Wildfire (9 page)

And with any luck, perhaps even for a dozen more generations, the CEO of Cyanosphere VIII thought to himself as he addressed his father.

"Well, that's the last of them."

Harold Ericson Tisbury, Sr., wealthy industrialist, Chairman of the Board of Cyanosphere VIII, father, grandfather, and the current Chief Executive Officer of ICER, nodded in apparent satisfaction. "I take it Jonathan is being his normal, paranoid self?"

"I think the idea of having to use the telephone at his club in order to communicate with us has made him terribly nervous," Sam Tisbury said.

"It's just a precaution until we have the scrambled satellite phones," the elder Tisbury reminded.

"Yes, he's aware of that, but you know Jonathan. The man's a compulsive worrier. God knows how he ever managed to make it to the position of CEO without having a nervous breakdown."

"Anything specific this time?"

"Apparently, one of his technical people heard a rumor that the FBI has developed a computer program capable of breaking the matrix codes used in scrambled cellular telephones."

"What?" Harold Tisbury blinked. "That's absurd." Then he seemed to reconsider the possibility. "Is there any chance he might be right?"

"The complexity of the codes times the number of possible variations times the number of phone calls in one year." Sam Tisbury smiled. "We're talking about a pretty big number to crunch, Pop."

"Yes, but is there any such thing as a 'big' number anymore?"

"You may have a point there," the younger Tisbury conceded. "But even so, and even if they could—which I still doubt—I can't imagine that the FBI would be willing to risk the public outrage that would ensue."

"No, I suppose not."

The old man seemed to lose himself in his thoughts for a long moment. Sam Tisbury waited patiently, solemnly aware that these periods of introspection, if that was what they were, had become more and more frequent over the past couple of years.

Thinking back, he realized that there had been a half dozen times in the past few months when he'd stopped by his father's office and had found the old man in a daze, staring vacantly at the identical family picture they both kept on their desks.

Tisbury tried to convince himself that it was simply the inevitable result of his father's growing old. He wanted to believe that. But he knew in his heart that there was more to it than just the simple passage of time; the Tisbury males traditionally enjoyed robust good health well into their nineties.

But none of them ever had to face the things we've had to face,
Sam Tisbury reminded himself, and then wondered if that really was true.

"And speaking of public outrage . . ." Harold Tisbury said hesitantly, blinking as if suddenly becoming aware of his surroundings again.

It had become the central topic of both their lives over the past couple of years, Sam Tisbury thought. That and ICER. The two things that they really had in common, ever since the traumatic events that had led to his emotional divorce and his mother's tragic death.

"You mean Crucible?"

"Yes, how is it going?"

"We expect to have all the first two thousand beta units completed by Friday," Sam Tisbury said in a carefully neutral voice.

"Really? That soon? That means we can begin scheduling the first tests by the end of this month." Harold Tisbury smiled.

Thank God,
Sam Tisbury thought, realizing with a sense of relief that it was going to be a technical discussion. It was better that way, for both of them.

"Yes, I would certainly think so."

"Wonderful. And what about the—uh—fuel situation? Have we experienced any subsequent problems in that area yet?"

"No, not yet. And as a matter of fact, I really don't think we will," Sam Tisbury said. "Once the security concerns were addressed, all three parties viewed it as a win-win situation. We were fortunate, of course, to get all the permits for the research worked out with the previous administration. But even so, I'm not sure that anyone could have possibly predicted that the collapse of the Soviet Union would occur so quickly. Or with such a wonderfully ironic side benefit."

"How many deliveries have we received so far?"

"Three."

"How far will that get us?"

"Enough for the first series of tests. After that, if all goes as we expect, we'll either expand the program ourselves or license the technology to the Russians, however they wish to handle it. And it doesn't matter what they decide, because either way, both sides will win."

"And in the process, the Tisburys will revolutionize the mining industry once again." Harold Tisbury smiled. "And not just that. If those new thermostat units prove viable, the shale oil industry will become a completely new ball game. And that's just the start."

"If the environmentalists don't drag us down into a tar pit of legal actions first."

"They won't," Harold Tisbury said confidently. "We just have to get organized again. And speaking of that, did you ever get a chance to explain the technical details to Jonathan?"

"I sent him the basic information last week. He's interested, certainly, but I think he's also looking for an excuse to hold back for a while. He understands our need to keep both Crucible and ICER moving forward. But all things considered, I think he'd much prefer that we all dig the foxholes deeper and then backfill with concrete. At least for another six months."

"But did he agree to consider the idea of a meeting?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now what was this business about Alfred?"

"Another one of Jonathan's rumors. This one had a pair of FBI agents snooping around Alfred's corporate headquarters."

Harold Tisbury froze in place.

"Did Jonathan follow up?" he asked carefully.

"He contacted Alfred by letter, using a bonded courier. Apparently Alfred didn't know anything about it. Claimed he hadn't even heard the rumor. But he sent a message back saying he'd check into it."

"When was that?"

"About two weeks ago."

"Did Alfred mention anything in his fax about the FBI contacting him? Anything at all?"

"No."

Harold Tisbury walked over to the fifteenth-floor penthouse window. He remained there, staring out at the panoramic view for almost a minute, until his son finally broke the silence.

"We keep coming back to the same question. Are we really doing the right thing by trying to get together again this soon?"

Harold Tisbury hesitated for another long moment before turning back to face his trusted business partner.

"Sam, the elections were an absolute disaster. We can't depend on what few connections we have in the new administration to keep things under control. If we continue to hide, stay down in our foxholes as Jonathan would put it, the tree huggers will simply move in with their shovels and bury us. Besides, with Crucible about to come on line, what other choice do we have?"

"Disband the committee," Sam Tisbury replied evenly. "Destroy all the records. Everyone go their separate ways."

"And let them win?"

By "them," Harold Tisbury meant Greenpeace and Earth First! and all the other activist environmental groups that were determined to hold the major industrial groups accountable for all the environmental damage they had caused—and would continue to cause—in the name of progress and profit. The tree huggers. The people that Harold and Sam Tisbury and all their fellow industrialists feared more than anything else in the world.

"Better they should win an occasional battle than we should lose the war."

"I agree, but it shouldn't come to that."

Sam Tisbury was quiet for a long moment.

"Do you really think we can hold them all together?" he finally asked.

By "them," Sam Tisbury was now referring to five very wealthy and powerful industrialists who—because they viewed the activist "Green" groups as environmental terrorists—had joined together with Harold and Sam Tisbury three years earlier in a conspiracy to create the International Commission for Environmental Restoration.

Otherwise known as ICER.

Under the leadership of Harold and Sam Tisbury, and using the fiery emotional leadership of a beautiful young woman named Lisa Abercombie and a U.S. Department of Interior patsy named Reston Wolfe, the ICER group had assembled a lethal counterterrorist team. Twelve highly trained men and women—Germans, Japanese, and Americans—led by a fearless and maniacal killer named Gerd Maas—who possessed all the necessary combat, technical, and intelligence-gathering skills necessary to tear apart the environmental movement from within.

The committee had named their first mission Operation Counter-Wrench, as a fitting counterpoint to the environmental cult novel
The Monkey Wrench Gang.

They had committed millions of their corporate dollars to the creation of an ultra-modern underground training center beneath Whitehorse Cabin in Yellowstone National Park, and used their political connections to staff the facility with the finest trainers the U.S. Military had to offer.

They had picked their targets with care.

And turned their fearsome team loose.

And they had lost.

In retrospect, all because of a single, thoughtless act of greed and arrogance on the part of their Department of Interior patsy. That and the incredible, unyielding dedication of six covert special agents from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, who refused to be backed off from their investigation.

"Fucking Federal Government employees, for God's sake,"
one member of the committee had raged helplessly as the underlying cause of the Whitehorse Cabin disaster became known.

Harold Tisbury seemed to be mulling over his son's question in his mind.

"Yes," he finally said, "I do."

"I'm glad you feel that way, because from my perspective, it's going to take a miracle," Sam Tisbury said flatly.

"You know, Sam, in spite of our many differences, all of us on the committee are very much alike," Harold Tisbury said as he continued to stare out of the huge picture window. "We're aggressive, arrogant, manipulative, and suspicious. And accustomed to doing things our own way. It's no wonder we find it so difficult to work together."

"Much less to trust each other," Sam Tisbury added.

"Yes, there's that too."

"Which is exactly what I'm worried about."

"What, that one of the members will decide to strike out on his own? Go to the FBI?"

Sam Tisbury nodded solemnly. "Given the nature of the potential charges involved, I think it's entirely possible, if not inevitable."

Harold Tisbury sighed. "I'd like to believe that you're mistaken about that, Sam. I really would."

"So would I, but what about Alfred?"

Harold Tisbury paused another long moment as he continued to stare out at the city lights in the distance, and the surrounding darkness.

"What about him?"

"Lisa's death affected him terribly. You know that."

Harold Tisbury nodded, remembering the feverish sense of commitment in the dark, smoldering eyes of Lisa Abercombie. The woman who had provided the emotional leadership for Operation Counter-Wrench. And the one who had willingly, almost eagerly, accepted the greatest risk of all. Oh, yes, he could understand Alfred Bloom's anguish all too well.

"But Alfred was the one who gave the order."

"Only because we told him to," Sam Tisbury reminded.

"Yes, that's right," Harold Tisbury whispered almost to himself. "We did, didn't we?"

The elderly industrialist remembered the last meeting of the ICER Committee all too well. The impassive report presented by investigator Walter Crane that described, in chilling legalistic detail, the enormity of the committee's failure. And then, after Crane had departed with all his carefully organized files and slides, the emotional discussion that followed. The arguments. The accusations.

And then the unforgettable expression on Alfred Bloom's face when the vote was finally taken.

They had voted six to zero, with Bloom understandably abstaining, to cut all possible connections between the International Commission for Environmental Restoration and Operation Counter-Wrench.

Cut them irrevocably, they told him, and do it now.

Alfred Bloom had stared down at the table as the verbal votes were cast. Then, without another word to anyone, he had picked up a phone and done exactly that.

"How is he holding up?"

Harold Tisbury asked the question for appearance's sake only, because he already knew exactly how Alfred Bloom was coping with the death of Lisa Abercombie.

Not well at all.

And then too, Harold Tisbury reminded himself, it wouldn't do to let his only son know that he'd gone out and hired his own personal team of private investigators to monitor the activities of his fellow conspirators, Sam Tisbury included. Especially when Harold Tisbury had every reason to suspect that his relatively youthful and aggressive offspring had done exactly the same thing. A thought that made the old man smile.

"He's drinking again." Sam Tisbury shrugged.

"Heavily?"

"Police have been called on at least three occasions in the past month."

"Has he said anything?"

Has he said anything important that might have been recorded in a police report?
was what Harold Tisbury was asking, even though he already knew. Or at least he thought he did.

He had hired the best investigative agency available to tell him what his fellow conspirators were doing on an hourly basis, and he had hired a second group to analyze their reports. But Harold Tisbury had not risen to his exalted position in the industrial world by limiting his sources of information or taking them for granted. There was always something to be gained from listening to another point of view.

"No, not that we know of."

"We have copies of the reports?"

"Yes, of course."

Harold Tisbury closed his eyes and sighed.

"What about the others?" he finally asked.

Sam Tisbury clasped his hands behind his back as he considered his answer. "Nicholas wants to extract Maas, put together another team, and go forward immediately."