As Sam Leighton had requested, the four set off for the airport, to fly in the Lear Jet to Basel, and find Stan Kendrick.
To save time, James suggested a phone call to the local police or post office in Basel to locate Stan Kendrick; it was a good idea, because the police told Max that Stan had built a bungalow overlooking a magnificent lake, high up in the mountains.
They said you would never see the dwelling, even if you stood on it. Small stones and grass blended perfectly with the surroundings, to cover the long strip of flat roof, jutting out from the mountainside. Viewed from the front, with your back to the lake, a long black scar offered the only clue to the bungalow’s existence.
The pilot of the Lear suggested they flew to Torino, Northern Italy, their home airport where The Organization and Carla’s hideaway, as it is known, were based. From there, they could take The Organization’s helicopter north, 280km to Lago d'Efra dal Basel. They could refuel at Locarno Airport, either going to or returning from Kendrick’s home.
The four were in high spirits, the sudden change of location from a tropical island and life on a super yacht to the prospect of stunning mountain scenery, was so stimulating for James and Amy it was infectious. Because The Organization’s helicopter was in constant use, they had to wait for its return from a flight, that meant the four had time to visit Carla’s hideaway.
The somewhat bizarre approach, through the outer wire security gate and the roller shutter door into a small pitch-black warehouse, was surprising enough. Once the lights came on, they left the chauffeur driven Rolls Royce and followed Carla through a small door into the actual hideaway.
Nothing had prepared James for the splendorous tropical garden in front of the red brick house. Amy had visited before, but still found it hard to take in.
James surmised correctly that the quadrangle, the hideaway was built within, was formed by other buildings backing onto the area.
The whole roof was glazed like a massive conservatory with automatically opening panels to control the temperature and ventilation. The use of colored lights accented the beauty of the plants and trees, even in daylight, but it was stunning at night, and the trickling sound of the water cascading down a feature waterfall along a sidewall, made this a haven of peace and tranquility.
They entered the house and immediately in front of them was a jewel-encrusted statuette on a plain hardwood centerpiece table. The trinket Max had given to Carla; the same one Philippe was so desperate to take.
In the lounge, they sat down just as Maria the maid entered, and offered them tea and cucumber sandwiches. Carla had called ahead to arrange for Maria to attend, she made sure everything was clean and tidy for Carla and guests if they happened to visit.
After refreshments, Carla showed James the rest of the house. The bedrooms were of more than adequate size with everything you would expect in such a luxurious setting. The balconies overlooking the stunning garden made you want to relax there, taking it all in, waiting for the night to come and change the picture again.
Downstairs was the kitchen and surprisingly, a gymnasium, complete with swimming pool. The pool was small, but no matter how hard you swam, the automatically adjustable flow would prevent you from reaching the other side. If you stop swimming, the flow stops.
Carla and Max kept super fit here; the equipment was state of the art and included a mechanized opponent to fight against. Although its feet never left the spot, it would counter attack or make attacks, depending on the program selected. Just like a martial arts expert with his feet glued to the floor.
Carla was able to hold her own with the machine; its reflexes and appropriate responses to attack or offence just kept up with her. Max, on the other hand suffered badly, the machine gave better than Max could give.
Max and Carla packed the clothes they anticipated they might need and suggested James and Amy came into town for some shopping, as well. The chauffeur drove them to town and waited, before they all returned to The Organization headquarters on a plateau in the mountains, and boarded the helicopter to Basel.
***
The weather report was favorable, so with a good reserve of fuel, the helicopter pilot told the four he would fly straight to Kendrick’s home. The light would be still good enough to locate a safe place to land and perhaps there might be lights showing at the bungalow, to help them find it.
As they flew over the mountains, the lake below could be clearly seen. A slight mist was forming and caught the low angle of the reddening sunset. The ridges and folds in the mist imitated the mountains, making it difficult to separate the two. The panoramic view was breathtaking, if it could only be captured on film. Even the best camera could never do it justice, perhaps if you could stitch umpteen images together and project them on the underside of a dome, you might get a feel for the beauty and space, but Max doubted it.
Approaching from the south over the shimmering water, they could make out a thin horizontal black scar low down on the mountainside, so they aimed for it. There was a small helicopter to the right, it looked almost black now, with the red sunlight reflected from it, this was the place all right!
Moments after touchdown, a man approached, walking briskly and he reached them as they all ducked clear of the slowing rotor blades.
Eying them cautiously, he forced a welcoming smile that fooled no one.
Carla stepped forward and offered her hand, asking the obvious question, “Are you Stan Kendrick?”
She instantly sized up the man, while scanning the buildings in front of her. There was no reason to suspect a threat lurking in the shadows, it was just her way.
He was about sixty years old, of average build, muscular and with minimal fat, particularly the flat belly; probably a six-pack she speculated. Calloused hands but from work done a while ago, the skin over the thickened areas was clean and smooth. They were small hands, the hands of a pen pusher rather than a manual worker. It all ties up with him having built his home.
His bright lively eyes, not furtive or secretive, portrayed intelligence. They positively scanned every detail of Carla but were disinterested in the others with her. Once satisfied that there was no threat to him, Stan grasped her hand, pulling her closer, and she sensed him breathing her pheromones. A man who has not been laid in a while, she surmised with an inner smile.
Amy had caught up with the group, from the far side of the helicopter and came into Kendrick’s field of view. Carla saw the double take as he realized she and Amy were twins. You think this is your birthday, don’t you, thought Carla and Amy, what would you do with the two of us, up here, all alone?
Amy stood next to her as Carla made the introductions, the prompt for Max and James to approach Stan’s personal space.
“Yes, I am Stan Kendrick” he finally announced, “welcome to my home. What brings you here, do you want to pick my brains perhaps, or are you more interested in my prediction of mankind’s fate?”
No polite social intercourse, straight to the point, the chip is still there on his shoulder, and the splinters have festered somewhat thought Carla. This was going to be a short visit.
“I think we just need your expert opinion on some seismological activity, facts that cannot be disputed; we can make the prediction ourselves” replied Carla politely.
Stan eyed her for a moment while he thought about the implications. Amy moved closer to him and Carla, and gave him an enigmatic smile. He probably interpreted that as, I have the hots for you, and so has my sister. Or maybe, I need your help and guidance, there is no one else I can trust or, I know you are hurting and lonely, but we can change all that if you help us.
Whatever he thought, he needed social stimulation, and four people were here to see him, who would open up many subjects of debate whatever their real motives.
“Please come in for refreshment and we can discuss things more comfortably there. Your pilot is welcome too, but he will need to secure his machine to the anchor blocks; there is a vicious downdraft at night and I don’t think you will be able to leave until morning. I can put you all up, no problem.”
The pilot had heard what Stan had said, and nodded his understanding.
The 3m high glazed wall at the front of the building, tilted out at the top to prevent reflections spoiling the scenery for others. From inside, you could see to infinity across lower mountains, with the lake spread out below like a shimmering carpet. The glass was in four layers, curiously, with the innermost pane of bulletproof glass. The heavy panes, powered by almost silent electric motors, slid open like patio doors to the two bedrooms and combined lounge and kitchen, letting in the fresh mountain air. The only blot on this perfect landscape was the shiny dark green helicopter, pulled out from a hanger which matched the bungalow.
The inside of the bungalow was as remarkable as the outside. The main rooms overlooked the lake, behind them was a very wide passage and then secondary rooms like store room, utility and cloakroom. By far the most intriguing was the laboratory.
Stan had been developing special coatings that emitted cold light. By painting them on walls and ceilings in the traditional way, they could be made to fluoresce like the coating inside the glass of a fluorescent strip light tube. All the rooms were illuminated this way.
The trick was to apply three coats, the backing coat or undercoat was electrically conductive and formed one terminal; the next coat was the color layer and reacted to a combination of extremely low voltage and alternating frequency. The transparent top coat was the other terminal, and the current was applied, causing the illuminating glow. His current project was to develop a way of exciting the coating to act as a gigantic flat screen display. This way he could create still or moving scenery, on an otherwise bland wall or ceiling.
However, because of his discoveries, he was ever fearful for his safety.
***
Stan insisted on cooking them all a meal; he was an excellent cook, although this was a simple meal. Wine flowed freely for all but Carla and Max. Carla was an alcoholic and had not touched a drop of alcohol for seven years, and Max always drank the same as Carla to show support. Anyway, he never needed alcohol to enjoy himself in company.
Eventually, Stan was ready to listen to their problem; Max set out the known facts and suspicions, clearly and without embellishment. Stan absorbed the information, interrupting only to clarify certain facts, or add to the list of facts Max was giving him.
Stan consulted some seabed survey maps on his own computer and explained what was happening, in non-technical language.
“There are several things in play here, the ocean floor in this region is constantly splitting and grinding together. When the brittle rock under the silt opens up, molten rock escapes along with various gases and steam. This can vary from minor to cataclysmic events, producing tsunamis and the creation of new islands. As you know, the region has many fault lines, so the process is happening all the time and is quite natural.
“The large concrete pontoon blanket is creating a local hot spot. Imagine a sheet of window glass on a table top, this represents the brittle rock seabed. Apply heat rapidly to the center, causing just that small heated area to expand a lot. The surrounding glass will be stretched apart and eventually split. Cracks will radiate out from the hot spot, just like it is doing to the sea floor. Once the cracking has taken place, the molten rock seals the crack and the area becomes relaxed again. End of the problem.
“This concrete blanket is a very minor irritation to the planet and is something you need not concern yourself with.
“The other issue is the explosive gas and the loss of life. I believe the small cracks that are developing, are heating large areas of silt as the molten rock oozes through. Methane is rising up as a massive cold cloud, and drifting across the ocean for a short time, until it is heated by the sun. Again, these clouds are forming naturally over all the oceans, and it is jolly rotten luck if you steam or fly into one.
“A statistical cluster of incidents has occurred, that you perceive as a trend or the start of something sinister. It is nature at work, just as volcanoes erupt and claim many lives. Over the last ten years, a series of volcanoes have erupted at different parts of the world. These appear to be totally random in location but in fact, they sit over a very long and irregular fault line. Ten years is no time at all in the life of the earth, so you would conclude the eruptions are a statistical cluster.
“I am not saying all the loss of shipping you have told me about is down to natural causes, perhaps the first tanker was insurance fraud and the liner was the victim of nature.
“The bubble effect that hit the sea plane and the Ocean Raider is another example of the randomness of nature. You just happened to be in the wrong place at that time. Many ships and planes have been lost in that region; the infamous Bermuda Triangle just so happens to be a busy area, so statistically there will be more incidents there.”
There was a palpable silence when Stan stopped speaking; the explanation left his listeners emotionally depressed. There was no mystery, no sinister force, nothing to challenge or fight. There was no longer any intrigue or excitement surrounding the Bermuda Triangle.
Stan read their silence and the disillusion on their faces; he began speaking again. “The gas harvesting process is like holding a tiger by the tail, until all the gas has been collected. A rough calculation in my head tells me Jason Sterling has overlooked a crucial factor, or has not told you the whole story.
“At the edges of the pontoon blanket, the temperature will be the same as under it, the temperature tailing off, the further out from it you go. This will produce as much gas as the pontoon area. The trouble is, all of it is going to waste and will end up in the atmosphere sooner than it should. Admittedly, the gas will break down over a number of years, but with the massive spike from the leaked gas, carbon dioxide from the burnt harvested gas, and the increasing carbon dioxide from the use of other fuels it will, I fear, tip us into thermal runaway. Nothing will stop it, even if we ceased using the harvested gas and every other global warming gas. It is probably too late now, but Sterling must either shut down production slowly, or continue to expand outwards.”
“What do you think can be done about it, Stan?” asked Max
He replied thoughtfully, “Sterling needs to fit more pontoons around the edges and expand outwards. When the center area is no longer producing, the pontoons can be removed. Eventually, there will be a massive, but thin ring of pontoons, a lot narrower than present. This will result in an inefficient layer of insulation and so the seabed under them will not warm up, and the gas will stop rising.”
A look of relief spread over the five faces; the world was not about to end after all, and they cheerfully moved onto lighthearted matters, before retiring to bed.