Damon had been afraid that this Kenner would show up while the lawyer was still in his office, but now the lawyer was driving away. His car, a nondescript Buick sedan with Ontario plates, drove through the boatyard, and was gone.

Damon started to clean up the office, getting ready to go home. He was toying with the idea of leaving before Kenner arrived. Kenner was some revenue agent. Damon had done nothing wrong. He didn't have to meet any revenue agent. And if he did, what would he do, say he couldn't answer questions?

The next thing, he'd be subpoenaed or something. Dragged into court.

Damon decided to leave. There was more thunder, and the crack of distant lightning. A big storm was moving in.

As he was closing up, he saw that the lawyer had left his cell phone on the counter. He looked out to see if the lawyer was coming back for it. Not yet, but surely he would realize he had left it, and come back. Damon decided to leave before he showed up.

Hastily, he slipped the cell phone in his pocket, turned out the lights, and locked the office. The first drops of rain were spattering the pavement as he went to his car, parked right in front. He opened the door and was climbing into the car when the cell phone rang. He hesitated, not sure what to do. The phone rang insistently.

A jagged bolt of lightning crashed down, striking the mast of one of the ships in the boatyard. In the next instant there was a burst of light by the car, a blast of furious heat that knocked him to the ground. Dazed, he tried to get up.

He was thinking that his car had exploded, but it hadn't; the car was intact, the door blackened. Then he saw that his trousers were on fire. He stared stupidly at his own legs, not moving. He heard the rumble of thunder and realized that he had been struck by lightning. he had been struck by lightning.

My God, he thought. I was hit by lightning. He sat up and slapped at his trousers, trying to put out the fire. It wasn't working, and his legs were beginning to feel pain. He had a fire extinguisher inside the office.

Staggering to his feet, he moved unsteadily to his office. He was unlocking the door, his fingers fumbling, when there was another explosion. He felt a sharp pain in his ears, reached up, touched blood. He looked at his bloody fingertips, fell over, and died.

CENTURY CITY.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 2.

12:34 P.M.

Under normal circumstances, Peter Evans spoke to George Morton every day. Sometimes twice a day. So after a week went by without hearing from him, Evans called his house. He spoke to Sarah.

"I have no idea what is going on," she said. "Two days ago he was in North Dakota. North Dakota! The day before that he was in Chicago. I think he might be in Wyoming today. He's made noises about going to Boulder, Colorado, but I don't know."

"What's in Boulder?" Evans said.

"I haven't a clue. Too early for snow."

"Has he got a new girlfriend?" Sometimes Morton disappeared when he was involved with a new woman.

"Not that I know," Sarah said.

"What's he doing?"

"I have no idea. It sounds like he has a shopping list."

"A shopping list?"

"Well," she said, "sort of. He wanted me to buy some kind of special GPS unit. You know, for locating position? Then he wanted some special video camera using CCD or CCF or something. Had to be rush-ordered from Hong Kong. And yesterday he told me to buy a new Ferrari from a guy in Monterey, and have it shipped to San Francisco."

"Another Ferrari?"

"I know," she said. "How many Ferraris can one man use? And this one doesn't seem up to his usual standards. From the e-mail pictures it looks kind of beat up."

"Maybe he's going to have it restored."

"If he was, he'd send it to Reno. That's where his car restorer is."

He detected a note of concern in her voice. "Is everything okay, Sarah?"

"Between you and me, I don't know," she said. "The Ferrari he bought is a 1972 365 GTS Daytona Spyder."

"So?"

"He already has one, Peter. It's like he doesn't know. And he sounds weird when you talk to him."

"Weird in what way?"

"Just...weird. Not his usual self at all."

"Who's traveling with him?"

"As far as I know, nobody."

Evans frowned. That was very odd. Morton hated being alone. Evans's immediate inclination was to disbelieve it.

"What about that guy Kenner and his Nepali friend?"

"Last I heard, they were going to Vancouver, and on to Japan. So they're not with him."

"Uh huh."

"When I hear from him, I'll let him know you called."

Evans hung up, feeling dissatisfied. On an impulse, he dialed Morton's cell phone. But he got the voice mail. "This is George. At the beep." And the quick beep.

"George, this is Peter Evans. Just checking in, to see if there's anything you need. Call me at the office if I can help."

He hung up, and stared out the window. Then he dialed again.

"Center for Risk Analysis."

"Professor Kenner's office, please."

In a moment he got the secretary. "This is Peter Evans, I'm looking for Professor Kenner."

"Oh yes, Mr. Evans. Dr. Kenner said you might call."

"He did?"

"Yes. Are you trying to reach Dr. Kenner?"

"Yes, I am."

"He's in Tokyo at the moment. Would you like his cell phone?"

"Please."

She gave him the number, and he wrote it down on his yellow pad. He was about to call when his assistant, Heather, came in to say that something at lunch had disagreed with her, and she was going home for the afternoon.

"Feel better," he said, sighing.

With her gone, he was obliged to answer his own phone, and the next call was from Margo Lane, George's mistress, asking where the hell George was. Evans was on the phone with her for the better part of half an hour.

And then Nicholas Drake walked into his office.

"I am very concerned," Drake said. He stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the office building opposite.

"About what?"

"This Kenner person that George is spending so much time with."

"I don't know that they're spending time together."

"Of course they are. You don't seriously believe George is alone, alone, do you?" do you?"

Evans said nothing.

"George is never alone. We both know that. Peter, I don't like this situation at all. Not at all. George is a good man-I don't have to tell you that-but he is susceptible to influence. Including the wrong influence."

"You think a professor at MIT is the wrong influence?"

"I've looked into Professor Kenner," Drake said, "and there are a few mysteries about him."

"Oh?"

"His resume says he spent a number of years in government. Department of the Interior, Intergovernmental Negotiating Committee, and so on."

"Yes?"

"The Department of the Interior has no record of his working there."

Evans shrugged. "It was more than ten years ago. Government records being what they are..."

"Possibly," Drake said. "But there is more. Professor Kenner comes back to MIT, works there for eight years, very successfully. Consultant to the EPA, consultant to Department of Defense, God knows what else-and then he suddenly goes on extended leave, and no one seems to know what happened to him since. He just fell off the radar."

"I don't know," Evans said. "His card says he is Director of Risk Analysis."

"But he's on leave. I don't know what the hell he is doing these days. I don't know who supports him. I take it you've met him?"

"Briefly."

"And now he and George are great pals?"

"I don't know, Nick. I haven't seen or spoken to George in more than a week."

"He's off with Kenner."

"I don't know that."

"But you know that he and Kenner went to Vancouver."

"Actually, I didn't know."

"Let me lay it out for you plainly," Drake said. "I have it on good authority that John Kenner has unsavory connections. The Center for Risk Analysis is wholly funded by industry groups. I needn't say more. In addition, Mr. Kenner spent a number of years advising the Pentagon and in fact was so involved with them that he even underwent some sort of training for a period of time."

"You mean military training?"

"Yes. Fort Bragg and Harvey Point, in North Carolina," Drake said. "There is no question the man has military connections as well as industry connections. And I am told he is hostile toward mainstream environmental organizations. I hate to think of a man like that working on poor George."

"I wouldn't worry about George. He can see through propaganda."

"I hope so. But frankly I do not share your confidence. This military man shows up, and the next thing we know, George is trying to audit us. I mean, my God, why would he want to do that? Doesn't George realize what a waste of resources that involves? Time, money, everything? It would be a tremendous tremendous drag on my time." drag on my time."

"I wasn't aware an audit was going forward."

"It's being discussed. Of course, we have nothing to hide, and we can be audited at any time. I have always said so. But this is an especially busy time, with the Vanutu lawsuit starting up, and the conference on Abrupt Climate Change to be planned for. All that's in the next few weeks. I wish I could speak to George."

Evans shrugged. "Call his cell."

"I have. Have you?"

"Yes."

"He call you back?"

"No," Evans said.

Drake shook his head. "That man," he said, "is my Concerned Citizen of the Year, and I can't even get him on the phone."

BEVERLY HILLS.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 13.

8:07 A.M.

Morton sat at a sidewalk table outside a cafe on Beverly Drive at eight in the morning, waiting for Sarah to show up. His assistant was ordinarily punctual, and her apartment was not far away. Unless she had taken up with that actor again. Young people had so much time to waste on bad relationships.

He sipped his coffee, glancing at the Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal without much interest. He had even less interest after an unusual couple sat down at the next table. without much interest. He had even less interest after an unusual couple sat down at the next table.