For the rest of the night, the group watched the flames burn in the circle around them. Occasionally there were new waves of chanting, especially when the higher branches burst into flame, but at no point did the Chollokwan attempt to enter the clearing. As dawn approached, they drifted back into the forest and disappeared.
The jungle around the clearing continued to burn. But though the forest was dry by Amazonian standards, it wasn’t the type of parched brush that lent itself to an inferno. The flames could not reach the critical temperature required to become self-sustaining, especially as it reached the wetter foliage back from the clearing’s edge.
With the cool mists of the dawning hours, the fires began to die. The layer of ash and smoke thinned throughout the morning, and by late afternoon all that remained were the smoldering hunks of burnt and blackened trees and the trepidation of what the next encounter might hold.
CHAPTER 22
A bitterly cold morning arrived in Washington, D.C., a morning of cloudless blue skies and plumes of steam on the horizon. The glaring sun lingered, low and bright, but for all its piercing brilliance, it remained a harsh and distant companion, a mere candle on the mantel of the world.
No warmth could be felt on this day, not in the sunlight or in the air. To Stuart Gibbs it seemed appropriate for a day on which the NRI was burying one of its own.
Gibbs had stood in the frigid air, giving the eulogy, keeping it short for the sake of those who had gathered. He’d offered his personal condolences and then moved respectfully away, watching as others stepped forward to console the widow of Matthew Blundin.
He watched as they spoke to her, hugged her and held her hand. He guessed at their words—kind words, no doubt, words of sorrow for her loss and praise for the job her husband had always done. No one would mention that he’d been found on the wrong side of town, shot and robbed on a street known for its drug dealers and prostitutes. No one would ask if his penchant for alcohol or late nights had led to their separation and pending divorce, or if either vice might have had a hand in his demise. They would think these things of course, but such thoughts would not be spoken, for death was not only the great equalizer but also the great eraser of misdeeds. In its wake, Blundin’s errors and habits would be forgotten, his wit and wisdom raised into legend.
Gibbs watched the procession, feeling uneasy and distracted, the rolled-up newspaper in his gloved hand crushed subconsciously in a tightening grip. There was trouble everywhere for him, the team in the rainforest had been attacked by natives, the computer system had been hijacked and made to hack into itself—and his security chief, the one man Gibbs could have trusted to find the culprit, was now dead and buried.
A pang of remorse stabbed at Gibbs. The man deserved better.
To most of those attending, the security chief’s death marked a small footnote in their own particular stories. Even the soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Blundin would move on, as she had already begun to. But for Stuart Gibbs and the NRI, the event was a massive occurrence—existence changing, in scale—and Gibbs couldn’t shake the thought of changed destiny any easier than he could ward off the chilled winter air.
Before long, the crowd began to thin. Soon, even Blundin’s widow and her party turned to go, moving slowly up the path toward the parking lot.
Gibbs lingered for twenty minutes, standing alone, thinking about Blundin, the rainforest project and the various scenarios that now presented themselves. Only as the bitter air began to seep through his coat did he move toward the parking lot himself.
By the time he arrived, his car was alone. But as he reached for his key, another vehicle turned in toward him, a silver Mercedes with tinted windows.
He eyed the car, waiting for it to pass. But it stopped beside him and the rear window descended smoothly into the door.
“Stuart Gibbs?”
Gibbs hesitated. He couldn’t see much inside the car, but there was no reason to deny who he was. “What can I do for you?”
A man with thick, gray hair and wearing a muted, charcoal-colored suit leaned toward the open window. “I noticed your tire was flat,” he said. “I thought you might need a lift.”
Gibbs glanced at the tire. The right rear was indeed flat, though it was a brand-new Michelin and had been fine when he drove in. “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll have someone come out.”
“We need to talk,” the man insisted. “I was at the funeral today with Senator Metzger from the Oversight Committee. I have some information about Mr. Blundin’s death that I think you should be aware of.”
“What kind of information?”
“The type that can’t be given to the police until it’s properly sifted and filtered.”
Gibbs stared.
“It’s extremely time sensitive,” the man said, “so if you don’t want to listen I’ll have to deliver it to the good senator instead.”
Gibbs stared at the man in the car. He looked familiar, but whether Gibbs had seen him earlier at the funeral or knew him from somewhere else, he couldn’t be sure. “Who are you?”
The door opened, and the man in the gray suit slid to the other side. “My name is Kaufman,” he said. “My company is one of your charter members.”
Of course. Kaufman was the head of Futrex, one of the NRI’s charter affiliates. And one of the companies Blundin had been investigating.
Without a word Gibbs climbed into the car. It began to move and the tinted rear window rose smoothly back into place.
He looked around. Aside from Kaufman there was only a driver.
“Quite a shame about a man like that,” Kaufman said.
“Blundin was one of my best people,” Gibbs explained. “And a good friend as well. But he had his own issues. I guess they caught up with him.”
Kaufman nodded somberly. “They always seem to.”
The tone in Kaufman’s voice bothered Gibbs; it seemed smug and condescending. “It would be of great satisfaction to me if we could catch the person who did this. Even if it’s just some punk off the street.”
“Not likely to be some punk off the street,” Kaufman replied. “Not when the man was killed because of your Brazil project.”
Gibbs froze. Even Senator Metzger didn’t know about the Brazil project. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“You have a group of operatives working in the Amazon at this very moment. They’re down there—somewhere—without the knowledge or consent of the American Consulate or the Brazilian government. Care to tell me why?”
“We have people in fifty countries,” Gibbs replied, fighting to maintain his composure. “I don’t keep track of them all. As far as the consulate and the Brazilian government are concerned, I’m sure you’re mistaken. But more importantly, what does this have to do with Matt’s death?”
“It’s simple,” the man replied. “He was killed because of what he knew. He was investigating your data loss, making certain people nervous. But then, you know that, don’t you?”
Gibbs glared at the man beside him, his sense of restraint failing. The man was vile. “Whatever the hell you’re getting at, say it.”
Kaufman exhaled. “Let’s start with the project,” he said. “Your people are down there looking for the ruins of an ancient Mayan city. A city that may be the source of some very special items. Items that create power, all but unlimited power.”
The man stared into Gibbs’ eyes and then continued. “Eight weeks ago, you lost another party attempting the very same thing. In fact, you’re still wondering what happened to them at this point. Another answer I can give you, if you care to listen.”
“You’re the son of a bitch who hacked us,” Gibbs said.
“We ran a program with your Research Division’s permission,” Kaufman said, proudly. “Something to do with weather simulation, I think. Seems to have caused a little storm on your end, though.”