Greasing the Piñata (21 page)

Chapter Fifty-eight

“We’re going to a pig farm?”

In answer to Cape’s question a satellite image appeared on the plasma screen in front of Sloth. He slid his hand awkwardly across the scratch pad and the image zoomed, revealing a cleared area on the outskirts of a city. It was hard to judge the scale, but there appeared to be a series of long buildings arranged near a body of water too symmetrical and square to be anything but man-made.

Linda’s hair jutted toward the screen. “This is one of the biggest operations in Cordon’s portfolio of companies. It not only received seed money from Delta Energy, which got huge tax breaks for investing in this place, it also got funding from the Mexican government.”

“But it’s a pig farm.”

“A huge source for bio-gas.”

“Translate please.”

“Pig farts—a terrific energy source, and a really good source of cash.”

“You’re kidding.” Cape turned toward her but stayed out of reach of her hair.

“I’m serious, and this plant might be legitimate, at least as far as the law is concerned.”

“I don’t have a lot of time, Linda. Our flight leaves in four hours.”

“We traced Rebecca’s flight to Monterrey, Mexico. Sloth accessed her credit card and she checked into a hotel there a few hours ago. Now guess where the pig farm is?”

“Monterrey?”

“Just outside the city.”

The image on the screen changed, replaced by a series of photographs from ground level. Linda talked in staccato burst as new pictures flashed onto the screen.

“This is a farm that raises pigs for the usual reasons pigs are raised—”

“ Bacon?”

“—and ham sandwiches, and pork chops. And all the other forms of pork that carnivores like you eat.”

“—
delicious
.”

“Don’t interrupt if you’re in a hurry. And that’s still the principal activity on the farm, but it’s not the most profitable. See that lake?”

Cape nodded.

“It’s not lake.” Linda wrinkled her nose. “It’s a waste lagoon.”

“Pig piss.”

“Among other things. Now see those long sheds?”

“That where they keep the pigs?”

“Yes. Notice the pipes running from the sides of them, into that series of tanks?”

“Sure. It looks like the pipes all connect and lead to that shed next to the lagoon.”

“When pigs fart, which they do constantly, they release methane—just like cows.”

“And people.”

“And methane not only smells bad, it burns. Which means it can be a source of fuel.”

Cape studied the photos. “Isn’t burning methane going to release pollution?”

Linda nodded. “It releases carbon dioxide, a greenhouse gas, but methane is considered much worse for the atmosphere, so there’s a trade-off. Capturing methane on pig farms gives you a cheap source of energy to make electricity that’s slightly better than burning coal or other fossil fuels. For a developing country it can be pretty lucrative.”

“I get why it’s cheap, but how is it profitable?”

“This operation also gets money from Delta Energy for carbon offsets.”

“I thought that was about planting trees.”

“An offset can be sold for anything that supposedly reduces greenhouse gases, so funding a methane-burning pig farm qualifies as much as planting a tree. This farm gets a check every month. A big one.”

“And since the tree-planting venture was corrupt—”

“—I’m betting there’s some creative accounting going on among the pigs.”

Cape closed his eyes for a second, tried to get the kaleidoscope of images from the screen off his retinas. He needed a minute to think. When he opened his eyes the plasma screen had turned a dark blue, a calmer color. Sloth must have sensed he was getting overwhelmed.

“OK, say it’s another shell company.” Cape turned to Linda. “But why this place instead of somewhere else in Mexico?”

Linda took a printout off the desk. It was a newspaper article from the previous year. “Remember how you said the press on the Senator dried up suddenly, about nine months ago?”

Cape looked at the photo next to the article. It showed Dobbins smiling at the camera along with a bunch of well-dressed men. They were standing in front of a low shed with pipes running into it. Mountains were visible on the horizon, trees in the near distance. It looked tropical.

“This is the pig farm that Luis Cordon owns in Monterrey, Mexico.” She tapped the faces of the men in the picture. “When Delta Energy got its big tax break, the alternative energy venture got some press. Politicians on both sides of the border hyped their greener-than-thou achievement to woo voters. One of them was Dobbins.”

Cape stared at the photo, cursing himself for overlooking the article in his original search. Once he had found the trail to Mexico he’d left the background check behind.

“Salinas must have seen this.”

“That’s what we think.” Linda spread her arms to include Sloth. “Dobbins realized too late his love of the press might have exposed his connection to Cordon. So he lowered his profile, but by then it was too late.”

“Salinas took a few months to do some homework, then came about the Senator.” Cape ran his hands through his hair. “So this place is significant for Salinas.”

“It must generate a fortune for Cordon. If Salinas is going to press his advantage, he’ll go after this place. Unless he wants to bring the fight to Matamoros.”

“What’s there?”

“Cordon lives there—it’s a big smuggling port, right near the Texas border.”

“But why would Salinas lure Rebecca to Monterrey and not bring her to him?”

“In Puerto Vallarta?” Linda’s hair shrugged a little. “I’m just telling you how these places are connected.”

Cape thought about what Sally had said about Salinas. About carrying out a threat in such a way that it sent a signal to everyone.

“He wants her to see it burn,” said Cape. “It’s the crown jewel of Cordon’s empire, and she’s a stand-in for her Dad—Salinas wants Rebecca there when he destroys the farm.”

“As a witness?”

“And part of the message.” Cape didn’t want to say his next thought out loud but he did. He was starting to understand Salinas and hated the feeling. “She’ll never leave there alive.”

Before Linda could say anything the plasma screen directly in front of Sloth wiped itself clean. Stark words appeared in bold type.

A printer hummed to life somewhere behind them. Cape followed the sound to a small alcove where a paper tray caught page after page.

“What are these?”

Cape walked over and squeezed Sloth’s shoulder, their normal substitute for shaking hands.

“What’s the head count on the farm?”

“Thirty thousand men?” Cape knew some drug lords kept standing armies, but he wasn’t prepared for this. “I’m fucked.”

“That’s better, but I still don’t like the odds.”

The screen cleared and a name and address appeared next to a photograph of a middle-aged man in a labcoat. The address was local, south of Market Street.

“Sloth, I only have about an hour.”

Linda stepped closer and her hair seemed to nudge Cape toward the door. “Go see him.”

“Why?”

“Has Sloth ever been wrong?”

Cape didn’t need to answer that. He bent down and kissed Linda on the forehead, her hair tickling his nose. “Thank you.”

Linda didn’t say anything until he’d reached the door.

“When you come back, I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“You buy the pancakes,” said Cape. “I’ll bring home the bacon.”

Chapter Fifty-nine

Cape was trying to figure out how to get past the steel door when he started to hear voices.

The door was seven feet high and three wide, with pronounced rivets along the edges and covered hinges. He couldn’t really gage the thickness but Cape suspected a rocket launcher couldn’t penetrate the door or the brick wall that surrounded it.

What do you want?

The voice reverberated inside his skull.

Who are you?

Cape felt a buzzing in his ears like a mosquito before the words took shape.

Who sent you?

Cape whipped his head around the small courtyard. It was empty.

How did you get this address?

He scanned the walls of the converted loft and saw a red bubble of glass about ten feet up. A security camera. Adjacent to the camera was a small black rectangle with something sticking out of it that looked like a straw. As Cape moved his head, he noticed the straw tracking him. He waved at the camera and explained that Sloth has sent him.

Bolts slid with a loud
chunk, chunk, chunk
and the door swung open. Cape peered inside and took a tentative step forward.

“I apologize for the elaborate precautions, Mr. Weathers, but industrial espionage is a very real threat.”

Cape looked up to see the man from the photograph from Sloth’s computer walking toward him, his voice the same as the one Cape had heard inside his head. No lab coat today, just a polo shirt and jeans. He had black hair going gray near the temples, an aquiline nose and piercing blue eyes. As he came within ten feet Cape noticed a headset wrapped around his chin, the kind toll-free operators wore in TV commercials.

Cape extended his hand. “You’re Dumont Frazer.”

The man nodded. “I got an email from Sloth saying I should expect company. I apologize again if I alarmed you.”

“That’s a pretty neat trick with your voice—mind telling me how you did that?”

“Follow me.”

Beyond the short entryway the space opened up to reveal a giant room, thirty foot ceilings and fifty feet in diameter, a converted factory turned into a gigantic laboratory. The first impression was chaos, but Cape began to discern groupings of various apparatus, as if each collection of tables, funnels, trestles, and wires was a separate experiment. It reminded him of the Exploratorium, the children’s science museum near the Marina.

Dumont stepped in front of a long table near the center of the room. On it stood a tripod holding a ball-and-socket contraption from which a black straw protruded, identical to the one mounted in the outside wall.

“You’re familiar with lasers, Mr. Weathers?”

“Call me Cape.”

“Lasers are concentrated beams of light. Industrial lasers can cut through steel, tactical lasers are used for gun sights, laser pointers are used in boardrooms across the country to highlight PowerPoint slides. But they all follow the same basic principals. To build a laser, we direct light in a tight beam, precisely where we want it to go.”

“Got it.”

“What if you could direct sound the same way?” Dumont gestured at his black straw. “What if you could focus a sound wave like a laser?”

Cape looked at the innocuous device. “That’s what I heard outside?”

Dumont nodded. “Through an amplifier, yes. But it was directed at you and you alone. Do you understand what that means?”

“It sounded like you were inside my head.”

“I was.” Dumont stroked his device. “Or more precisely, my voice was. If someone had been standing next to you, do you know what they would have heard?”

Cape shook his head.

“Nothing.” Dumont smiled. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Not even spillover, like you get from headphones?”

“Not a sound. No white noise, no echo. Nothing.” Dumont beamed like a proud parent. “My voice was aimed at you, just like a laser.”

“You could make someone think they were schizophrenic.”

“The technology has the potential to be abused.” Dumont looked around the vast warehouse of contraptions. “That’s why our mutual friend Sloth sent you to me.”

“But what is it used for?”

“Right now, very little.” Dumont shrugged. “I’m still deciding about engaging in commercial pursuits. Suppose, for example, you were grocery shopping and standing in the soup aisle. When you reached a certain spot on the floor, imagine hearing about a discount on tomato soup or a promotion for a new flavor? Only you could hear it, until you moved further down the aisle. So your fellow shoppers wouldn’t be annoyed by an overhead speaker droning on about soup while they were in the produce section.”

“It sounds vaguely—”

“Intrusive?”

Cape shrugged. Best not to insult your host, especially if he’s capable of penetrating your skull with sound waves.

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Dumont clapped and rubbed his hands together. “So I’m holding off until I determine the best course of action. But Sloth and I have become acquainted—online of course—he doesn’t get out much, does he?”

“Have you met him?”

“Never in person. He must be a remarkable man.”

“Smartest guy I ever met.” Cape looked around the hall of invention and added, “No offense.”

Dumont smiled. “I’m just a humble engineer. Like Caractucus Potts, the eccentric inventor in—”

“—
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
. Played by Dick Van Dyke.”

“You’re a man of culture.” Dumont nodded approvingly. “Sloth described your problem to me, in very cursory terms, and I may be able to help you.”

“What did he say my problem was?”

Dumont looked at the floor. “He was vague, to be honest. You’re not in law enforcement, are you?”

“No.”

“Military?”

“No.” Cape looked at Dumont until their eyes met. “I’m just an ordinary guy in an extraordinary situation who needs a little help. But I have no intention of sharing your secrets.”

Dumont held his gaze and then nodded. “Very good.” He steered Cape by his elbow over to another table.

Ten spheres sat on octagonal stands. They were somewhere between a golf ball and tennis ball in size. Black plastic divided hemispheres of silver metal. Within the metal quadrants were vents, horizontal slits with tiny grillwork covering them.

“I mentioned that an industrial laser can cut through steel plate.”

“I remember.”

“Naturally the military is very interested in lasers. They think one day they’ll have a Buck Rogers ray-gun to decimate their enemies. But most laser applications are for sighting, measuring precise directions or zeroing-in on a target. To use light as a weapon you need to keep the laser on a target for several seconds, and even then light can be reflected or dispersed. A laser weapon isn’t practical—not today.”

Dumont picked up one of the black and silver balls. “But what if you could weaponize
sound
?”

“What do you mean, weaponize?” Cape thought of the buzzing that preceded the voice inside his head, a sonic mosquito about to wreak havoc in his brain.

“When you were a teenager, did you ever go to rock concerts?”

“Sure.”

“Remember how your ears used to ring for hours afterward? Sometimes until you woke up the next day.”

“And you could feel the bass deep in your chest if you stood close enough to the stage.”

“Exactly!” Dumont’s eyes lit up. “People become sick at concerts when the acoustics are bad or the volume too high. Everyone assumes it’s alcohol or drugs, and it usually is, but sometimes it’s because of sonic nausea.” Dumont said the term as if describing a state of ecstasy.

“Sonic nausea.”

“Right here in this little ball.” Dumont held it out for Cape. It was heavier than he expected. “See that button?”

There was a red button in the center of the black plastic strip. Cape kept his thumb far away from it.

“Push that button twice and this ball will scream to life.” Dumont took the ball gingerly from Cape. “I like to think of these as sonic mines, like the mines that used to stop the U-boats.”

Cape saw an image of shrapnel and fire in his head. “Are these explosive, like stun grenades?”

“Not at all.” Dumont frowned. “I could demonstrate, but Sloth said you didn’t have much time.”

“I have a plane to catch in a couple of hours.”

“Ah, that won’t do. It would take a while to recover.”

“From what?”

“Ever have food poisoning?”

“Bad chicken salad.” Cape grimaced at the memory. “Puked my guts out on a drive to L.A., thought I was going to die.”

“Wracking chills, uncontrollable sweats, violent nausea?” Dumont listed the symptoms with relish.

“All of that. It lasted five hours. I didn’t feel better until the next day, and even then I was weak.”

“That’s how this makes you feel.” Dumont placed the sonic sphere back on its stand. “Only instead of five hours, it takes five seconds.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Think about that buzzing inside your head, Cape. Remember those rock concerts. Imagine all the force of a laser—a sonic laser—burning through your skull.”

Cape looked at the balls with a new appreciation. “What’s the range?”

“Indoors—a normal-sized room—devastating. Total disorientation, absolute loss of equilibrium for any human being with normal hearing.”

“What if the room is crowded?”

Dumont rubbed his chin, a near pantomime of the absent-minded professor. “Bodies will absorb sonic waves, so there will be a—” He paused, searching for the right term. “—blast radius. Someone near the back of the room might become disoriented but not debilitated.”

“And the people closer in?”

“On their knees within seconds. Better than a taser.”

“Outdoors?”

Dumont screwed up his face. “I don’t have a lot of field tests. A lot depends on the terrain, but I’d say anything within twenty yards will go down.”

“By
anything
, do you mean people and animals?” Cape saw an image of thirty thousand stampeding pigs.

Dumont raised his eyebrows. “Animals have a different range of hearing from humans, so in some cases the effect will be worse. In others not as bad.”

“OK. What’s the catch?”

“You have to protect yourself.”

Dumont walked to the end of the table and opened a leather box. Inside were small Ziploc bags, each with two pieces of beige plastic inside.

“Are those what I think they are?” Cape stepped closer to take a look.

“Ear plugs.” Dumont tore open a packet and demonstrated by placing them into his ears. “They have special contours and a noise-canceling motor—like the high-end headphones they sell for iPods. They diminish your hearing, but you can still hear—you won’t be deaf.”

“So I insert those into my ear canal before I push the button.”

“That’s the idea. In theory these earbuds will filter out the specific frequencies of the sonic bombs.”

“In theory?” Cape realized what the catch was going to be.

“I’m afraid I haven’t tested these yet.”

“I’ll let you know if they work. I might not be able to, if they don’t.”

“How many do you want?”

“I’ll take two.”