letters from boyfriends. The German kid says she never saw anyone coming or going ever. She thinks maybe Pascal wasn't even here most of the time she was supposed to be in residence. And just take a look at this apartment. What do you get out of it? It's like…'

  'It's like she cleared it all out knowing we were coming,' Vernon Sixsmith said, trying to think this through, trying to put himself in the woman's shoes.

  He walked over to the angular metal framed bookcase that still had some things in it: a couple of Stephen King paperbacks, some books on solar physics with titles he didn't understand, and a copy of something called the Linux Bible. And on the top shelf- this had nagged him ever since Jimenez pointed it out — the picture of a cat alongside a cheap tourist ashtray from Acapulco, a three-inch model of the Eiffel Tower that looked as if it had been cast in lead, and a pair of Mexican salt and pepper pots made to resemble desert cacti.

  'Ugly fucking thing,' Jimenez said. 'The frame and the animal. Who the hell would want to bring that home from vacation?'

  'A cat lover, I guess,' Sixsmith said, and took the photograph down from the shelf, turned it over, unpicked the back, took out the print.

  'Hey,' Jimenez grunted, 'that's not some piece of tourist junk after all. That's her cat.'

  'You don't say?'

  There was nothing on the back, not the photographer's logo he'd hoped for. But this was a posed picture, Sixsmith was sure of that. The animal was seated against a pale blue background, the sort you got in studios, and it was craning its long, almost hairless neck as if someone, just out of reach, were holding out a piece of smoked salmon, teasing it into a nice pose.

  'Get that German kid in here again, Pete,' Sixsmith said, still staring at the picture.

  A few moments later Jimenez was back, standing behind the German girl, making movements with his head that said, This kid is not cooperating, this person has not yet joined the Friends of the CIA.

  'You know what that is?' Sixsmith said, holding out the picture.

  'Cat,' the German girl said flatly, her voice sounding mannish, not even looking at the photo.

  'Yeah. I know that. But any cat in particular? Was it her cat? Miss Pascal's?'

  She shrugged her shoulders, stayed quiet, and Jimenez walked out from behind her, smiled, and said, 'You know, for someone with no green card who's been working illegally and has a couple of ounces of dope stashed behind the CD player, you are being mighty unhelpful, young woman.'

  'Fucking cops,' the girl grunted. 'I got a green card. I earn more money than you two put together. And I don't use dope. Go see for yourself if you really want to rifle through my panty drawer.'

  Sixsmith closed his eyes for a moment and wondered how much more of Jimenez he could stand. Then he said, 'Fine, thank you very much. Now, before we declare war here, can I repeat myself? All I want to know is this: Is that Charlotte Pascal's cat? And if so, what the hell is it?'

  She thought about it just long enough to irritate them. 'Sure. It's her cat. Loved the goddamn thing. Something rare too. Weird name. Let me think.'

  Sixsmith prayed that Jimenez wouldn't blow this one.

  'Colourpoint Shorthair,' she said after another infuriating pause. 'Name of Michael. I guess I should have known she was gone for good when it stopped waking me up at night scratching on her door and meowing. She never let the damn thing out of the apartment. Scared it would get run over, I guess.'

  "This kind's rare?' Sixsmith asked.

  'So she said. Cats aren't my thing. I took her word on it there.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Can I go now?'

  'Surely.' Sixsmith smiled, wondering what this was worth. 'And thanks for your cooperation.'

  The German girl went back to her apartment, leaving the two men fuming silently at each other in Charlotte Pascal's onetime living room.

  'Well,' Jimenez said in the end, 'we know what kind of cat she likes.'

  'Yeah,' Sixsmith muttered, but he was already dialling, straight through to the Agency information desk, where some clerical assistant in the city office sat permanently glued to the computer.

  'Sixsmith here. I want you to look up a breed of cat for me.'

  The line went dead for a moment, then a young female voice said, 'A cat?'

  'Hey, you can hear me! Do we get to do some typing now too? A Colourpoint Shorthair. I want you to see if you can pull out some names of breeders, owners' associations, any kind of links you got.'

  'Colourpoint Shorthair,' the woman said, then paused for a second or two. 'My, that is a pretty pussy. Looks like ET.'

  'I been there already, friend. You got some numbers we can call?'

>   He heard typing down the line.

  'You ought to be grateful for this stuff,' the voice said down the line. 'Most of the networks are down right now. Only a handful of us can access anything. That sun thing, I guess.'

  'I'm waiting.'

  'Yeah. Got a whole list of registered breeders here on the Cat Fanciers' Association site. Where do you want me to cut this off?'

  'How many breeders have you got in the Bay Area?'

  'Ten, fifteen or so.'

  'E-mail them straight to my pager. We need to start calling right now.'

  'Okay. One more thing as well.'

  'Yeah?'

  'Got some number in the city for the secretary of the Northern California Colourpoint Shorthair Owners' Club. Mrs Leonie Hicks, fine-sounding address out in Pacific Heights.' She gave him the phone number.

  'Got it,' Sixsmith said, and cut the line, then dialled straight out again. An elderly female voice that sounded like the rustling of old tissue paper said, very cautiously, 'Yes?'

  And Sixsmith was so glad he hadn't handed this one over to his partner.

  'Mrs Hicks? Mrs Leonie Hicks,' he said, his voice a little higher than usual.

  'Yes?'

  'My name is Harold Levinson. I do so hope you can help me.'

  'If I can.'

  'You see, it's about poor Charlotte's cat. It's a beautiful Colourpoint Shorthair called Michael.'

  'Finest cat in the world, Mr Levinson. A feline sans pareil is the Colourpoint Shorthair, but then you seem to know that already.'

  'Quite. And so loyal too. Which is the point. You see, Charlotte moved out of her apartment next door to me in Redwood a month or so ago and took Michael with her. And now — I just don't know how to explain this — the poor creature has come running back to his old home, looking very sorry for himself. And I just don't know how to return him, you see, since Charlotte, in her hurry, never left me a forwarding address.'

  'My oh my,' said Mrs Leonie Hicks. 'These cats never cease to surprise one.'

  'So I was wondering if you could help.'

  'Mr Levinson, my home is always open to any Colourpoint Shorthair in need of a bed for the night. It is pedigree, I gather?'

  'Well, I am sure that is most generous of you, Mrs Hicks. But I was rather hoping you might have Charlotte's address. Her being so fond of this kind of cat, you see. I was wondering if she just might be on your books.'

  The line went quiet and then the tissue paper rustled again.

  'I don't think so, young man.'

  'Can you check?'

  'No need. I know all our members. We meet quite regularly. And I am sure I would remember a name like that.'

  'French woman, kind of pretty, worked in the Valley.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  Sixsmith pressed the mute button, looked at Jimenez, and said, 'Shit.'

  'Well, thank you, ma'am.'

  'My pleasure. And remember, if you need a home for that poor creature

  'I will,' said Sixsmith, thinking fast. Then added, 'Oh, one more thing. Charlotte had this beautiful picture of Michael taken in some studio somewhere. It's a real work of art. Clearly someone who understands cats. You don't know where I might go to get something like that myself, do you?'

  'Now, there I can help you. If you want a portrait of a cat, there is only one man hereabouts who can do the job. Henry Lomax. You wait there one minute.'

  Sixsmith pulled the phone away from his ear and sent up a little prayer. One minute later, Mrs Leonie Hicks was back with a number. Two minutes after that he was speaking to Henry Lomax, who remembered this job so well, since it happened only two weeks before. Sixsmith scribbled something down on his pad and cut the call.

  He looked at Jimenez. 'Two addresses. Sunnyvale. And 2314 Ravel, that's on Potrero, he says, he delivered the pictures himself.'

  Jimenez grinned. 'Hey, man, we're rolling!'

  'Yeah,' said Sixsmith, and put the picture of the cat back on the shelf. It was crazy, he knew, but he didn't like the way the thing kept staring at him.

  CHAPTER 17

  Charley Pascal

  Washington, 1913 UTC

  Tim Clarke sat at the end of the table in the Pentagon bunker, dressed in an open-necked shirt and jeans, and stared at the group that had assembled around him. This was a subset of the National Security Council, with the additions he'd demanded and the live video link to La Finca. He wasn't feeling good about the team. It was an ad hoc amalgam of different agencies, different skills, no one quite meshing, no one quite understanding the prolix nature of the problem.

  He'd decided against inviting the military in the form of the chiefs of staffs and the Defense Intelligence Agency. This wasn't a military threat, nor, at this point, would a military solution seem appropriate. He had the FBI to handle the internal situation, but there was no evidence that Gaia was necessarily resident in the US any more, and if they were, the Bureau had few clues about where to start looking for them. The Agency, from what he'd seen, knew more than anyone else, but that was still vague. Then there was Sundog itself. They'd patched through to the control room in La Finca, and the live video of Simon Bennett and Irwin Schulz sat on the bunker wall, alongside a digital world map showing the movement of daylight across the globe. They looked lost, academic caretakers of a half-forgotten project who had suddenly found the doors to their lab flung open to the world, and a bunch of strangers walking in, taking over the desks.

  The conventional notion of security wasn't made for this world. There was something so global, so intangible, about the way the threat had emerged that it had outwitted them, and all they could do was stare at each other accusingly and wonder where next to punch the air.

  His training told him you left these situations to the professionals. In his gut, Clarke knew that this would be a dreadful mistake. The zenith was now less than thirty-six hours away, and the growing presumption was that, whatever Gaia wanted to do, it was the peak of the cycle they would choose for the act. There was no time now for the infighting that would resume the moment he stepped out of the room. So instead he had to lead, directly, with no room for argument.

  'Let's start this off with something we can all understand,' Clarke said slowly. 'What the hell happened in Langley this afternoon?'

  Helen Wagner scanned the papers in front of her. 'Data is still coming in, Mr President, but it's already clear that the area of the CIA headquarters was subject to some intense kind of solar radiation around midday. The burst lasted, as best we can estimate, six minutes. We had massive electrical failures in the buildings, we're still missing some telecom circuits, and it may be several hours before we can hope to get back to normal. And it's not just Langley. There's telecom disruption through the DC area.'

  'I'm not interested in the power supply. What about the physical effects?'

  She shook her head. 'We don't know accurately what was in this burst, sir, so we're still in the dark. There was a huge increase in ultraviolet rays during the period, equivalent to standing out in the sun for the best part of a day. It's the unknown elements, the X-rays and the electromagnetic emissions, that are hard to call. The best guess of our physicians is that they are responsible for the illnesses. Mostly these are associated with a sudden rise in blood pressure — physical discomfort, headaches, nosebleeds, the triggering of cardiac incidents, and the like. If the radiation level had been on a Chernobyl level, we'd have monitored that, of course, but more importantly we would have seen other symptoms by now — vomiting, physical side effects. This thing gives you a nasty shock, and repeated doses would doubtless trigger carcinogenic occurrences, just as much as standing out under the sun all day. But it's not deadly in itself, unless you have a pre-existing condition. The real lasting damage may well be to the systems we take for granted. We have entire network backbones down and they don't seem much willing to come back up.'

  'It's Sundog, Mr President,' Schulz said from the screen. 'It's all Sundog. The mix of rays is exactly what we got in the trials, and one reas
on why we half-mothballed the thing in the first place. It's dirty stuff and damn hard to control. But you got to remember this thing is a bunch of weapons, not just one. She's got hold of the transmission feed too and she can use that to mix data into the beam, foul up the telecom networks with all sorts of crap on top of the magnetic disruption you get anyway. Like the biggest computer virus you could think of.'

  'We had to do some pretty fancy rerouting just to keep any of the network upright,' Helen added. 'But we shouldn't take that for granted. We have to assume we could lose a lot of our telecom infrastructure at any time when the satellite is in range. And we're still some way off from the zenith. What they're throwing at us on all fronts now is nothing compared to what we could get tomorrow.'

  'Understood,' Clarke said. 'And on the ground?'

  One of the NSC staff people Clarke didn't recognize cut in. 'The local authorities have the situation in hand outside, sir. There may be a curfew in selected DC areas tonight if this sparks unrest. Right now the TV stations are swallowing the line we're feeding them, that this is some kind of power outage. I don't know how long we can hold that, but we'll keep it as calm as we can.'

  'Casualties?'

  Helen said quietly, 'We have two staff reported dead of heart attacks. There are some automobile crashes on the freeway. Reports are still coming in.'

  Clarke shook his head. 'This is so accurate. How'd they do that?'

  Schulz's voice came out of the system. 'It's not a big deal, sir. The energy goes in a dead-straight line. Provided you can work out any refraction through the atmosphere, it's a simple calculation. The fact that they brought down two planes when clearly they were going for Air Force One maybe means they're refining it now.'

  Clarke looked at the mute, immobile faces in the room. He knew the makings of despair when he saw it. 'So who are these people? What do they want? And what can they do to us if we don't give it to them or find them in time to take this little toy back out of their hands?'

  There was an awkward silence around the table. Clarke gazed stonily at them. 'My, this is an unpopular assignment. Since we don't know the answers to those questions, can someone kindly tell me who the hell these people are?'