"Well, that's not hard. You're on an airplane."
"No," Morton said, jerking his thumb. "He specifically doesn't want Drake to be told."
"Maybe I'd better attend this meeting," Evans said.
"Yes," Morton said. "Maybe you should."
LOS ANGELES
MONDAY, AUGUST 23
4:09 P. M.
The iron gates swung open, and the car drove up the shaded driveway to the house that slowly came into view. This was Holmby Hills, the wealthiest area of Beverly Hills. The billionaires lived here, in residences hidden from the street by high gates and dense foliage. In this part of town, security cameras were all painted green, and tucked back unobtrusively.
The house came into view. It was a Mediterranean-style villa, cream colored, and large enough for a family of ten. Evans, who had been speaking to his office, flipped his cell phone shut and got out as the car came to a stop.
Birds chirped in the ficus trees. The air smelled of the gardenia and jasmine that bordered the driveway. A hummingbird hung near the purple bougainvillea at the garage. It was, Evans thought, a typical California moment. Evans had been raised in Connecticut and schooled in Boston; even after five years in California, the place still seemed exotic to him.
He saw that another car was parked in front of the house: a dark gray sedan. It had government license plates.
From out of the front door came Morton's assistant, Sarah Jones, a tall blond woman of thirty, as glamorous as any movie star. Sarah was dressed in a white tennis skirt and pink top, her hair pulled back in a pony tail. Morton kissed her lightly on the cheek. "You playing today?"
"I was. My boss came back early." She shook Evans's hand and turned back to Morton. "Good trip?"
"Fine. Drake is morose. And he won't drink. It gets tiresome."
As Morton started toward the door, Sarah said, "I think I ought to tell you, they're here right now."
"Who is?"
"Professor Kenner. And another guy with him. Foreign guy."
"Really? But didn't you tell them they had to--"
"Make an appointment? Yes, I did. They seem to think that doesn't apply to them. They just sat down and said they'd wait."
"You should have called me--"
"They got here five minutes ago."
"Huh. Okay." He turned to Evans. "Let's go, Peter."
They went inside. Morton's living room looked out on the garden in back of the house. The room was decorated with Asian antiques, including a large stone head from Cambodia. Sitting erectly on the couch were two men. One was an American of middle height, with short gray hair and glasses. The other was very dark, compact, and very handsome despite the thin scar that ran down the left side of his face in front of his ear. They were dressed in cotton slacks and lightweight sport coats. Both men sat on the edge of the couch, very alert, as if they might spring up at any moment.
"Look military, don't they?" Morton muttered, as they went into the room.
The two men stood. "Mr. Morton, I'm John Kenner from MIT, and this is my colleague, Sanjong Thapa. A graduate student from Mustang. In Nepal."
Morton said, "And this ismy colleague, Peter Evans."
They shook hands all around. Kenner's grip was firm. Sanjong Thapa gave a very slight bow as he shook hands. He spoke softly, with a British accent. "How do you do."
"I didn't expect you," Morton said, "so soon."
"We work quickly."
"So I see. What's this about?"
"I'm afraid we need your help, Mr. Morton." Kenner smiled pleasantly at Evans and Sarah. "And unfortunately, our discussion is confidential."
"Mr. Evans is my attorney," Morton said, "and I have no secrets from my assistant--"
"I'm sure," Kenner said. "You may take them into your confidence whenever you choose. But we must speak to you alone."
Evans said, "If you don't mind, I'd like to see some identification."
"Of course," Kenner said. Both men reached for wallets. Evans was shown Massachusetts driver's licenses, MIT faculty cards, and passports. Then they handed out business cards.
John Kenner, PhD
Center for Risk Analysis Massachusetts Institute of Technology 454 Massachusetts Avenue Cambridge, MA 02138
Sanjong Thapa, PhD
Research Associate Department of Geoenvironmental Engineering Building 4-C 323
Massachusetts Institute of Technology Cambridge, MA 02138
There were telephone numbers, fax, e-mail. Evans turned the cards over. It all looked straightforward.
Kenner said, "Now, if you and Miss Jones will excuse us..."
They were outside, in the hallway, looking into the living room through the large glass doors. Morton was sitting on one couch. Kenner and Sanjong were on the other. The discussion was quiet. In fact, it looked to Evans just like one more of the endless investment meetings that Morton endured.
Evans picked up the hall phone and dialed a number. "Center for Risk Analysis," a woman said.
"Professor Kenner's office, please."
"One moment." Clicking. Another voice. "Center for Risk Analysis, Professor Kenner's office."