“I got the idea from you,” Treadwell said to Bob.
Some weeks ago Bob had told him the story about the French killer, Chantalle. Just as she was about to kill him, six years ago, Bob had sprayed her with a cockroach pheromone and spilled assassin bugs all over the floor. Before she could say sacre bleu, she had wheel bugs attacking the soft tissues of her eyes. They punctured the sclera and gnawed into her corneas. The piercing mouthparts of the jagged ambush bugs delivered a flood of digestive enzymes that liquified surface muscles and nerve endings under her skin.
Bob looked a bit embarrassed. “Actually, we don’t know if the bugs killed her. She might still have been alive when Wolfe shot her.”
“You’re too modest,” Treadwell said.
Klaus looked closely at the pheromone tanks. He said, “What is the dispersal rate?”
The nano-guy smiled. “You know what an angstrom is?”
“Smaller than a micron.”
“Boy howdy. The wavelength of red light is a little shorter than a micron. The smallest atoms are about two angstroms in diameter, about 1/5,000 of a micron.” He pointed at the narrow end of the cylinders. “These puppies have flat micronozzles etched out of silicon with a throat width on the order of eighty-five microns. We can damn near squeeze that stuff out by the molecule.” He pointed at the front of the Ro-bug. “The eyes are cameras, left for daylight, right for night vision. It’s got a 128 K ROM processor, differential GPS with wide area augmentation system, and five days of power.” He touched the rubbery track wheels at the bottom. “We’ve tested it in all sorts of terrain. It’ll go anywhere a real bug can, and faster.”
“What if it flips over?”
The guy placed it upside down on the work bench then pushed a button on the remote control. A tiny arm immediately flipped the Ro-bug upright.
“Cool,” Bob said.
“And of course the bug is bugged,” Treadwell said. “Along with everything else, it can monitor everything from conversations to the data on a wireless computer network.”
Bob pointed at something. “What’s that little ball around the thorax area?”
“Plastic explosive,” Treadwell said. “Can’t let anyone get their hands on this technology.”
“If they did,” the nano-guy said. “They lose the hand.” He pointed at the covered self-destruct button on the remote control unit.
Bob shook his head. “That’s a helluva bug.”
Klaus agreed. He was suitably impressed by the technology, but he still wondered how Treadwell planned to test their assassins’ envenomation mechanism on what they were still euphemistically calling ‘military targets.’ He was about to raise that question when the hangar’s big roll-up door began to clang open, followed by the beep-beep-beep of a panel truck backing into the building. The logo on the side of the truck said Atypical Resources, Inc.
Treadwell clapped his hands once and said, “Ah, here we go.”
Listed under several categories in the phone book, including Laboratory Equipment and Supplies, Atypical Resources was a privately owned company whose business was satisfying unusual requirements for military research, testing, and operations. By demonstrating a willingness to cross into gray (and black) legal areas, they earned a steady stream of contracts from the Department of Defense, the Pentagon, and the CIA.
The driver got out of the truck. He was an angry, tick-faced creep name of Lloyd. He took a parasitic drag on his cigarette before flipping it to the ground. He saw the group of men approaching and said, “One of you a Mr. Treadwell?”
“That would be me. You want me to sign for it?”
Lloyd shook his head. “I was never here.”
“Excellent,” Treadwell said.
Lloyd walked to the back of the truck and threw the doors open.
Bob and Klaus craned their necks to get a look. They stared at it for a moment to be sure, then they exchanged a nervous glance. From their vantage point, the only thing they could see in the dark cargo bed was a cage large enough to hold a man.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Father Paul nibbled on his cracker. It was stale, but the salt dissolving on his tongue was delicious. It was his first food in two days. He felt a twinge of guilt as he swallowed, and he prayed it wouldn’t derail the process. He needed all the help he could get.
Fasting has long been acknowledged as a way to help believers make difficult decisions, to receive God’s instructions. It slowed the physical functions so that the mind could be more in tune with Christ. But it was a lost spiritual discipline in an age of fast food, abundance, and self-indulgence. It had occurred to Father Paul that decisions reached during a fast—decisions assumed to be divinely inspired—might simply be the result of swings in blood sugar. Still, he had to do something. Ever since opening the duffle bag, he’d been struggling to receive God’s instructions. He hoped fasting would open his heart to the right path.
It was a Hobson’s choice or worse. Should he warn these two men—two killers according to the confession—that others were out to kill them? If he did and they were, in fact, assassins, then they would be free to continue killing and that would be blood on Father Paul’s hands. The alternative was to kill the two men. The upside here was that he would be saving the lives of all of their future targets and he’d collect $20 million with which he could do a lot of good.
He was sitting in his car across the road from the address he had found in the duffle bag along with the dossiers on Bob and Klaus. In the past forty-eight hours, he’d seen a woman and a teenage girl come and go from the house, but neither of the men seemed to be around. Based on the files, Father Paul assumed the females were the wife and daughter of the man named Bob. If that was true, and if the men weren’t there, Father Paul figured there was no point in waiting any longer.
He got out of the car carrying the duffle bag. He opened the trunk, set the bag inside. He was about to slam it shut when he had a thought. He unzipped the bag and pulled out a .45. He looked at it for a moment then snugged it into his waistband, covering it with his shirt tail. He closed the trunk and headed for the house.
Father Paul never noticed the man watching from the other car.
Katy was in the kitchen when the door bell rang the first time. Whoever it was would have to wait at least twelve more seconds. The bell rang again at the same time as the microwave. A few moments later Katy opened the door. She was holding a freshly nuked beef-and-cheese burrito. Standing there, waiting for the man to say something, Katy peeled back the plastic wrap and let the steam waft away. She looked him up and down as she took a bite of the burrito and chewed.
Father Paul felt the squeeze of his salivary glands. He flexed his jaw as he stared at the bitten end of the burrito, soft pinto beans in a beefy brown sauce with orange streaks of cheese. He caught himself licking his lips as he made eye contact with Katy and said, “Hello, I’m Father Paul.”
She took another bite of her lunch, rolled her eyes, and said, “Whatever.” She turned and yelled, “Mom, there’s, like, a priest or something at the front door.” Then she walked away, leaving Father Paul standing there, his stomach grumbling.
Mary came in from the backyard wearing jeans and a work shirt, soiled from gardening. When she saw the priest, she figured he was soliciting donations. She pulled off her gloves and said, “Can I help you?”
“Yes, hello, I’m Father Paul.” He hesitated, not sure what to say. “This is difficult. I hardly know where to begin.” He swayed a bit.
“Are you all right?” He was rather pale.
He closed his eyes briefly, nodding. “I haven’t eaten in two days.”
“Oh.” Mary smiled awkwardly, then gestured toward the kitchen. “Would you like something?”
He shook his head. “I’m fasting.”
“Oh. All right.” He was a large man, a bit
jowly. Perhaps it was a diet, she thought.
“It’s a way to help one make difficult decisions, to receive God’s instructions, to be more in tune with Christ.”
“I see.” Even though she really didn’t. She had agnostic leanings. Mary stepped back and gestured him in. “Would you like to come in, maybe sit for a minute?” Father Paul followed her into the living room and sat on the sofa. Mary brushed something from the back of her pants and sat across from him in an armchair. “Now, is there some way I can help you?”
“Yes,” Father Paul said, glancing around the room. “There is something I must tell your husband.”
Mary smiled in curious way. Bob had never mentioned knowing any priests. “He’s not here,” she said. “But I can give him a message.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you.” Disappointment in his voice.
“You can’t.”
He shook his head. “It’s confidential.”
“Well, I’m his wife,” she said cheerfully. “He trusts me. So can you.” A sincere smile coupled with an affirming nod.
“No, I’m afraid it’s a matter of priest-penitent confidentiality. The sacramental seal is inviolable.”
Confusion replaced Mary’s curious smile. She shook her head. “We’re not Catholic.”
“No, it was someone else’s confession, you see, but it concerned your husband and I’ve been struggling with how to convey the information without risking latae sententiae.”
“Of course.” She had no idea. It said so, right on her face.
“Automatic excommunication.”
“Oh.”
“On the one hand I think your husband would want to know what I have to tell him but on the other hand, if I violate the seal of the confessional…”
“You could be fired.”
“Worse,” Father Paul said. “Excommunicated. That’s why I’ve been fasting.” He sniffed the air for the burrito.
They sat in a reverent silence for a moment before Mary said, “Here’s an idea.” She leaned forward with a smarty-pants expression. “Couldn’t you just tell me and then go to confession about it?”
Father Paul looked up at the idea, momentarily hopeful. “I hadn’t thought of that.” After thinking about it he said, “No, you can’t commit a sin with the intention of seeking forgiveness for it.” He smiled sadly, shaking his head. “That would be too easy.”
Mary smiled back in sympathy, nodding. “They think of everything.”
“They have nothing else to do.”
“Well,” Mary said. “Do you mind if I just ask a few questions?”
“No, go ahead.” Father Paul hoped she could find some way to get the information from him, to lift his burden without any cost to him.
Mary thought for a moment, then chuckled. “I’m not sure what I should ask.”
A man’s voice came from behind, startling Mary. He said, “I’d ask him about the gun in his pants.”
Chapter Thirty
Lloyd, the queasy, tick-faced driver, got a couple of guys to help him pull the cage from the truck. It had long poles attached on each side and the men lifted the cage onto their shoulders, like African porters in some old jungle movie.
It came as a surprise to both Bob and Klaus that inside the cage was what looked like a small, hairy cowboy. At first he was slumped against the bars, as if sleeping off a bender, but when they brought the cage into the light, he looked up. His big ears stuck out like jug handles under a smutty Stetson. Bob wasn’t sure if he was relieved it was a chimpanzee instead of a man, but that’s what it was. A chimp dressed in a tattered old cowboy outfit, complete with a holster and a pair of tarnished six guns. He tilted his head back and blew a raspberry in their general direction.
“His name’s BeeBo,” Treadwell said. “Apparently they got him from an old theatrical agent. Had a client did animal acts passed away and left him the chimp, two ponies, and a flatulent lion.” He pointed at BeeBo. “According to the agent, that’s the last chimp to appear on the Ed Sullivan show. Did a few commercials after that but…” He shook his head. “He’s too old to work now. Apparently they get nasty and don’t obey too well after a certain age.”
“Sounds like my daughter,” Bob said.
The cage was too wide to fit through the door into the test area. Lloyd was standing there, trying to figure the best way to get BeeBo into the arena when it hit him from behind. It took only a moment for Lloyd to figure out what it was. A fistful of stink, dark brown and still warm, sliding down the back of his neck, foul beyond words. “Goddammit!” Lloyd sprayed obscenities as he moved in a herky-jerky circle trying to shake the shit off his skin. “You stupid fucking ape!”
BeeBo was jumping up and down with a shit-flinging grin on his little cowboy face. He shrieked in joy and blew another raspberry, this one aimed at Lloyd.
The guys from the special effects house were doubled over. The others were doing their best not to laugh, for Lloyd’s sake.
But it was too late. Lloyd already felt the hot blood of embarrassment in his ears. He turned in a fury and jammed a cattle prod into the cage. BeeBo shrieked again, this time in pain, and withdrew into the corner, nursing the sore.
“I didn’t move to Los Angeles to be a goddamn chimp wrangler,” Lloyd thought. “I did Shakespeare in the Fucking Park. I had that national toothpaste spot last year. [He was the “before tartar control” teeth.] But now, just because of that stupid thing at that stupid club on Sunset that night—hell, that was months ago—nobody’s returning my calls. And now I’m just the guy with chimp shit in my hair.”
Someone tossed Lloyd a roll of paper towels as he stormed off toward a restroom.
Bob felt a sense of unease at what was to come. He turned to Treadwell and, lowering his voice, said, “Is it legal to use chimps for…experiments like this?” By which he meant is it legal to kill one?
“It is for us,” Treadwell said. “DARPA’s funded through the DOD, not the NIH, so we’re not regulated by the Animal Welfare or Health Research Extension Act or any of that nonsense. Believe it or not, Congress occasionally passes laws more concerned about people than animals.” Treadwell waved a dismissive hand in the air as he continued, “We’re supposed to file something with the Office of Laboratory Animal Welfare, but why bother?” He made a vague gesture toward the ceiling. “Higher authority,” he said with a wink. “Let them have dominion over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. I’m pretty sure that includes monkeys.”
As Treadwell walked off to speak to the nano-tech guys, Klaus nudged Bob and said, “Dominion over every creeping thing?” He was incredulous. “Is he serious?”
“I think he’s serious about this test,” Bob said, looking around, not sure for what. “It looks like BeeBo here is about to be subjected to some post 9/11 thinking.”
Lloyd returned from the washroom, still fuming, and resumed trying to figure out how to get the cage into the enclosure, finally deciding to use a hydraulic lift to lower it in.
Bob stepped closer and looked at BeeBo. Their eyes met and they held one another’s gaze briefly. In that moment, Bob thought about all the people he’d known with less intelligence behind their eyes and, ironically, with less humanity. The evolutionary kinship was obvious, undeniable, even humbling. Except to some. He turned and walked toward Treadwell. “You can’t just kill him,” Bob said.
Before Treadwell could respond, Lloyd snorted a reply over his shoulder. “Shit, give me five minutes with that stupid monkey and I’ll kill him.” He jammed the cattle prod into the cage again but BeeBo dodged it.
Treadwell folded his arms while narrowing his mind. “Like I said last week, Bob. This is military research, not a place for the squeamish.”
Bob looked at BeeBo, then back at Treadwell. “Squeamishness isn’t the issue.”
Tre
adwell turned on him and said, “You have a better idea, Bob? You told me yourself the venom doesn’t work on standard lab animals. What should we do? Use people?” He paused a moment, suddenly disappointed that he hadn’t thought to make inquiries about getting some ‘detainees’ from the military prison at Guantanamo.
“Of course not,” Bob said. “But there’s bound to be a better way.”
As a matter of fact, Treadwell had approached the Governor of Texas about using death row inmates for this sort of thing but the talks didn’t get very far for reasons Treadwell was still unclear about, especially since it was the Governor of Texas. He said, “Look, we can’t send a weapon into theater without testing it. We can’t put troops in danger like that. It’s very simple. Winning the war against terror is more important than this run-down old monkey.”
Klaus didn’t care much for Treadwell’s dismissive characterization of a primate as fine as BeeBo, but he could see his point. Why spend millions to research and develop a weapon if you weren’t going to test it at the end?
Bob used his thumb as if gesturing at their conversation last week. “When you said you’d find a way to test the bugs, I assumed you meant computer modeling or something on the cellular level. Not this. This is barbaric.”
Treadwell put on some exasperation now. “Ask yourself this question,” he said. “You think anybody on those airplanes or in the World Trade Center would have objected to this test?” Treadwell shook his head. “I’m surprised at you, Bob. I mean you jumped at the chance to work on this project. You knew you were designing weapons, and now you’re upset about this? You told me you stood in your own home and watched your bugs kill two or three people.”
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