Lisa Ray was a bright-eyed twenty-seven-year-old, and a dedicated gossip. Evans had long ago come to rely on her for office information of all sorts.

"What's Herb want me for?"

"Something about Nick Drake."

"What's this meeting about tomorrow at nine?"

"I don't know," she said, sounding amazed. "I can't find out a thing.

"Who called it?"

"Morton's accountants." She looked at the phone on her desk. "Oh, he's hung up. You can go right in."

Herb Lowenstein stood and shook Evans's hand perfunctorily. He was a pleasant-faced balding man, mild-mannered and slightly nerdy. His office was decorated with dozens of pictures of his family, stacked three and four deep on his desk. He got on well with Evans, if only because these days, whenever Morton's thirty-year-old daughter got arrested for cocaine possession, it was Evans who went downtown at midnight to post her bail. Lowenstein had done it for many years, and now was glad to sleep through the night.

"So," he said, "how was Iceland?"

"Good. Cold."

"Is everything okay?"

"Sure."

"I mean, between George and Nick. Everything okay there?"

"I think so. Why?"

"Nick is worried. He called me twice in the last hour."

"About what?"

"Where are we on George's NERF donation?"

"Nick's asking that?"

"Is there a problem about it?"

"George wants to hold off for a while."

"Why?"

"He didn't say."

"Is it this Kenner guy?"

"George didn't say. He just said, hold off." Evans wondered how Lowenstein knew about Kenner.

"What do I tell Nick?"

"Tell him it's in the works and we don't have a date for him yet."

"But there's not a problem with it, is there?"

"Not that I've been told," Evans said.

"Okay," Lowenstein said. "In this room. Tell me: Is there a problem?"

"There might be." Evans was thinking that George rarely held up charitable donations. And there had been a certain tension in the brief talk he had with him the night before.

"What's this meeting about tomorrow morning?" Lowenstein said. "The big conference room."

"Beats me."

"George didn't tell you?"

"No."

"Nick is very upset."

"Well, that's not unusual for Nick."

"Nick has heard of this Kenner guy. He thinks he's a troublemaker. Some kind of anti-environmental guy."

"I doubt that. He's a professor at MIT. In some environmental science."

"Nick thinks he's a troublemaker."

"I couldn't say."

"He overheard you and Morton talking about Kenner on the airplane."

"Nick should stop listening at keyholes."

"He's worried about his standing with George."

"Not surprising," Evans said. "Nick screwed up on a big check. Got deposited in the wrong account."

"I heard about that. It was an error by a volunteer. You can't blame Nick for that."

"It doesn't build confidence."

"It was deposited to the International Wilderness Preservation Society. A great organization. And the money is being transferred back, even as we speak."

"That's fine."

"Where are you in this?"

"Nowhere. I just do what the client says."

"But you advise him."

"If he asks me. He hasn't asked."

"It sounds like you've lost confidence yourself."

Evans shook his head. "Herb," he said. "I'm not aware of any problem. I'm aware of a delay. That's all."

"Okay," Lowenstein said, reaching for the phone. "I'll calm Nick down."

Evans went back to his office. His phone was ringing. He answered it. "What are you doing today?" Morton said.

"Not much. Paperwork."

"That can wait. I want you to go over and see how that Vanutu lawsuit is coming."

"Jeez, George, it's still pretty preliminary. I think the filing is several months away."

"Pay them a visit," Morton said.

"Okay, they're in Culver City, I'll call over there and"

"No. Don't call. Just go."

"But if they're not expecting"

"That's right. That's what I want. Let me know what you find out, Peter."

And he hung up.

Chapter 10

CULVER CITY

TUESDAY, AUGUST 24

10:30 A.M.

The Vanutu litigation team had taken over an old warehouse south of Culver City. It was an industrial area, with potholes in the streets. There was nothing to see from the curb: just a plain brick wall, and a door with the street number in battered metal numerals. Evans pushed the buzzer and was admitted to a small walled-off reception area. He could hear the low murmur of voices from the other side of the wall, but he could see nothing at all.

Two armed guards stood on either side of the far door, leading into the warehouse itself. A receptionist sat at a small desk. She gave him an unfriendly look.

"And you are?"

"Peter Evans, Hassle and Black."

"To see?"

"Mr. Balder."

"You have an appointment?"

"No."

The receptionist looked disbelieving. "I will buzz his assistant."

"Thank you."

The receptionist talked on the phone in a low voice. He heard her mention the name of the law firm. Evans looked at the two guards. They were from a private security firm. They stared back at him, their faces blank, unsmiling.

The receptionist hung up and said, "Ms. Haynes will be out in a moment." She nodded to the guards.

One of them came over and said to Evans, "Just a formality, sir. May I see some identification?"

Evans gave him his driver's license.

"Do you have any cameras or recording equipment on your person?"

"No," Evans said.

"Any disks, drives, flash cards, or other computer equipment?"

"No."

"Are you armed, sir?"

"No."

"Would you mind raising your arms for a moment?" When Evans gave him a strange look, the guard said, "Just think of it like airport security," and he patted him down. But he was also clearly feeling for wires. He ran his fingers over the collar of Evans's shirt, felt the stitching in his jacket, ran his finger around his waistband, and then asked him to take off his shoes. Finally he passed an electronic wand over him.

"You guys are serious," Evans said.

"Yes we are. Thank you, sir."

The guard stepped away, resuming his place at the wall. There was no place to sit, so Evans just stood there and waited. It was probably two minutes before the door opened. An attractive but tough-looking woman in her late twenties, with short dark hair and blue eyes, wearing jeans and a white shirt, said, "Mr. Evans? I'm Jennifer Haynes." Her handshake was firm. "I work with John Balder. Come this way."

They went inside.

They were in a narrow corridor, with a locked door at the far end. Evans realized it was a security locktwo doors to get inside.

"What was that all about?" he said, indicating the guards.

"We've had a little trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"People want to know what's going on here."

"Uh-huh amp;"

"We've learned to be careful."

She held her card against the door, and it buzzed open.

They entered an old warehousea vast, high-ceilinged space, separated into large rooms by glass partitions. Immediately to his left, behind glass, Evans saw a room filled with computer terminals, each manned by a young person with a stack of documents beside their keyboard. In big lettering on the glass it said, "data-raw."

To his right, there was a matching conference room labeled "satellites/radiosonde." Evans saw four people inside that room, busily discussing huge blowups of a graph on the wall, jagged lines on a grid.

Farther along there was another room marked "general circulation models (gcms)." Here the walls were plastered with large maps of the world, graphical representations in many colors.

"Wow," Evans said. "Big operation."

"Big lawsuit," Jennifer Haynes replied. "These are all our issue teams. They're mostly graduate students in climate science, not attorneys. Each team is researching a different issue for us." She pointed around the warehouse. "The first group does raw data, meaning processed data from the Goddard Institute for Space Studies at Columbia University, in New York, from the USHCN at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and from Hadley Center in East Anglia, England. Those are the major sources of temperature data from around the world."

"I see," Evans said.

"Then the group over there works on satellite data. Orbiting satellites have recorded temperatures of the upper atmosphere since 1979, so there is more than a twenty-year record. We're trying to figure out what to do about it."

"What to do about it?"

"The satellite data's a problem," she said.

"Why?"

As though she hadn't heard him, she pointed to the next room. "The team there is doing comparative analyses of GCMsmeaning the computer-generated climate modelsfrom the 1970s to the present. As you know, these models are immensely complex, manipulating a million variables or more at once. They are by far the most complex computer models ever created by man. We're dealing with American, British, and German models, primarily."

"I see amp;" Evans was starting to feel overwhelmed.

"And the team down there is doing sea-level issues. Around the corner is paleoclimate. Those're proxy studies, of course. And the final team is dealing with solar irradiance and aerosols. Then we have an off-site team at UCLA that is doing atmospheric feedback mechanisms, primarily focusing on cloud cover as it varies with temperature change. And that's about all of it." She paused, seeing the confusion on Evans's face. "I'm sorry. Since you work with George Morton, I assumed you were familiar with all this stuff."

"Who said I work with George Morton?"

She smiled. "We know our job, Mr. Evans."

They passed a final glass-walled room that had no label. It was filled with charts and huge photographs, and three-dimensional models of the earth set inside plastic cubes. "What's this?" he said.

"Our AV team. They prepare visuals for the jury. Some of the data is extremely complex, and we're trying to find the simplest and most forceful way to present it."

They walked on. Evans said, "Is it really that complicated?"

"That's correct," she said. "The island nation of Vanutu is actually four coral atolls in the southern Pacific, which have a maximum elevation of twenty feet above sea level. The eight thousand inhabitants of those islands are at risk of being flooded out by rising sea levels caused by global warming."

"Yes," Evans said. "I understand that. But why do you have so many people working on the science?"

She looked at him oddly. "Because we're trying to win the case."

"Yes amp;"

"And it's not an easy case to win."

"What do you mean?" Evans said. "This is global warming. Everybody knows that global warming is"

A voice boomed from the other end of the warehouse. "Is what?"

A bald, bespectacled man came toward them. He had an ungainly gait, and looked like his nickname: the Bald Eagle. As always, John Balder was dressed all in blue: a blue suit, a blue shirt, and a blue tie. His manner was intense, his eyes narrowed as he looked at Evans. In spite of himself, Evans was intimidated to meet the famous litigator.

Evans extended his hand. "Peter Evans, Hassle and Black."

"And you work with George Morton?"

"Yes sir, I do."

"We are indebted to Mr. Morton's generosity. We strive to be worthy of his support."

"I'll tell him that, sir."

"I'm sure you will. You were speaking of global warming, Mr. Evans. Is it a subject that interests you?"

"Yes, sir, it does. And every concerned citizen of the planet."

"I certainly agree. But tell me. What is global warming, as you understand it?"

Evans tried to conceal his surprise. He hadn't expected to be quizzed. "Why do you ask?"

"We ask everybody who comes here. We're trying to get a feel for the general state of knowledge. What's global warming?"

"Global warming is the heating up of the earth from burning fossil fuels."

"Actually, that is not correct."

"It's not?"

"Not even close. Perhaps you'd try again."

Evans paused. It was obvious he was being interrogated by a fussy and precise legal mind. He knew the type only too well, from law school. He thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Global warming is, uh, the heating up of the surface of the earth from the excess of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere that is produced by burning fossil fuels."

"Again, not correct."

"Why not?"

"Several reasons. At a minimum, I count four errors in the statement you just made."

"I don't understand," Evans said. "My statementthat's what global warming is."

"In fact, it is not." Balder's tone was crisp, authoritative. "Global warming is the theory"

"hardly a theory, anymore"

"No, it is a theory," Balder said. "Believe me, I wish it were otherwise. But in fact, global warming is the theory that increased levels of carbon dioxide and certain other gases are causing an increase in the average temperature of the earth's atmosphere because of the so-called greenhouse effect.'"

"Well, okay," Evans said. "That's a more exact definition, but amp;"

"Mr. Evans, you yourself believe in global warming, I take it?"