“It would seem that way, wouldn’t it?” A slow smile spread across Brick’s face. “But the fact is, the natural order of things isn’t what caused the core meltdowns. It was human error. The reactors were twelve years old. Their emergency core cooling systems still relied on electricity, rather than the updated versions that use gravity to inundate the cores with water to cool the rods even when electricity isn’t available.”
Peter shook his head. “I’m not certain I understand.”
“It is to our advantage to make use of human greed, old son. Nuclear inspectors and key company officials were given, um, incentives, to look the other way.”
It took a moment or two for Peter to get his head around the enormity of what Brick was telling him. When the truth did hit him, he felt dizzy, sick to his stomach. “Are you...?” For an agitated moment he couldn’t form the words. “Are you telling me that Core Energy was the cause of the disaster?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Brick said. “But we certainly did our part to help matters along. And while it’s true that France, for instance, gets eighty percent of its electricity from its nuclear reactors, and we haven’t yet discovered a way to incapacitate them as we did in Japan, the country—in fact, all of Europe—gets its essential natural gas via a pipeline that originates in Russia. Now what do you suppose would happen if that pipeline were to shut down or if sections were blown to bits? What would happen if the carefully fomented so-called Arab Spring uprisings caused the blockade of the Suez Canal or the Gulf of Aqaba? Disaster or opportunity, you see what I’m getting at? Every other company in the world seeks to control supply. We, however, strive to control demand. This is how we occupy the center of the board.”
The shock must have shown on Peter’s face, because Brick said, “Oh, no one at Core Energy can be linked, if that’s what’s worrying you. There is a—what would be the term?—a black ops division that handles such matters, creating need—the opportunities necessary for Core Energy to expand its business. This is where you fit in, old thing. Why do you think I hired you?”
From his hidey-hole beneath the pile of half-splintered wood, Bourne saw a majority of the police vehicles peel off, trying to follow the flight path of the copter. One cop car and an EMS vehicle kept straight on toward the vacant lot. He’d already scanned the perimeter and knew they had entered via the only hole in the fence.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Rebeka was emerging from beneath the impromptu stone-and-brick rubble fortress in which she had taken shelter. He poked his head out and, when she saw him, gestured at the wooden boards. Understanding his silent signal, she nodded and scrambled out, checking the immediate environment. Bourne did the same, digging through the layers of debris and discarded garbage lodged under the boards. His fingers found a couple of cans, and he pulled them free.
The official vehicles were nearing; they had very little time before the cops would be crawling all over the lot. They could not afford to be caught up as material witnesses or, worse, persons of interest in a police investigation. The Swedish cops took the discharging of firearms extremely seriously. There would be no end of interrogations and incarcerations.
Rebeka scuttled toward him. “I didn’t find anything flammable,” she whispered.
“As it happens, I did.” He held up the two dented cans of paint. They were two-thirds empty, but there was still more than enough left for ignition.
As he pried open the lids, she produced her lighter. Bourne set the cans just beneath a chimney of boards, moving them to allow the right amount of draw. She lit the paint and they scrambled back around behind the pile of boards. They were very dry underneath and caught almost immediately.
The cops and EMS team spotted the flames and smoke and ducked through the rent in the chain-link fence, making directly for the fire. By this time, Bourne and Rebeka were fifty yards away.
“Nice diversion,” she said, “but we’re still not out of here.”
Bourne led them, crouched and hidden, along the periphery, until he found a patch of protected ground. Shoving a piece of wood into her hand, he said, “Dig.”
While she went to work, he grasped the bottom of the fence and tried to curl it up. It wouldn’t budge.
“Stop,” he said.
He stood in front of one of the leaning fence posts, kicked it hard twice, and it canted over so that the section of fence became a kind of ramp. Grasping it with curled fingers, they climbed to the top, then jumped off onto the pavement beyond the lot.
They ran.
The problem,” Dr. Steen said, “is that Soraya waited so long.” He regarded Delia as if she were a functional idiot. “She waited until she had an acute episode. If she had taken my advice—”
“She didn’t,” Delia said curtly. She hated the way doctors spoke down to everyone else. “Let’s move on.”
Dr. Santiago, the head surgeon on Soraya’s team, cleared his throat. “Let’s move to a more private space, shall we?”
Delia and Thorne had been led by a nurse through the big metal door into the sacred space where the operating theaters and recovery rooms existed, as if on a faraway shore. Dr. Santiago led them into an unoccupied recovery cubicle. It was small, close, and claustrophobic. It smelled strongly of disinfectant.
“All right,” Delia said, weary of being given yet another prognosis, which would contradict the ones that came before. “Let’s hear it.”
“The bottom line,” Dr. Santiago said, “is she’s had some bleeding as the edema leaked. We’ve taken care of that; we’re draining the excess fluid out of her brain. We’re doing everything we can. Now we have to wait for her body to do the rest.”
“Is she compromised because of the fetus?”
“The brain is a highly complex organ.”
“Just, for God’s sake, tell me!”
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“How badly?”
“Impossible to say.” Dr. Santiago shrugged. He was a pleasant looking man with black eyes and a hawk-like nose. “It’s a...complication we could do without.”
“I’m quite certain Soraya doesn’t feel that way.” She deliberately let the awkward silence extend before she said, “I want to see her now.”
“Of course.” Both of the doctors appeared relieved to end the interview. Doctors hated feeling helpless, hated admitting it even more.
As they went out, Delia turned to Thorne. “I’m going in first.”
He nodded. As she was about to turn away, he said, “Delia, I want you to know...” He stopped there, unable to go on.
“Whatever you have to say, Charles, say it to her, okay?”
He nodded again.
Dr. Santiago was waiting for her. He smiled thinly at her and gestured. “This way.”
She followed him down a corridor that seemed to be a separate entity, breathing on its own. He stopped at a curtained doorway and stood aside.
“Five minutes,” he cautioned. “No more.”
Delia found that her heart was pounding in her chest. It ached for her friend. Unable to imagine what was lying in wait for her behind the curtain, she pulled it aside, and stepped into the room.
12
"YOUR CAR.”
“Is registered to my friend’s company,” Bourne said. “He’ll take care of any questions from the police.”
Rebeka glanced behind them. No one was following. “I have a small flat here,” she said. “We can hole up there until we
decide what to do next.”
“I have a better idea.”
They were in a residential neighborhood whose streets were fast filling with traffic as people rose and went to work. Bourne took out his mobile and, despite the early hour, called Christien.
“What the hell have you and Alef been up to?” Christien’s voice buzzed in his ear. “I’m already fielding calls from the police.”
“He’s regained his memory. His name’s Harry Rowland, or so he claims. There was nothing to be done.” Bourne went on to explain briefly what had taken place yesterday in Sadelöga. He mentioned Rebeka, but only as a friend of his, not wanting to complicate matters further or cause his friend any degree of suspicion.