State Of Fear

"Yes. Me too."



"Can you come here?"



"Yes."



"How soon?" She sounded frightened.



"Ten minutes."



"Okay. See you." She hung up.



Evans turned the ignition of his Prius and it hummed to life. He was pleased to have the hybrid; the waiting list in Los Angeles to get one was now more than six months. He'd had to take a light gray one, which wasn't his preferred color, but he loved the car. And he took a quiet satisfaction in noticing how many of them there were on the streets these days.



He drove down the alley to Olympic. Across the street he saw a blue Prius, just like the one he had seen below Margo's apartment. It was electric blue, a garish color. He thought he liked his gray better. He turned right, and then left again, heading north through Beverly Hills. He knew there would be rush hour traffic starting at this time of day and he should get up to Sunset, where traffic moved a little better.



When he got to the traffic light at Wilshire, he saw another blue Prius behind him. That same ugly color. Two guys in the car, not young. When he made his way to the light at Sunset, the same car was still behind him. Two cars back.



He turned left, toward Holmby Hills.



The Prius turned left, too. Following him.



Evans pulled up to Morton's gate and pressed the buzzer. The security camera above the box blinked on. "Can I help you?"



"It's Peter Evans for Sarah Jones."



A momentary pause, and then a buzz. The gates swung open slowly, revealing a curving roadway. The house was still hidden from view.



While he waited, Evans glanced down the road to his left. A block away, he saw the blue Prius coming up the road toward him. It passed him without slowing down, and disappeared around a curve.



So. Perhaps he was not being followed after all.



He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.



The gates swung wide, and he drove inside.



Chapter 25



HOLMBY HILLS



TUESDAY, OCTOBER 5



3:54 P.M.



It was almost four o'clock as Evans drove up the driveway to Morton's house. The property was crawling with security men. There were several searching among the trees near the front gate, and more in the driveway, clustered around several vans marked anderson security service.



Evans parked next to Sarah's Porsche. He went to the front door. A security man opened it. "Ms. Jones is in the living room."



He walked through the large entryway and past the staircase that curved up to the second floor. He looked into the living room, prepared to see the same disarray that he'd witnessed at his own apartment, but here everything seemed to be in its place. The room appeared exactly as Evans remembered it.



Morton's living room was arranged to display his extensive collection of Asian antiquities. Above the fireplace was a large Chinese screen with shimmering gilded clouds; a large stone head from the Angkor region of Cambodia, with thick lips and a half-smile, was mounted on a pedestal near the couch; against one wall stood a seventeenth-century Japanese tansu, its rich wood glowing. Extremely rare, two hundred-year-old wood-cuts by Hiroshige hung on the back wall. A standing Burmese Buddha, carved in faded wood, stood at the entrance to the media room, next door.



In the middle of the room, surrounded by these antiquities, Sarah sat slumped on the couch, staring blankly out the window. She looked over as Evans came in. "They got your apartment?"



"Yes. It's a mess."



"This house was broken into, too. It must have happened last night. All the security people here are trying to figure out how it could have happened. Look here."



She got up and pushed the pedestal that held the Cambodian head. Considering the weight of the head, the pedestal moved surprisingly easily, revealing a safe sunk in the floor. The safe door stood open. Evans saw neatly stacked manila folders inside.



"What was taken?" he said.



"As far as I can tell, nothing," she said. "Seems like everything is still in its place. But I don't know exactly what George had in these safes. They were his safes. I rarely went into them."



She moved to the tansu, sliding open a center panel, and then a false back panel, to expose a safe in the wall behind. It, too, was open. "There are six safes in the house," she said. "Three down here, one in the second-floor study, one in the basement, and one up in his bedroom closet. They opened every one."



"Cracked?"



"No. Someone knew the combinations."



Evans said, "Did you report this to the police?"



"No."



"Why not?"



"I wanted to talk to you first."



Her head was close to his. Evans could smell a faint perfume. He said, "Why?"



"Because," she said. "Someone knew the combinations, Peter."



"You mean it was an inside job."



"It had to be."



"Who stays in the house at night?"



"Two housekeepers sleep in the far wing. But last night was their night off, so they weren't here."



"So nobody was in the house?"



"That's right."



"What about the alarm?"



"I armed it myself, before I went to San Francisco yesterday."



"The alarm didn't go off?"



She shook her head.



"So somebody knew the code," Evans said. "Or knew how to bypass it. What about the security cameras?"



"They're all over the property," she said, "inside the house and out. They record onto a hard drive in the basement."



"You've played it back?"



She nodded. "Nothing but static. It was scrubbed. The security people are trying to recover something, but amp;" She shrugged. "I don't think they'll get anywhere."



It would take pretty sophisticated burglars to know how to wipe a hard drive. "Who has the alarm codes and safe combinations?"



"As far as I know, just George and me. But obviously somebody else does, too."



"I think you should call the police," he said.



"They're looking for something," she said. "Something that George had. Something they think one of us has now. They think George gave it to one of us."



Evans frowned. "But if that's true," he said, "why are they being so obvious? They smashed my place so I couldn't help notice. And even here, they left the safes wide open, to be sure you'd know you'd been robbed amp;"



"Exactly," she said. "They want us to know what they're doing." She bit her lip. "They want us to panic, and rush off to retrieve this thing, whatever it is. Then they'll follow us, and take it."



Evans thought it over. "Do you have any idea what it could be?"



"No," she said. "Do you?"



Evans was thinking of the list George had mentioned to him, on the airplane. The list he never got around to explaining, before he died. But certainly the implication was that Morton had paid a lot of money for some sort of list. But something made Evans hesitate to mention it now.



"No," he said.



"Did George give you anything?"



"No," he said.



"Me neither." She bit her lip again. "I think we should leave."



"Leave?"



"Get out of town for a while."



"It's natural to feel that way after a robbery," he said. "But I think the proper thing to do right now is to call the police."



"George wouldn't like it."



"George is no longer with us, Sarah."



"George hated the Beverly Hills police."



"Sarah amp;"



"He never called them. He always used private security."



"That may be, but amp;"



"They won't do anything but file a report."



"Perhaps, but amp;"



"Did you call the police, about your place?"



"Not yet. But I will."



"Okay, well you call them. See how it goes. It's a waste of time."



His phone beeped. There was a text message. He looked at the screen. It said: n. drake come to office immed. urgent.



"Listen," he said. "I have to go see Nick for a bit."



"I'll be fine."



"I'll come back," he said, "as soon as I can."



"I'll be fine," she repeated.



He stood, and she stood, too. On a sudden impulse he gave her a hug. She was so tall they were almost shoulder to shoulder. "It's going to be okay," he said. "Don't worry. It'll be okay."



She returned the hug, but when he released her, she said, "Don't ever do that again, Peter. I'm not hysterical. I'll see you when you get back."



He left hastily, feeling foolish. At the door, she said, "By the way, Peter: Do you have a gun?"



"No," he said. "Do you?"



"Just a 9-millimeter Beretta, but it's better than nothing."



"Oh, okay." As he went out the front door, he thought, so much for manly reassurances for the modern woman.



He got in the car, and drove to Drake's office.



It was not until he had parked his car and was walking in the front door to the office that he noticed the blue Prius parked at the end of the block, with two men sitting inside it.



Watching him.



Chapter 26



BEVERLY HILLS



TUESDAY, OCTOBER 5



4:45 P.M.



"No, no, no!" Nicholas Drake stood in the NERF media room, surrounded by a half-dozen stunned-looking graphic designers. On the walls and tables were posters, banners, flyers, coffee mugs, and stacks of press releases, and media kits. All were emblazoned with a banner that went from green to red, with the superimposed words: "Abrupt Climate Change: The Dangers Ahead."



"I hate it," Drake said. "I just fucking hate it."



"Why?"



"Because it's boring. It sounds like a damn PBS special. We need some punch here, some pizzazz."



"Well, sir," one of the designers said, "if you remember, you originally wanted to avoid anything that looked like overstatement."



"I did? No, I didn't. Henley wanted to avoid overstatement. Henley thought it should be made to look exactly like a normal academic conference. But if we do that, the media will tune us out. I mean, shit, do you know how many climate change conferences there are every year? All around the world?"



"No sir, how many?"



"Well, um, forty-seven. Anyway, that's not the point." Drake rapped the banner with his knuckles. "I mean look at this, Dangers.' It's so vague; it could refer to anything."



"I thought that's what you wantedthat it could refer to anything."



"No, I want Crisis' or Catastrophe.' The Crisis Ahead.' The Catastrophe Ahead.' That's better. Catastrophe' is much better."



"You used Catastrophe' for the last conference, the one on species extinction."



"I don't care. We use it because it works. This conference must point to a catastrophe."



"Uh, sir," one said, "with all due respect, is it really accurate that abrupt climate change will lead to catastrophe? Because the background materials we were given"



"Yes, God damn it," Drake snapped, "it'll lead to a catastrophe. Believe me, it will! Now make the damn changes!"



The graphic artists surveyed the assembled materials on the table. "Mr. Drake, the conference starts in four days."



"You think I don't know it?" Drake said. "You think I fucking don't know it?"



"I'm not sure how much we can accomplish"



"Catastrophe! Lose Danger,' add Catastrophe'! That's all I'm asking for. How difficult can it be?"



"Mr. Drake, we can redo the visual materials and the banners for the media kits, but the coffee mugs are a problem."



"Why are they a problem?"



"They're made for us in China, and"



"Made in China? Land of pollution? Whose idea was that?"



"We always have the coffee mugs made in China for"



"Well, we definitely can't use them. This is NERF, for Christ's sake. How many cups do we have?"



"Three hundred. They're given to the media in attendance, along with the press kit."



"Well get some damn eco-acceptable mugs," Drake said. "Doesn't Canada make mugs? Nobody ever complains about anything Canada does. Get some Canadian mugs and print Catastrophe' on them. That's all."



The artists were looking at one another. One said, "There's that supply house in Vancouver amp;"



"But their mugs are cream-colored amp;"



"I don't care if they're chartreuse," Drake said, his voice rising. "Just do it! Now what about the press releases?"



Another designer held up a sheet. "They're four-color banners printed in biodegradable inks on recycled bond paper."



Drake picked up a sheet. "This is recycled? It looks damn good."



"Actually, it's fresh paper." The designer looked nervous. "But no one will know."



"You didn't tell me that," Drake said. "It's essential that recycled materials look good."



"And they do, sir. Don't worry."



"Then let's move on." He turned to the PR people. "What's the time-line of the campaign?"



"It's a standard starburst launch to bring public awareness to abrupt climate change," the first rep said, standing up. "We have our initial press break on Sunday-morning talk shows and in the Sunday newspaper supplements. They'll be talking about the start of the conference Wednesday and interviewing major photogenic principals. Stanford, Levine, the other people who show well on TV. We've given enough lead time to get into all the major weekly newsbooks around the world, Time, Newsweek, Der Spiegel, Paris Match, Oggi, The Economist. All together, fifty news magazines to inform lead opinion makers. We've asked for cover stories, accepting banner folds with a graphic. Anything less and they didn't get us. We expect covers on at least twenty."



"Okay," Drake said, nodding.



"We start the conference on Wednesday. Well-known, charismatic environmentalists and major politicians from industrialized nations are scheduled to appear. We have delegates from around the world, so B-roll reaction shots of the audience will be satisfactorily color-mixed. Industrialized countries now include India and Korea and Japan, of course. The Chinese delegation will participate but there will be no speakers.