by Tom Clancy
“What’s the extended weather forecast?”
“Hot and dry, old boy. I hope the athletes are fit. They’ll need to be.”
“Well, then, this fogging system will be a lifesaver,” Gearing observed. “Just so the wrong people don’t fool with it. With your permission, I’ll have my people keep an eye on this thing.”
“Fine,” the senior cop agreed. The American was really fixated on this fogging system, but he’d been a gas soldier, and maybe that explained it.
Popov hadn’t closed his shades the previous evening, and so the dawn awoke him rather abruptly. He opened his eyes, then squinted them in pain as the sun rose over the Kansas plains. The medicine cabinet in the bathroom, he found, had Tylenol and aspirin, and there were coffee grounds for the machine in the kitchen area, but nothing of value in the refrigerator. So he showered and had his coffee, then went out of the room looking for food. He found a cafeteria—a huge one—almost entirely empty of patrons, though there were a few people near the food tables, and there he went, got breakfast and sat alone, as he looked at the others in the cavernous room. Mainly people in their thirties and forties, he thought, professional-looking, some wearing white laboratory coats.
“Mr. Popov?” a voice said. Dmitriy turned.
“Yes?”
“I’m David Dawson, chief of security here. I have a badge for you to wear”—he handed over a white plastic shield that pinned to his shirt—“and I’m supposed to show you around today. Welcome to Kansas.”
“Thank you.” Popov pinned the badge on. It even had his picture on it, the Russian saw.
“You want to wear that at all times, so that people know you belong here,” Dawson explained helpfully.
“Yes, I understand.” So this place was pass-controlled, and it had a director of site security. How interesting.
“How was your flight in last night?”
“Pleasant and uneventful,” Popov replied, sipping his second coffee of the morning. “So, what is this place?”
“Well, Horizon set it up as a research facility. You know what the company does, right?”
“Yes.” Popov nodded. “Medicines and biological research, a world leader.”
“Well, this is another research-and-development facility for their work. It was just finished recently. We’re bringing people in now. It will soon be the company’s main facility.”
“Why here in the middle of nothing?” Popov asked, looking around at the mainly empty cafeteria.
“Well, for starters, it’s centrally located. You can be anywhere in the country in less than three hours. And nobody’s around to bother us. It’s a secure facility, too. Horizon does lots of work that requires protection, you see.”
“Industrial espionage?”
Dawson nodded. “That’s right. We worry about that.”
“Will I be able to look around, see the grounds and such?”
“I’ll drive you around myself. Mr. Henriksen told me to extend you the hospitality of the facility. Go ahead and finish your breakfast. I have a few things I have to do. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”
“Good, thank you,” Popov said, watching him walk out of the room. This would be useful. There was a strange, institutional quality to this place, almost like a secure government facility . . . like a Russian facility, Popov thought. It seemed to have no soul at all, no character, no human dimension that he could identify. Even KGB would have hung a photo of Lenin on the huge, bare, white walls to give the place some human scale. There was a wall of tinted windows, which allowed him to see out to what appeared to be wheat fields and a road, but nothing else. It was almost like being on a ship at sea, he thought, unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The former KGB officer worked through his breakfast, all of his instincts on alert, hoping to learn more, and as quickly as he could.
“Domingo, I need you to take this one,” John said.
“It’s a long way to go, John, and I just became a daddy,” Chavez objected.
“Sorry, pal, but Covington is down. So’s Chin. I’m going to send you and four men. It’s an easy job, Ding. The Aussies know their stuff, but they asked us to come down and give it a look—and the reason for that is the expert way you handled your field assignments, okay?”
“When do I leave?”
“Tonight, 747 out of Heathrow.” Clark held up the ticket envelope.
“Great,” Chavez grumbled.
“Hey, at least you were there for the delivery, pop.”
“I suppose. What if something crops up while we’re away?” Chavez tried as a weak final argument.
“We can scratch a team together, but you really think somebody’s going to yank our chain anytime soon? After we bagged those IRA pukes? I don’t,” Clark concluded.
“What about the Russian guy, Serov?”
“The FBI’s on it, trying to run him down in New York. They’ve assigned a bunch of agents to it.”
One of them was Tom Sullivan. He was currently in the post office. Box 1453 at this station belonged to the mysterious Mr. Serov. It had some junk mail in it, and a Visa bill, but no one had opened the box in at least nine days, judging by the dates on the envelopes, and none of the clerks professed to know what the owner of Box 1453 looked like, though one thought he didn’t pick up his mail very often. He’d given a street address when obtaining the box, but that address, it turned out, was to an Italian bakery several blocks away, and the phone number was a dud, evidently made up for the purpose.
“Sure as hell, this guy’s a spook,” Sullivan thought aloud, wondering why the Foreign Counterintelligence group hadn’t picked up the case.
“Sure wiggles like one,” Chatham agreed. And their assignment ended right there. They had no evidence of a crime for the subject, and not enough manpower to assign an agent to watch the P.O. box around the clock.
Security was good here, Popov thought, as he rode around in another of the military-type vehicles that Dawson called a Hummer. The first thing about security was to have defensive depth. That they had. It was ten kilometers at least before you approached a property line.
“It used to be a number of large farms, but Horizon bought them all out a few years ago and started building the research lab. It took a while, but it’s finished now.”
“You still grow wheat here?”
“Yeah, the facility itself doesn’t use all that much of the land, and we try to keep the rest of it the way it was. Hell, we grow almost enough wheat for all the people at the lab, got our own elevators an’ all over that way.” He pointed to the north.
Popov looked that way and saw the massive concrete structures some distance away. It was amazing how large America was, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich thought, and this part seemed so flat, not unlike the Russian steppes. The land had some dips and rises, but all they seemed to do was emphasize the lack of a real hill anywhere. The Hummer went north, and eventually crossed a rail line that evidently led to the grain silos—elevators, Dawson had called them? Elevators? Why that word? Farther north and he could barely make out traffic moving on a distant highway.
“That’s the northern border,” Dawson explained, as they passed into nonfarm land.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, that’s our little herd of pronghorn antelopes.” Dawson turned the wheel slightly to go closer. The Hummer bumped over the grassy land.
“They’re pretty animals.”
“That they are, and very fast. We call ’em the speed-goat. Not a true antelope at all, genetically closer to goats. Those babies can run at forty miles an hour, and do it for damned near an hour. They also have superb eyesight.”
“Difficult to hunt, I imagine. Do you hunt?”
“They are, and I’m not. I’m a vegan.”
“What?”
“Vegetarian. I don’t eat meat or other animal products,” Dawson said somewhat proudly. Even his belt was made of canvas rather than leather.
“Why is that, David?” Popov asked. He’d never come acros
s anyone like him before.
“Oh, just a choice I made. I don’t approve of killing animals for food or any other reason”—he turned—“not everybody agrees with me, not even here at the Project, but I’m not the only one who thinks that way. Nature is something to be respected, not exploited.”
“So, you don’t buy your wife a fur coat,” Popov said, with a smile. He had heard about those fanatics.
“Not hardly!” Dawson laughed.
“I’ve never hunted,” Popov said next, wondering what response he’d get. “I never saw the sense in it, and in Russia they’ve nearly exterminated most game animals.”
“So I understand. That’s very sad, but they’ll come back someday,” Dawson pronounced.
“How, with all the state hunters working to kill them?” That institution hadn’t ended even with the demise of Communist rule.
Dawson’s face took on a curious expression, one Popov had seen many times before at KGB. The man knew something he was unwilling to say right now, though what he knew was important somehow. “Oh, there’s ways, pal. There’s ways.”
The driving tour required an hour and a half, at the end of which Popov was mightily impressed with the size of the facility. The approach road to the building complex was an airport, he saw, with electronic instruments to guide airplanes in and traffic lights to warn autos off when flight operations were in progress. He asked Dawson about it.
“Yeah, it is kinda obvious, isn’t it? You can get a G in and out of here pretty easy. They say you can bring in real commercial jets, too, medium-sized ones, but I’ve never seen that done.”
“Dr. Brightling spent a lot of money to build this establishment.”
“That he did,” Dawson agreed. “But it’s worth it, trust me.” He drove up the highway/runway to the lab building and stopped. “Come with me.”
Popov followed without asking why. He’d never appreciated the power of a major American corporation. This could and should have been a government facility, with all the land and the huge building complex. The hotel building in which he’d spent the night could probably hold thousands of people—and why build such a place here? Was Brightling going to move his entire corporation here, all his employees? So far from major cities, airports, all the things that civilization offered. Why here? Except, of course, for security. It was also far from large police agencies, from news media and reporters. For the purposes of security, this facility might as easily have been on the moon.
The lab building was also larger than it needed to be, Dmitriy thought, but unlike the others, it appeared to be functioning at the moment. Inside was a desk, and a receptionist who knew David Dawson. The two men proceeded unimpeded to the elevators, then up to the fourth floor, and right to an office.
“Hi, Doc,” Dawson said. “This is Dmitriy. Dr. Brightling sent him to us last night. He’s going to be here awhile,” the security chief added.
“I got the fax.” The physician stood and extended his hand to Popov. “Hi, I’m John Killgore. Follow me.” And the two of them went through a side door into an examining room, while Dawson waited outside. Killgore told Popov to disrobe down to his underwear, and proceeded to give him a physical examination, taking blood pressure, checking eyes and ears and reflexes, prodding his belly to make sure that the liver was nonpalpable, and finally taking four test tubes of blood for further examination. Popov submitted to it all without objection, somewhat bemused by the whole thing, and slightly intimidated by the physician, as most people were. Finally, Killgore pulled a vial from the medicine cabinet and stuck a disposable syringe into it.
“What’s this?” Dmitriy Arkadeyevich asked.
“Just a booster shot,” Killgore explained, setting the vial down.
Popov picked it up and looked at the label, which read “B-2100 11-21-00” and nothing else. Then he winced when the needle went into his upper arm. He’d never enjoyed getting shots.
“There, that’s done,” Killgore said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow about the blood work.” With that done, he pointed his patient to the hook his clothing hung on. It was a pity, Killgore thought, that the patient couldn’t be appreciative for having his life saved.
“He might as well not exist,” Special Agent Sullivan told his boss. “Maybe somebody comes in to check his mail, but not in the past nine or ten days.”
“What can we do about that?”
“If you want, we can put a camera and motion sensor inside the box, like the FCI guys do to cover dead-drops. We can do it, but it costs money and manpower to keep an agent or two close if the alarm goes off. Is this case that important?”
“Yes, it is now,” the Assistant Special Agent in charge of the New York field division told his subordinate. “Gus Werner started this one off, and he’s keeping a personal eye on the case file. So, talk to the FCI guys and get them to help you cover the P.O. box.”
Sullivan nodded and concealed his surprise. “Okay, will do.”
“Next, what about the Bannister case?”
“That’s not going anywhere at the moment. The closest thing to a hit we’ve gotten to this point is the second interview with this Kirk Maclean guy. He acted a little antsy. Maybe just nerves on his part, maybe something else—we have nothing on him and the missing victim, except that they had drinks and talked together at this bar uptown. We ran a background on him. Nothing much to report. Makes a good living for Horizon Corporation—he’s a biochemist by profession, graduated University of Delaware, master’s degree, working toward a doctorate at Columbia. Belongs to some conservation groups, including Earth First and the Sierra Club, gets their periodicals. His main hobby is backpacking. He has twenty-two grand in the bank, and he pays his bills on time. His neighbors say he’s quiet and withdrawn, doesn’t make many friends in the building. No known girlfriends. He says he knew Mary Bannister casually, walked her home once, no sexual involvement, and that’s it, he says.”
“Anything else?” the ASAC asked.
“The flyers the NYPD handed out haven’t developed into anything yet. I can’t say that I’m very hopeful at this point.”
“What’s next, then?”
Sullivan shrugged. “In a few more days we’re going back to Maclean to interview him again. Like I said, he looked a little bit hinky, but not enough to justify coverage on him.”
“I talked to this Lieutenant d’Allessandro. He’s thinking there might be a serial killer working that part of town.”
“Maybe so. There’s another girl missing, Anne Pretloe’s her name, but nothing’s turning on that one either. Nothing for us to work with. We’ll keep scratching away at it,” Sullivan promised. “If one of them’s out there, sooner or later he’ll make a mistake.” But until he did, more young women would continue to disappear into that particular black hole, and the combined forces of the NYPD and the FBI couldn’t do much to stop it. “I’ve never worked a case like this before.”
“I have,” the ASAC said. “The Green River killer in Seattle. We put a ton of resources on that one, but we never caught the mutt, and the killings just stopped. Maybe he got picked up for burglary or robbing a liquor store, and maybe he’s sitting it out in a Washington State prison, waiting to get paroled so he can take down some more hookers. We have a great profile on how his brain works, but that’s it, and we don’t know what brain the profile fits. These cases are real head-scratchers.”
Kirk Maclean was having lunch just then, sitting in one of the hundreds of New York delicatessens, eating egg salad and drinking a cream soda.
“So?” Henriksen asked.
“So, they came back to talk to me again, asking the same fuckin’ questions over and over, like they expect me to change my story.”
“Did you?” the former FBI agent asked.
“No, there’s only one story I’m going to tell, and that’s the one I prepared in advance. How did you know that they might come to me like this?” Maclean asked.
“I used to be FBI. I’ve worked cases, and I know how the
Bureau operates. They are very easy to underestimate, and then they appear—no, then you appear on the scope, and they start looking, and mainly they don’t stop looking until they find something,” Henriksen said, as a further warning to this kid.
“So, where are they now?” Maclean asked. “The girls, I mean.”
“You don’t need to know that, Kirk. Remember that. You do not need to know.”
“Okay.” Maclean nodded his submission. “Now what?”
“They’ll come to see you again. They’ve probably done a background check on you and—”
“What’s that mean?”
“Talk to your neighbors, coworkers, check your credit history, your car, whether you have tickets, any criminal convictions, look for anything that suggests that you could be a bad guy,” Henriksen explained.
“There isn’t anything like that on me,” Kirk said.
“I know.” Henriksen had done the same sort of check himself. There was no sense in having somebody with a criminal past out breaking the law in the name of the Project. The only black mark against him was Maclean’s membership in Earth First, which was regarded by the Bureau almost as a terrorist—well, extremist—organization. But all Maclean did with that bunch was to read their monthly newsletter. They had a lot of good ideas, and there was talk in the Project about getting some of them injected with the “B” vaccine, but they had too many members whose ideas of protecting the planet were limited to driving nails into trees, so that the buzz saws would break. That sort of thing only chopped up workers in sawmills and raised the ire of the ignorant public without teaching them anything useful. That was the problem with terrorists, Henriksen had known for years. Their actions never matched their aspirations. Well, they weren’t smart enough to develop the resources they needed to be effective. You had to live in the economic eco-structure to achieve that, and they just couldn’t compete on that battlefield. Ideology was never enough. You needed brains and adaptability, too. To be one of the elect, you had to be worthy. Kirk Maclean wasn’t really worthy, but he was part of the team. And now he was rattled by the attention of the FBI. All he had to do was stick to his story. But he was shook up, and that meant he couldn’t be trusted. So, they’d have to do something about it.