Black Rain

“Then one of two things will happen. Either your group in the rainforest will be eliminated before they have a chance to bring you what you want, or the proper authorities will be informed of your activities.”

Gibbs laughed. Kaufman wouldn’t bring the authorities into this, whatever happened. “My people are well protected.”

“Yes,” Kaufman said. “I know who protects them, and how. I promise you, I have all the firepower I need to take them out. The only thing I don’t have is their location, but sooner or later I will. And once I do, your ability to bargain will have expired.”

Gibbs mulled over the offer: ten million dollars or so, when all was said and done. The buyers he’d contacted had deep pockets but they were skeptical. If he could prove what he had, they might pay ten times what Kaufman had offered. Up front and in cash, not spread out over decades. And even that would be a bargain. The technology itself would be worth an unfathomable amount in that time, more than all the oil in Alaska or all the gold in South Africa, and he was being asked to give it up for a pittance.

He glared at Kaufman, galled by the man’s arrogance. And yet, even as he fumed, his black mood began to fade. He could see the offer for what it was: a thieves’ bargain, even if the division of spoils was mostly onesided. This was the way of things

, he thought. The rich take from the poor. They pay only a penny and sell for a dollar, but the poor are always grateful for the pennies.

He threw out a counteroffer. “Why not let my people finish the recovery? Whatever we bring out, I’ll give you the first bid.”

“Why?” Kaufman said. “So you can charge me more?”

Gibbs had expected that. He ground his teeth anyway. “And what about my people?”

Kaufman pursed his lips. “They won’t be coming home again, if that’s what you mean.”

Gibbs was silent.

“I’ve seen your roster,” Kaufman added. “At first I couldn’t understand why you chose this particular mix of individuals. But then it hit me; for the most part, they won’t be missed.”

As Gibbs listened to the last point, his face grew stern, almost angry, but not out of sadness. In fact, he had never planned to bring the team home in the first place, not without an accident somewhere along the way—a plane crash or an explosion. But now, and because of Kaufman, no less, one of them was already here: Arnold Moore.

“More deaths,” he noted.

“Yes,” Kaufman said, respectfully. “But none as shocking as Matt Blundin’s. Then again, I suppose he left you no choice.”

Gibbs’ face went blank, an emotionless slate. He hadn’t wanted to kill Blundin, but the security chief had, indeed, left him no choice. In his zeal to find the party responsible for the data theft, Blundin had dug into areas that he’d been ordered to ignore. In doing so he’d uncovered the loose threads in Gibbs’ setup. And though they were irrelevant to the investigation, Blundin couldn’t help but pull on them.

Sooner, rather than later, he would have realized that only Gibbs could change the funding codes, not Danielle, or the accounting clerks or anyone else in the organization. That would have led him to the missing money, to the funding requests for projects that existed only on paper and to the bland reports and unlogged transactions that had moved the project forward. And before long, Matt Blundin would have realized what it all meant. Maybe he’d realized it already and was allowing Gibbs time to fix things. After all, he had been a friend.

Kaufman broke the silence. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours. Have an answer ready.”

Gibbs focused his attention on the world outside. They were in the business district now; he could catch a cab from here. He looked at the driver. “Pull over.”

With a nod from Kaufman, the driver acquiesced and the Mercedes pulled to the curb.

One last warning came from Kaufman. “Don’t be a fool,” he said. “There’s no other choice for you now.”

Gibbs stepped out of the car, slammed the door and watched the shimmering vehicle drive off. He knew his enemy now, and he knew what he had to do. The only question was how to do it without destroying himself in the process.

CHAPTER 23

The backseat of the old yellow cab had seen its fair share of life. The ripped vinyl with its frayed cords of fabric and stray pen marks, the graffiti and the stains, all of it testified to a long and turbulent existence. From that royal throne, Arnold Moore surveyed the snow-covered streets of Washington as he slowly passed them by.

In a year of strange weather, another storm had reached the nation’s capital, the fourth in six weeks, but the least troublesome so far, as it had arrived on a Friday and would be gone by Sunday night.