Ken Follett - The Hammer of Eden

She clinked glasses and took a sip of wine.

They talked over the case as they ate, recalling the mistakes they had made, the surprises they had sprung on the defense, the moments of tension and triumph.

When they were drinking coffee, Don said: “Do you miss me?”

Judy frowned. It would be cruel to say no, and anyway it was not true. But she did not want to give him false encouragement. “I miss some things,” she said. “I like you when you’re funny and smart.” She also missed having a warm body beside her at night, but she was not going to tell him that.

He said: “I miss talking about my work, and hearing about yours.”

“I guess I talk to Bo now.”

“I miss him, too.”

“He likes you. He thinks you’re the ideal husband—”

“I am, I am!”

“—for someone in law enforcement.”

Don shrugged. “I’ll settle for that.”

Judy grinned. “Maybe you and Bo should get married.”

“Ho, ho.” He paid the bill. “Judy, there’s something I want to say.”

“I’m listening.”

“I think I’m ready to be a father.”

For some reason that angered her. “So what am I supposed to do about it — shout hooray and open my legs?”

He was taken aback. “I mean.… well, I thought you wanted commitment.”

“Commitment? Don, all I asked was that you refrain from shtupping your secretary, but you couldn’t manage that!”

He looked mortified. “Okay, don’t get mad. I’m just trying to tell you that I’ve changed.”

“And now I’m supposed to come running back to you as if nothing had happened?”

“I guess I still don’t understand you.”

“You probably never will.” His evident distress softened her. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.” When they were living together she had always been the after-dinner driver.

They left the restaurant in an awkward silence. In the car he said: “I thought we might at least talk about it.” Don the lawyer, negotiating.

“We can talk.” But how can I tell you that my heart is cold?

“What happened with Paula … it was the worst mistake of my whole life.”

She believed him. He was not drunk, just mellow enough to say what he felt. She sighed. She wanted him to be happy. She was fond of him, and she hated to see him in pain. It hurt her, too. Part of her wished she could give him what he wanted.

He said: “We had some good times together.” He stroked her thigh through the silk dress.

She said: “If you feel me up while I’m driving, I’ll throw you out of the car.”

He knew she could do it. “Whatever you say.” He took his hand away.

A moment later she wished she had not been so harsh. It was not such a bad thing, to have a man’s hand on your thigh. Don was not the world’s greatest lover — he was enthusiastic, but unimaginative. However, he was better than nothing, and nothing was what she had had since she’d left him.

Why don’t I have a man? I don’t want to grow old alone. Is there something wrong with me?

Hell, no .

A minute later she pulled up outside his building. “Thanks, Don,” she said. “For a great prosecution and a great dinner.”

He leaned over to kiss her. She offered her cheek, but he kissed her lips, and she did not want to make a big thing of it, so she let him. His kiss lingered until she broke away. Then he said: “Come in for a while. I’ll make you a cappuccino.”

The longing look in his eyes almost broke her will. How hard could it be? she asked herself. She could put her gun in his safe, drink a large, heartwarming brandy, and spend the night in the arms of a decent man who adored her. “No,” she said firmly. “Good night.”

He stared at her for a long moment, misery in his eyes. She looked back, embarrassed and sorry, but resolute.

“Good night,” he said at last. He got out and closed the car door.

Judy pulled away. When she glanced in the rearview mirror she saw him standing on the sidewalk, his hand half-raised in a kind of wave. She ran a red light and turned a corner, then at last she felt alone again.

When she got home, Bo was watching Conan O’Brien and chuckling. “This guy breaks me up,” he said. They watched his monologue until the commercial break, then Bo turned off the TV. “I solved a murder today,” he said. “How about that?”

Judy knew he had several unsolved cases on his desk. “Which one?”

“The Telegraph Hill rape-murder.”

“Who did it?”

“A guy who’s already in jail. He was arrested a while back for harassing young girls in the park. I had a hunch about him and searched his apartment. He had a pair of police handcuffs like the ones found on the body, but he denied the murder, and I couldn’t break him. Today I got his DNA test back from the lab. It matches the semen from the victim’s body. I told him that and he confessed. Jackpot.”

“Well done!” She kissed the top of his head.

“How about you?”

“Well, I still have a job, but it remains to be seen whether I have a career.”

“You have a career, come on.”

“I don’t know. If I get demoted for putting the Foong brothers in jail, what will they do to me when I have a failure?”

“You’ve suffered a setback. It’s just temporary. You’ll get over it, I promise.”

She smiled, remembering the time she had thought there was nothing her father could not do. “Well, I didn’t make much progress with my case.”

“Last night you thought it was a bullshit assignment anyway.”

“Today I’m not so sure. The linguistic analysis showed that these people are dangerous, whoever they are.”

“But they can’t trigger an earthquake.”

“I don’t know.”

Bo raised his eyebrows. “You think it’s possible?”

“I’ve spent most of today trying to find out. I spoke to three seismologists and got three different answers.”

“Scientists are like that.”

“What I really wanted was for them to tell me firmly it couldn’t happen. But one said it was ‘unlikely,’ one said the possibility was ‘vanishingly small,’ and the third said it could be done with a nuclear bomb.”

“Could these people — what are they called?”

“The Hammer of Eden.”

“Could they have a nuclear device?”

“It’s possible. They’re smart, focused, serious. But then why would they talk about earthquakes? Why not just threaten us with their bomb?”

“Yeah,” Bo said thoughtfully. “That would be just as terrifying and a lot more credible.”

“But who can tell how these people’s minds work?”

“What’s your next step?”

“I have one more seismologist to see, a Michael Quercus. The others all say he’s kind of a maverick, but he’s the leading authority on what causes earthquakes.”

She had already tried to interview Quercus. Late that afternoon she had rung his doorbell. He had told her, through the entry phone, to call for an appointment.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” she had said. “This is the FBI.”

“Does that mean you don’t have to make appointments?”

She had cursed under her breath. She was a law enforcement officer, not a damn replacement window salesperson. “It does, generally,” she said into the intercom. “Most people feel our work is too important to wait.”

“No, they don’t,” he replied. “Most people are scared of you, that’s why they let you in without an appointment. Call me. I’m in the phone book.”

“I’m here about a matter of public safety, Professor. I’ve been told you’re an expert who can give me crucial information that will help in our work of protecting people. I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity of calling for an appointment, but now that I’m here, I would really appreciate it if you would see me for a few minutes.”