Page 76 of The Presidents Shadow
I AM SCHEDULED to have a top secret one-on-one meeting with Dr. Carl Laksa, one of the world’s top geologists.
Dr. Laksa, Indonesian-born, has just completed a virtual three-day seminar with three other geologists at the University of Peru; they have come to the same conclusion as my team and I—these natural disasters are most likely man-made in origin.
After they agreed on this, the four seminar participants became fearful for their lives, and Dr. Laksa informed me that he believes he is being followed.
For this reason, Dr. Laksa did not want to let me know his current address, no matter how secure I assured him my own personal devices to be. Right now, I’m waiting at the Hunts Point bus station, where I was told he would meet me.
When an unshaven middle-aged man wearing a filthy once-white ski jacket and equally filthy brown gaberdine trousers that bunch at the ankles stumbles toward me, I’m not particularly frightened, because I see right through his disguise. Dr. Laksa may be an eminent geologist, but he’s no actor.
“Mr. Cranston?” the make-believe bum asks, leaning in.
“Yes,” I say. “Dr. Laksa?”
“Yes,” he says. Then he immediately adds, “Please try to look disgusted and repelled by me. Someone is probably watching us. Now… get ready to yell at me.”
Then, in a loud voice, Laksa says, “C’mon, man, a dollar. A dollar. I gotta get some food.”
“Leave me alone,” I say sternly.
“Just a dollar,” Laksa says.
“Get the hell away from me.”
As Laksa staggers away, he speaks quickly and softly.
“Shamrock Hotel, 650 West 42nd Street, room 201. In thirty minutes.”
The Shamrock Hotel, far west on 42nd Street, is disgusting.
A small lobby contains one severely ripped leather sofa and a matching chair covered with the random crusts of a pizza party.
No one is manning the shabby front desk, so I take the back stairs to room 201, where I’m greeted by Dr. Carl Laksa.
Dr. Laksa is now dressed as the perfect example of a college professor: rimless eyeglasses, brown and gray plaid wool sports coat, brown corduroy pants.
“I almost didn’t recognize you out of costume,” I say.
Laksa neither laughs nor smiles. Obviously this is going to be a serious meet-up.
“Welcome, Mr. Cranston,” says Laksa. “I realize that this room is a less than ideal meeting place, and I apologize for the playacting on the street, but at least nobody can spy on us. The only ones watching us will be the cockroaches and an occasional rat.”
Then he says, “I brought these.”
I am expecting him to produce elaborate plans, or, at the very least, a file full of hot information.
Instead, Laksa reaches into his small metal briefcase and takes out two large cans of Pellegrino water.
He hands me one of the mineral waters and says, “I brought my own, as the Shamrock Hotel room service leaves something to be desired.”
The professor goes on. “I’m going to give you a verbal report, Mr. Cranston. Hence, we will not leave any confidential data information behind for enemy sleuths.”
My body tenses as I prepare to hear Dr. Laksa out. How much more bad news can a man be asked to stand? The destruction of the Earth by disease? The planet slowly falling apart? How many disasters can collide in my world at once?
“I’m counting on you, Professor. I’m really counting on you,” I say.
“Very well,” says Laksa, and I can’t help but notice a note of satisfaction on his face. He is a man who is accustomed to being treated as important.
And what an extraordinary font of important material he is.
“On the second day of my video conference with my esteemed colleagues, I received a message from a former student of mine. His name is Glenn Ambrose.”
“He was a student of yours in Peru?”
“No. I am on sabbatical at the moment, which is how I came to be stranded so far from my home during a pandemic. Two years ago I was a visiting professor at UC Berkeley. Glenn Ambrose was one of the four students in my geological philosophy seminar. Ambrose was the absolute brightest of this very bright group.”
Laksa takes a long gulp of his mineral water, sighs deeply. Then he tells his story.
“Ambrose submitted his course paper on the theoretical possibility that by using satellites to create radiation waves, we could generate unlimited green energy by tapping into the Earth’s molten core.
“I saw the possible execution of this idea as a great advancement for humankind—for environmental salvation and general medical well-being. I even helped guide some of Ambrose’s research.”
Then Laksa adds a wildly important piece to the story.
Quite simply, he watched his student—a certifiable scientific genius—become seduced by the idea of power.
He explains that Ambrose began talking about how wealthy and famous he would become.
Then, suddenly, his research went in a different direction entirely.
Ambrose was determined that his invention—which he arrogantly called Terrageddon—could be transformed into a superweapon, not an energy source.
Dr. Laksa was devastated that so much work and intelligence could be diverted to such an evil end.
“Meanwhile,” Laksa continues, “Ambrose became completely unhinged. He babbled. He failed to bathe. He had actual fistfights with anyone who challenged his thesis. The university had no choice but to dismiss him.”
As expected, Ambrose was insanely angry. He sent university administrators and Dr. Carl Laksa messages threatening revenge.
“Then Glenn Ambrose just fell off the grid,” Laksa says.
“But,” I say, “not for long.”
“Correct. When I was virtually attending the summit with my colleagues, I once again began to receive threatening messages. This time they were signed Hephaestus. ”
I do not want to interrupt Dr. Laksa’s story, so I do not tell him the same signature appeared at the end of the messages sent to the late Professor Nakashima, as well as Dr. Langi Singh.
“After the incidents in Kyoto and Copenhagen occurred, I had my suspicions,” Laksa says.
“But I also knew how far Ambrose’s machine—the Terrageddon—would be from completion.
It seemed impossible to me that he could have finished his work so quickly, especially given his mental state.
After the shocking incident at Harvard, I became more concerned.
When my colleagues asked to meet and shared their beliefs that the natural disasters were of human origin, I had to confront the facts.
I shared what I knew with them, and now I’m telling you.
” He pauses. I say nothing. Laksa takes a deep breath.
His opens and shuts his watery eyes very quickly. His lower lip quivers.
“After I spoke with them and conveyed Ambrose’s identity, they, too, began to receive threatening messages from this Hephaestus. For this reason, I think Ambrose may be monitoring my emails and devices, which is why I’ve gone to such extremes to meet you in secret.”
Then Laksa says, “I am afraid, Mr. Cranston. I am very afraid.”
“I’m also afraid, Doctor. But you know what?”
“What?”
“We haven’t got the time to be afraid.”