by Tom Clancy
Popov shook his head. “No, he was like me, a spy—an intelligence officer for State Security.” Popov dropped that in to see how Killgore would react. He figured he didn’t need to keep it a secret out here—and it could be useful. You give something to get something . . .
“You were KGB? No shit?” the doctor asked, impressed.
“Yes, I was, but with the changes in my country, KGB diminished in size, and I was, how you say, laid off?”
“What did you do with KGB? Can you say?”
It was as though he’d just admitted to being a sports star, Popov saw. “I was an intelligence officer. I gathered information, and I was a conduit for people in whom KGB had interest.”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, I met with certain people and groups to discuss . . . matters of mutual interest,” he replied coyly.
“Like who?”
“I am not supposed to say. Your Dr. Brightling knows. That is why he hired me, in fact.”
“But you’re part of the Project now, right?”
“I do not know what that means—John sent me here, but he didn’t say why.”
“Oh, I see. Well, you’ll be here for a while, Dmitriy.” That had been obvious from the fax the physician had received from New York. This Popov guy was now part of the Project, whether he wanted to be or not. He’d had his “B” shot, after all.
The Russian tried to recover control of the conversation: “I’ve heard that before, project—what project? What exactly are you doing here?”
For the first time, Killgore looked uncomfortable. “Well, John will brief you in on that when he gets out here, Dmitriy. So, how was dinner?”
“The food is good, for institutional food,” Popov replied, wondering what mine he’d just stepped on. He’d been close to something important. His instincts told him that very clearly indeed. He’d asked a direct question of someone who supposed that he’d already known the answer, and his lack of specific knowledge had surprised Killgore.
“Yeah, we have some good people here in food services.” Killgore finished his bread. “So, want to take a ride in the country?”
“Yes, I’d like that very much.”
“Meet me here tomorrow morning, say about seven, and I’ll show you around the right way.” Killgore walked away, wondering what the Russian was here for. Well, if John Brightling had personally recruited him, he had to be important to the Project—but if that were true, how the hell could he not know what the Project was all about? Should he ask someone? But if so, whom?
They knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Sullivan and Chatham waited a few minutes—they might have caught the guy on the toilet or in the shower—but there was no response. They took the elevator downstairs, found the doorman, and identified themselves.
“Any idea where Mr. Maclean is?”
“He left earlier today, carrying a few bags like he was going somewhere, but I don’t know where.”
“Cab to the airport?” Chatham asked.
The doorman shook his head. “No, a car came for him and headed off west.” He pointed that way, in case they didn’t know where west was.
“Did he do anything about his mail?”
Another headshake: “No.”
“Okay, thanks,” Sullivan said, heading off to where their Bureau car was parked. “Business trip? Vacation?”
“We can call his office tomorrow to find out. It’s not like he’s a real suspect yet, is it, Tom?”
“I suppose not,” Sullivan responded. “Let’s head off to the bar and try the photos on some more people.”
“Right,” Chatham agreed reluctantly. This case was taking away his TV time at home, which was bad enough. It was also going nowhere at the moment, which was worse.
Clark awoke to the noise and had to think for a second or so to remember that Patsy had moved in with them so as not to be alone, and to have her mother’s help with JC, as they were calling him. This time he decided to get up, too, despite the early hour. Sandy was already up, her maternal instincts ignited by the sound of a crying baby. John arrived in time to see his wife hand his newly re-diapered grandson to his daughter, who sat somewhat bleary-eyed in a rocking chair purchased for the purpose, her nightie open and exposing her breast. John turned away in mild embarrassment and looked instead at his similarly nightie-clad wife, who smiled benignly at the picture before her.
He was a cute little guy, Clark thought. He peeked back. JC’s mouth was locked onto the offered nipple and started sucking—maybe the only instinct human children were born with, the mother-child bond that men simply could not replicate at this stage in a child’s life. What a precious thing life was. Just days before, John Conor Chavez had been a fetus, a thing living inside his mother—and whether or not he’d been a living thing depended on what one thought of abortion, and that, to John Clark, was a matter of some controversy. He had killed in his life, not frequently, but not as seldom as he would have preferred, either. He told himself at such times that the people whose lives he took had deserved their fates, either because of actions or their associations. He’d also been largely an instrument of his country at those times, and hence able to lay off whatever guilt he might have felt on a larger identity. But now, seeing JC, he had to remind himself that every life he’d taken had started like this one had—helpless, totally dependent on the care of his mother, later growing into a manhood determined both by his own actions and the influence of others, and only then becoming a force for good or evil. How did that happen? What twisted a person to evil? Choice? Destiny? Luck, good or bad? What had twisted his own life to the good—and was his life a servant of the good? Just one more of the damned-fool things that entered your head at oh-dark-thirty. Well, he told himself, he was sure that he’d never hurt a baby during that life, however violent parts of it had been. And he never would. No, he’d only harmed people who had harmed others first, or threatened to do so, and who had to be stopped from doing so because the others he protected, either immediately or distantly, had rights as well, and he protected them and those from harm, and that settled the thoughts for the moment.
He took a step toward the pair, reached down to touch the little feet, and got no reaction, because JC had his priorities lined up properly at the moment. Food. And the antibodies that came with breast milk to keep him healthy. In time, his eyes would recognize faces and his little face would smile, and he’d learn to sit up, then crawl, then walk, and finally speak, and so begin to join the world of men. Ding would be a good father and a good model for his grandson to emulate, Clark was sure, especially with Patsy there to be a check on his father’s adverse tendencies. Clark smiled and walked back to bed, trying to remember exactly where Chavez the Elder was at the moment, and leaving the women’s work to the women of the house.
It was hours later when the dawn again awoke Popov in his motel-like room. He’d fallen quickly into a routine, first turning on his coffeemaker, then going into the bathroom to shower and shave, then coming out ten minutes later to switch on CNN. The lead story was about the Olympics. The world had become so dull. He remembered his first field assignment to London, as in his hotel he’d watched CNN comment and report on East-West differences, the movement of armies and the growth of suspicion between the political groups that had defined the world of his youth. He especially remembered the strategic issues so often misreported by journalists, both print and electronic: MIRVs and missiles, and throw weight, and ABM systems that had supposedly threatened to upset the balance of power. All things of the past now, Popov told himself. For him, it was as though a mountain range had disappeared. The shape of the world had changed virtually overnight, the things he’d believed to be immutable had indeed mutated into something he’d never believed possible. The global war he’d feared, along with his agency and his nation, was now no more likely than a life-ending meteor from the heavens.
It was time to learn more. Popov dressed and headed down to the cafeteria, where he found Dr. Killgore
eating breakfast, just as promised.
“Good morning, John,” the Russian said, taking his seat across the table from the epidemiologist.
“Morning, Dmitriy. Ready for your ride?”
“Yes, I think I am. You said the horse was gentle?”
“That’s why they call her Buttermilk, eight-year-old quarter horse mare. She won’t hurt you.”
“Quarter horse? What does that mean?”
“It means they only race a quarter mile, but, you know, one of the richest horse races in the world is for that distance, down in Texas. I forget what they call it, but the purse is huge. Well, one more institution we won’t be seeing much more of,” Killgore went on, buttering his toast.
“Excuse me?” Popov asked.
“Hmph? Oh, nothing important, Dmitriy.” And it wasn’t. The horses would survive for the most part, returning to the wild to see if they could make it after centuries of being adapted to human care. He supposed their instincts, genetically encoded in their DNA, would save most of them. And someday Project members and/or their progeny would capture them, break them, and ride them on their way to enjoy Nature and Her ways. The working horses, quarters and Appaloosas, should do well. Thoroughbreds he was less sure of, super-adapted as they were to do one thing—run in a circle as fast as their physiology would allow—and little else. Well, that was their misfortune, and Darwin’s laws were harsh, though also fair in their way. Killgore finished his breakfast and stood. “Ready?”
“Yes, John.” Popov followed him to the doors. Outside, Killgore had his own Hummer, which he drove to the southwest in the clear, bright morning. Ten minutes later they were at the horse barns. He took a saddle from the tack room and walked down to a stall whose door had BUTTERMILK engraved on the pine. He opened it and walked in, quickly saddled the horse, and handed Popov the reins.
“Just walk her outside. She won’t bite or kick or anything. She’s very docile, Dmitriy.”
“If you say so, John,” the Russian observed dubiously. He was wearing sneakers rather than boots, and wondered if that was important or not. The horse looked at him with her huge brown eyes, revealing nothing as to what, if anything, she thought of this new human who was leading her outside. Dmitriy walked to the barn’s large door, and the horse followed quietly into the clear morning air. A few minutes later, Killgore appeared, astride his horse, a gelding, so it appeared.
“You know how to get on?” the physician asked.
Popov figured he’d seen enough Western movies. He stuck his left foot into the stirrups and climbed up, swinging his right leg over and finding the opposite stirrup.
“Good. Now just hold the reins like this and click your tongue, like this.” Killgore demonstrated. Popov did the same, and the horse, dumb as she appeared to be, started walking forward. Some of this must be instinctive on his part, the Russian thought. He was doing things—apparently the right things—almost without instruction. Wasn’t that remarkable?
“There you go, Dmitriy,” the doctor said approvingly. “This is how it’s supposed to be, man. A pretty morning, a horse ’tween your legs, and lots of country to cover.”
“But no pistol.” Popov observed with a chuckle.
Killgore did the same. “Well, no Indians or rustlers here to kill, pal. Come on.” Killgore’s legs thumped in on his mount, making him move a little faster, and Buttermilk did the same. Popov got his body into a rhythm similar to that of Buttermilk’s and kept pace with him.
It was magnificent, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich thought, and now he understood the ethos of all those bad movies he’d seen. There was something fundamental and manly about this, though he lacked a proper hat as well as a six-gun. He reached into his pocket and took out his sunglasses, looked around at the rolling land and somehow felt himself to be a part of it all.
“John, I must thank you. I have never done this before. It is wonderful,” he said sincerely.
“It’s Nature, man. It’s the way things were always supposed to be. Come on, Mystic,” he said to his mount, speeding up a little more, looking back to see that Popov could handle the increased pace.
It wasn’t easy to synchronize his body movements in pace with the horse, but gradually Popov managed it, and soon pulled up alongside.
“So, this is how Americans settled the West?”
Killgore nodded. “Yep. Once this was covered with buffalo, three or four great herds, as far as the eye could see . . .
“Hunters did it, did it all in a period of about ten years, using single-shot Sharps buffalo guns mainly. They killed them for the hides to make blankets and stuff, for the meat—sometimes they killed ’em just for the tongues. Slaughtered ’em like Hitler did with the Jews.” Killgore shook his head. “One of the greatest crimes America ever committed, Dmitriy, just killed ’em just ’cause they were in the way. But they’ll be coming back,” he added, wondering how long it would take. Fifty years—he’d have a fair chance of seeing it then. Maybe a hundred years? They’d be letting the wolves and barren-grounds grizzly come back, too, but predators would come back slower. They didn’t breed as rapidly as their prey animals. He wanted to see the prairie again as it had once been. So did many other Project members, and some of them wanted to live in tepees, like the Indians had done. But that, he thought, was a little bit extreme—political ideas taking the place of common sense.
“Hey, John!” a voice called from a few hundred yards behind. Both men turned to see a figure galloping up to them. In a minute or so, he was recognizable.
“Kirk! When did you get out here?”
“Flew in last night,” Maclean answered. He stopped his horse and shook hands with Killgore. “What about you?”
“Last week, with the Binghamton crew. We closed that operation down and figured it was time to pull up stakes.”
“All of them?” Maclean asked in a way that got Popov’s attention. All of who?
“Yep.” Killgore nodded soberly.
“Schedule work out?” Maclean asked next, dismissing whatever it was that had upset him before.
“Almost perfectly on the projections. We, uh, helped the last ones along.”
“Oh.” Maclean looked down for a second, feeling bad, briefly, for the women he’d recruited. But only briefly. “So it’s moving forward?”
“Yes, it is, Kirk. The Olympics start day after tomorrow, and then . . .”
“Yeah. Then it starts for real.”
“Hello,” Popov said, after a second. It was as though Killgore had forgotten he was there.
“Oh, sorry, Dmitriy. Kirk Maclean, this is Dmitriy Popov. John sent him out to us a couple days ago.”
“Howdy, Dmitriy.” Handshakes were exchanged. “Russian?” Maclean asked.
“Yes.” A nod. “I work directly for Dr. Brightling. And you?”
“I’m a small part of the Project,” Maclean admitted.
“Kirk’s a biochemist and environmental engineer,” Killgore explained. “Also so good-looking that we had him do another little thing for us,” he teased. “But that’s over now. So, what broke you loose so early, Kirk?”
“Remember Mary Bannister?”
“Yeah, what about her?”
“The FBI asked me if I knew her. I kicked it around with Henriksen, and he decided to send me out a little early. I take it she’s . . .”
Killgore nodded matter-of-factly. “Yeah, last week.”
“So ‘A’ works?”
“Yes, it does. And so does ‘B.’ ”
“That’s good. I got my ‘B’ shot already.”
Popov thought back to his injection at Killgore’s hands. There had been a capital B on the vial label, hadn’t there? And what was this about the FBI? These two were talking freely, but it was like a foreign language—no, it was the speech of insiders, using internal words and phrases as engineers and physicians did, well, as intelligence officers did as well. It was part of Popov’s fieldcraft to remember whatever was said in front of him, however distant from his understanding, and he
took it all in, despite his befuddled expression.
Killgore led his horse off again. “First time out, Kirk?”
“First time on a horse in months. I had a deal with a guy in New York City, but I never really had time to do it enough. My legs and ass are gonna be sore tomorrow, John.” The bio-engineer laughed.
“Yeah, but it’s a good kind of sore.” Killgore laughed as well. He’d had a horse back in Binghamton, and he hoped that the family that kept it for him would let him out when the time came, so that Stormy would be able to feed himself . . . but then Stormy was a gelding, and therefore biologically irrelevant to the entire world except as a consumer of grass. Too bad, the physician thought. He’d been a fine riding horse.
Maclean stood in his stirrups, looking around. He could turn and look back at the Project buildings, but before him, and to left and right, little more than rolling prairie. Someday they’d have to burn down all the houses and farm buildings. They just cluttered the view.
“Look out, John,” he said, seeing some danger forward and pointing at the holes.
“What is this?” Popov asked.
“Prairie dogs,” Killgore said, letting his horse slow to a slow walk. “Wild rodents, they dig holes and make underground cities, called prairie-dog towns. If a horse steps into one, well, it’s bad for the horse. But if they walk slow, they can avoid the holes.”
“Rodents? Why don’t you deal with them? Shoot them, poison them? If they can hurt a horse, then—”
“Dmitriy, they’re part of Nature, okay? They belong here, even more than we do,” Maclean explained.
“But a horse is—” Expensive, he thought, as the doctor cut him off.
“Not part of Nature, not really,” Killgore went on. “I love ’em, too, but strictly speaking, they don’t belong out here either.”
“The hawks and other raptors will come back and control the prairie dogs,” Maclean said. “No chicken farmers will be hurting them anymore. Man, I love watching them work.”
“You bet. They’re nature’s own smart bomb,” Killgore agreed. “That was the real sport of kings, training a hawk to hunt off your fist for you. I might do some of that myself in a few years. I always liked the gyrfalcon.”