This suspicion was confirmed when Morton stood up abruptly and headed for the cockpit. "I want to know about this damn electronic thing," he said. Since takeoff, they had been experiencing the effects of a major solar flare that rendered satellite telephones erratic or unusable. The pilots said the effect was heightened near the poles, and would soon diminish as they headed south.
And Morton seemed eager to make some calls. Evans wondered to whom. It was now four a.m. in New York, one a.m. in Los Angeles. Who was Morton calling? But of course it could concern any of his ongoing environmental projects--water purification in Cambodia, reforestation in Guinea, habitat preservation in Madagascar, medicinal plants in Peru. To say nothing of the German expedition to measure the thickness of the ice in Antarctica. Morton was personally involved in all these projects. He knew them in detail, knew the scientists involved, had visited the locations himself.
So it could be anything.
But somehow, Evans felt, it wasn't just anything.
Morton came back. "Pilots say it's okay now." He sat by himself in the front of the plane, reached for his headset, and pulled the sliding door shut for privacy.
Evans turned back to his magazine.
Drake said, "You think he's drinking more than usual?"
"Not really," Evans said.
"I worry."
"I wouldn't," Evans said.
"You realize," Drake said, "we are just five weeks from the banquet in his honor, in San Francisco. That's our biggest fund-raising event of the year. It will generate considerable publicity, and it'll help us launch the conference on Abrupt Climate Change."
"Uh-huh," Evans said.
"I'd like to ensure that the publicity focuses on environmental issues, and not anything else. Of a personal nature, if you know what I mean."
Evans said, "Isn't this a conversation you should be having with George?"
"Oh, I have. I only mention it to you because you spend so much time with him."
"I don't, really."
"You know he likes you, Peter," Drake said. "You're the son he never had or--hell, I don't know. But hedoes like you. And I'm just asking you to help us, if you can."
"I don't think he'll embarrass you, Nick."
"Just...keep an eye on him."
"Okay. Sure."
At the front of the plane, the sliding door opened. Morton said, "Mr. Evans? If you please."
Peter got up and went forward.
He slid the door shut behind him.
"I have been on the phone to Sarah," Morton said. Sarah Jones was his assistant in LA.
"Isn't it late?"
"It's her job. She's well paid. Sit down." Evans sat in the chair opposite. "Have you ever heard of the NSIA?"
"No."
"The National Security Intelligence Agency?"
Evans shook his head. "No. But there are twenty security agencies."
"Ever heard of John Kenner?"
"No..."
"Apparently he's a professor at MIT."
"No," Evans said. "Sorry. Does he have something to do with the environment?"
"He may. See what you can find out."
Evans turned to the laptop by his seat, and flipped open the screen. It was connected to the Internet by satellite. He started to type.
In a few moments he was looking at a picture of a fit-looking man with prematurely gray hair and heavy horn-rim glasses. The attached biography was brief. Evans read it aloud. "Richard John Kenner, William T. Harding Professor of Geoenvironmental Engineering."
"Whatever that means," Morton said.
"He is thirty-nine. Doctorate in civil engineering from Caltech at age twenty. Did his thesis on soil erosion in Nepal. Barely missed qualifying for the Olympic ski team. A JD from Harvard Law School. Spent the next four years in government. Department of the Interior, Office of Policy Analysis. Scientific advisor to the Intergovernmental Negotiating Committee. Hobby is mountain climbing; he was reported dead on Naya Khanga peak in Nepal, but he wasn't. Tried to climb K2, driven back by weather."
"K2," Morton said. "Isn't that the most dangerous peak?"
"I think so. Looks like he's a serious climber. Anyway, he then went to MIT, where I'd say his rise has been spectacular. Associate professor in '93. Director of the MIT Center for Risk Analysis in '95. William T. Harding Professor in '96. Consultant to the EPA, the Department of the Interior, the Department of Defense, the government of Nepal, God knows who else. Looks like a lot of corporations. And since 2002, on faculty leave."
"Meaning what?"
"It just says he's on leave."
"For the last two years?" Morton came and looked over Evans's shoulder. "I don't like it. The guy burns up the track at MIT, goes on leave, and never comes back. You think he got into trouble?"
"I don't know. But..." Evans was calculating the dates. "Professor Kenner got a doctorate from Caltech at twenty. Got his law degree from Harvard in two years instead of three. Professor at MIT when he's twenty-eight..."
"Okay, okay, so he's smart," Morton said. "I still want to know why he's on leave. And why he's in Vancouver."
Evans said, "He's in Vancouver?"
"He's been calling Sarah from Vancouver."
"Why?"
"He wants to meet with me."
"Well," Evans said, "I guess you'd better meet with him."
"I will," Morton said. "But what do you think he wants?"
"I have no idea. Funding? A project?"
"Sarah says he wants the meeting to be confidential. He doesn't want anybody to be told."