Lincoln Child - The Third Gate

“Like a curse on a mummy’s tomb,” Romero said. She pointed at Logan’s glass. “How many of those did you have before I got here?”

“Think of atoms or dark matter: we can’t see them, but we know they exist. Why not elemental beings-or creatures we simply haven’t yet encountered? Or, for that matter, forces we simply haven’t learned how to harness?”

Romero’s skeptical look deepened.

Logan hesitated for a second. Then he reached over, plucked the plastic straw from Romero’s drink, and placed it on the white linen tablecloth between them. He placed his hands on both sides of it, palms downward, fingers spread slightly. He breathed in, slowly exhaled.

At first, nothing happened. Then the straw shuddered slightly. And then-after another, more violent shudder-it rose slowly off the table; hovered-trembling-half an inch above it for a few seconds; then dropped back onto the cloth, rolling once before falling still again.

“Jesus!” Romero said. She peered at the straw, then gingerly picked it up, as if it might burn her fingers. “How did you do that? That’s one hell of a magic trick.”

“With the proper training, you could probably do it, too,” Logan replied. “But not as long as you think of it as a trick.”

She looked dubiously at the straw, then put it back down on the table, took a thoughtful sip of her drink. “Just one other question,” she said. “Back at my office-everything you said about me was true. Down to the fact that I was the youngest child. How did you know so much about me?”

“I’m an empath,” Logan replied.

“An empath? What’s that?”

“Somebody with the ability to absorb the feelings and emotions of others. When I shook your hand, I received a series-a flood, really-of very strong memories, notions, thoughts, concerns, desires. They’re nonselective-I have no control over what impressions I receive. I only know that, when I come into physical contact with another person, I will receive impressions, in greater or lesser measure.”

“Empathy,” Romero said. “Sounds like something right up there with aromatherapy and crystals.”

Logan shrugged. “Then you tell me: How did I know all that?”

“I can’t explain it.” She looked at him. “How do you become an empath?”

“It’s inherited. It has a biological aspect and a spiritual one, as well. Sometimes it remains dormant in people their entire lives; frequently it is awakened by a traumatic experience. In my case, I believe it was the touch of Vera Hackety.” He fiddled with his empty glass. “All I can tell you for sure is that it’s proven critical to my work.”

She smiled. “Levitation, reading thoughts… can you predict the future, too?”

Logan nodded. “How’s this: I predict that, if we don’t get to the mess in ten minutes, they’re going to stop serving dinner.”

Romero glanced at her watch. Then she laughed. “That’s the kind of prediction I can understand. Let’s go, Svengali.”

And as they stood up from the table, she picked up the cocktail straw and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.

The following morning at nine o’clock, a conference was called to perform a postmortem on the prior day’s accident. Logan wasn’t invited, but-learning about it from Rush at breakfast-he managed to slip into Conference Room A in White on the doctor’s coattails.

The room was large and windowless, with two semicircles of chairs. One wall was covered by several whiteboards; another sported dual digital projector screens. A huge satellite map of the Sudd hung from an overhead support, decorated with pushpins and handwritten legends scribbled on Post-it notes. Logan recognized a few of the assembled faces: Christina Romero was there, and so was Valentino; the chief of the digging operation was surrounded by a small knot of his techs and roustabouts.

Logan helped himself to a cup of coffee, then took a seat in the second tier of chairs, behind Rush. No sooner had he done so than the older man with thinning blond hair-the one he’d seen at the generator the previous day-cleared his throat and spoke.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s talk about what we know.” He turned to a man wearing a white coverall. “Campbell, what’s the status of our power grid?”

The man named Campbell sniffed. “We’ve ramped up generator one to ninety-eight percent of rated load. Our core nominal output is down to sixty-five percent.”

“Status of the methane gathering and conversion system?”

“Unaffected. The scrubbers and interface baffles are at peak efficiency. In fact, with generator two out, we’ve had to dial back fuel production.”

“Thank God they’re still functional.” The older man turned to someone else-a short woman with a tablet computer on her lap. “So output’s down by thirty-five percent. How does that affect Station functionality?”

“We’ve scaled back on nonessential services, Dr. March,” she replied.

Logan looked at the man with fresh interest. So that’s Fenwick March, he thought. He’d heard of March: he was the head archaeologist for the dig. He was, according to Romero, second in command in Stone’s absence-and he seemed to enjoy hearing the sound of his own voice.

“What about the primary search operation?” March asked the woman.

“Unaffected. We’ve diverted power and personnel, as necessary.” Now March turned to a third person. “Montoya? What about a replacement?”

The man named Montoya shifted in his chair. “We’re putting out inquiries.”

March’s expression changed abruptly, almost as if he’d caught a whiff of something foul. “Inquiries?”

“We have to be tactful. A six-thousand-kilowatt generator isn’t a common item around here, and we can’t afford to increase our visibility in Khartoum or-”

“Damn it,” March interrupted, “don’t give me excuses! We need that replacement generator-and we need it now!”

“Yes, Dr. March,” the man replied, ducking his head.

“We’re on a tight schedule-we can’t afford any snags, let alone the loss of half our power output.”

“Yes, Dr. March,” the man repeated, ducking his head farther, as if he wanted it to vanish between his shoulders.

March looked around, his gaze landing next on Valentino. “You’ve examined what’s left of generator two?”

Valentino nodded his burly head.

“And?”

Valentino shrugged. He clearly was not intimidated by the head archaeologist-and March seemed to sense it.

“Well?” March pressed. “Can you tell me what caused the explosion?”

“It’s hard to say. The unit was torn apart, the mechanism half melted. Maybe a stator fault, maybe a turn-to-turn failure in one of the coils. Either way, overheating spread to the couplers and collector rings, and from there to the aux tank.”

“The auxiliary tank.” March turned to Rush, almost as an afterthought. “Have you heard any more about Rogers’s condition?”

Rush shook his head. “Last I heard he was in critical condition in Coptic Hospital. I’m waiting for the nurse’s report now.”

March grunted. Then he turned back to Valentino. “Can you at least tell me whether this was caused by mechanical failure or structural weakness or if some… external element was involved?”

At this, Christina Romero looked up and caught Logan’s eye. She gave him an expression that was half smile, half smirk.

“External element,” Valentino said. “You mean, like sabotage?”

“That’s one possibility,” March said carefully.

Valentino thought about this for a moment. “If it was sabotage-and, yes, it’s possible some figlio di puttana monkeyed with the works-the fire would have destroyed any evidence.”