Ken Follett - The Hammer of Eden

“Keep saying it.”

“Lat hoo, dat soo, lat hoo, dat soo.” She became calmer.

“Now get the disk.”

She nodded. Still saying her mantra under her breath, she bent over the row of machines on the shelf. She pressed a button and a flat plastic square popped out of a slot.

Priest had noticed before that “disks” were always square in the world of computers.

She opened her purse and took out another disk that looked similar. “Shit!” she said.

“What?” Priest said worriedly. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s changed his brand!”

Priest looked at the two disks. They seemed the same to him. “What’s the difference?”

“Look, mine is a Sony, but Michael’s is a Philips.”

“Will he notice?”

“He might.”

“Damn.” It was vital that Michael did not know his data had been stolen.

“He’ll probably start work as soon as we’ve gone. He’ll eject the disk and swap it with the one in the fireproof box, and if he looks at them, he’ll see they’re different.”

“And he’s sure to connect that with us.” Priest felt a surge of panic. It was all turning to shit.

Melanie said: “I could buy a Philips disk and come back another day.”

Priest shook his head. “I don’t want to do this again. We might fail again. And we’re running out of time. The deadline is three days away. Does he keep spare disks?”

“He should. Sometimes a disk gets corrupted.” She looked around. “I wonder where they are.” She stood in the middle of the floor, helpless.

Priest could have screamed with frustration. He had dreaded something like this. Melanie had completely gone to pieces, and they had only a minute or two. He had to get her calmed down fast. “Melanie,” he said, struggling to make his voice low and reassuring, “you have two disks in your hand. Put them both in your purse.”

She obeyed him automatically.

“Now close your purse.”

She did that.

Priest heard the building door slam. Michael was on his way back. Priest felt perspiration break out in the small of his back. “Think: when you were living here, did Michael have a stationery cupboard?”

“Yes. Well, a drawer.”

“Well?” Wake up, girl! “Where is it?”

She pointed to a cheap white chest against the wall.

Priest yanked open the top drawer. He saw a package of yellow pads, a box of cheap ballpoints, a couple of reams of white paper, some envelopes — and an open box of disks.

He heard Dusty’s voice. It seemed to come from the vestibule at the entrance to the apartment.

With shaking fingers, he fumbled a disk out of the packet and handed it to Melanie. “Will this do?”

“Yes, it’s a Philips.”

Priest closed the drawer.

Michael walked in with Dusty in his arms.

Melanie stood frozen with the disk in her hand.

For God’s sake, Melanie, do something!

Dusty was saying: “And you know what, Daddy? I didn’t sneeze in the mountains.”

Michael’s attention was fixed on Dusty. “How about that?” he said.

Melanie regained her composure. As Michael bent to put Dusty down on the couch, she stooped over the disk drive and slid the disk into the slot. The machine whirred softly and drew it in, like a snake eating a rat.

“You didn’t sneeze?” Michael said to Dusty. “Not once?”

“Uh-uh.”

Melanie straightened up. Michael had not seen what she did.

Priest closed his eyes. The relief was overwhelming. They had got away with it. They had Michael’s data — and he would never know.

Michael said: “That dog doesn’t make you sneeze?”

“No, Spirit is a clean dog. Priest makes him wash in the stream, and then he comes out and shakes himself and it’s like a rainstorm!” Dusty laughed with pleasure as he remembered.

“Is that right?” his father said.

Melanie said: “I told you, Michael.”

Her voice sounded shaky, but Michael did not seem to notice. “All right, all right,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “If it makes such a difference to Dusty’s health, we’ll just have to work something out.”

She looked relieved. “Thanks.”

Priest allowed himself the ghost of a smile. It was all over. His plan had moved another crucial step forward.

Now they just had to hope that Michael’s computer did not crash. If that happened, and he tried to retrieve his data from the optical disk, he would discover that it was blank. But Melanie said that crashes were rare. In all probability there would be no crash today. And tonight the computer would back up again, overwriting the blank disk with Michael’s data. By this time tomorrow it would be impossible to tell that a switch had been made.

Michael said: “Well, at least you came here to talk about it. I appreciate that.”

Melanie would much rather have dealt with her husband on the phone, Priest knew. But her move to the commune was a perfect pretext for visiting Michael. He and Melanie could never have paid a casual social call on her husband without making him suspicious. But this way it would not occur to Michael to wonder why they had come.

In fact, Michael was not the suspicious type, Priest felt sure. He was brainy but guileless. He had no ability to look beneath the surface and see what was really going on in the heart of another human being.

Priest himself had that ability in spades.

Melanie was saying: “I’ll bring Dusty to see you as often as you like. I’ll drive down.”

Priest could see into her heart. She was being nice to Michael, now that he had given her what she wanted — she had her head to one side, and she was smiling prettily at him — but she did not love him, not anymore.

Michael was different. He was angry with her for leaving him, that was clear. But he still cared for her. He was not over her yet, not quite. A part of him still wanted her back. He would have asked her, but he was too proud.

Priest felt jealous.

I hate you, Michael .

Judy woke up early on Tuesday wondering if she had a job.

Yesterday she had said: “I quit.” But she had been angry and frustrated. Today she was sure she did not want to leave the FBI. The prospect of spending her life defending criminals, instead of catching them, depressed her. Had she changed her mind too late? Last night she had left a note on Brian Kincaid’s desk. Would he accept her apology? Or would he insist on her resignation?

Bo came in at six A.M. and she warmed up some pho , the noodle soup that the Vietnamese ate for breakfast. Then she dressed in her smartest outfit, a dark blue Armani suit with a short skirt. On a good day it made her sophisticated, authoritative, and sexy all at the same time. If I’m going to be fired, I might as well look like someone they’ll miss .

She was stiff with tension as she drove to work. She parked in the garage beneath the Federal Building and took the elevator to the FBI floor. She went straight to the SAC’s office.

Brian Kincaid was behind the big desk, wearing a white shirt with red suspenders. He looked up at her. “Good morning,” he said coldly.

“Morn—” Her mouth was dry. She swallowed and started again. “Good morning, Brian. Did you get my note?”

“Yes, I did.”

Obviously he wasn’t going to make this any easier for her.

She could not think what else to say, so she simply looked at him and waited.

Eventually he said: “Your apology is accepted.”

She felt weak with relief. “Thank you.”

“You can move your personal stuff into the Domestic Terrorism squad room.”

“Okay.” There were worse fates, she reflected. There were several people she liked in the DT squad. She began to relax.