by Jon Land
“Then that explains why they burned the fields,” Dogan concluded. “The spread of the fungus had to be stopped.”
Halloran’s gaze was noncommittal. “Fire would have knocked most of the spoors out by denying them a food supply, but these little bastards are smart. They travel with the winds in weather systems. There had to be something more.” He thought briefly. “This town you’ve described, was it surrounded by mountains?”
“Yes, on all sides.”
“There’s the rest of your answer,” Halloran said. “Mountains in these parts can block winds plenty long enough for the rest of the spoors to die for lack of food supply—that is, of course, because so few of them were released in the first place. A little more of that mist and the stuff would be all over South America by now.”
“That fast?”
“Four to six days. Winds and weather systems, remember?”
“Oh, Christ …” Suddenly the room felt even hotter to Dogan. He reached down for his cola to find that he had drained the glass without realizing it. The ceiling fan swirled noisily above. He gulped down some stale air. “And what if this same … fungus was released in the United States?”
“How much?”
“A lot more.”
“If the logistics were right, there wouldn’t be a damn field crop left in the whole country within ten days, two weeks at the outside.” Halloran paused. “This part’s just theoretical, right?”
“Sure. What happens next, after all the crops are gone?”
“To begin with, lots of people will go hungry for more reasons than one. The United States controls more than sixty percent of the world’s exportable grain and other foodstuffs basic for human existence. We maintain more of a monopoly on food exports than all the OPEC nations combined have over oil exports. So if we lost our crops, it’s not an exaggeration to say our balance of trade wouldn’t exist anymore. We’d suddenly have to become a food-importing nation. And, even given the vast stockpiles we keep, the first impact of that would be staggeringly inflated prices for all farm-based products. Before long, white bread will end up costing more than caviar.”
“But wouldn’t it get better once the imports started coming in?”
Halloran shook his head. “Coming from where? The reserves of other food-exporting nations aren’t nearly as strong as ours, and what little they could get to the U.S. would be subject to the equally pressing problem of distribution. We’re just not set up for that. What criteria are we going to use to decide who gets the food and how? If you leave it to a market of drastically inflated prices, only the rich will be able to eat. Americans will starve, Ross, lots of them.”
“With no relief in sight?”
Halloran’s cheeks were dripping with sweat now. “The worse would be yet to come. Remember, we’re not just talking about farmers here. What about the dairy and poultry industries, not to mention beef ranchers? The quantity of field crops animals require is staggering. Cut back on their food and you end up with less meat, less chicken, and less dairy products. And don’t forget that field crops are actually grasses, so we’re also looking at the loss of all grazing land. Need I tell you the results?”
“Massive price rises in all food-related areas,” Dogan replied softly. “People would be priced straight out of eating.”
Halloran nodded, licked the sweat from his lips. “And inflation would continue to skyrocket as supplies continued to diminish. The farm belt states would face immediate bankruptcy. Defaulting on loans would cause panic and runs on banks that could not possibly meet the demand for cash. The government would be forced to step in with massive stopgap spending measures, which would push inflation off the board. Under these conditions you can forget all about Washington’s capacity to provide long-term relief.”
“Depression,” muttered Dogan. “But it would be temporary, right? I mean, the farmers would just have to start over from scratch.”
Halloran dabbed a rumpled piece of notebook paper against his face. “Nope, that’s the clincher. Soil that cannot sustain crops will erode immediately. It would be useless for a hundred years or more. Much of the middle U.S. will literally become a giant mud slide and will end up being washed down the waterways. The effect of this hyper-fertilized water packed with lingering pesticides rushing into the Ohio, the Missouri, and especially the Mississippi River would be an oceanic algae boom in the Gulf of Mexico. Hundreds of square miles of ocean would be turned into a sludge of green, choking off the direct oxygen needed to sustain marine life. Our coastal fishing industry would become virtually nonexistent, worsening the food scarcity all the more.”
“I imagine the rest of the world won’t be faring much better,” Dogan said lamely.
“Even worse, if you can believe that. Without us to supply them with food at drastically reduced prices or through direct aid, developing and Third World countries will be totally unable to feed their people. England, France, and Japan won’t be far behind either, nor will the effects be limited to our allies. Last year we exported fifty million tons of grain to the Soviet Union and another twenty to other Warsaw Pact nations. People starve just as quickly behind the Iron Curtain as in front of it.”
“But say someone else was able to supply them—and us—with crops.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if a powerful force was able to organize all of South America into a vast food-exporting consortium? What if they had discovered a means to genetically increase crop growth enough to turn this whole continent into a greenhouse?”
Some of the red seemed to fade from Halloran’s face. “Then that force would be in a position to hold the rest of the world hostage. The results would be a massive swing of global economic power over to it, political power too; for, in effect, the whole world would know where its next meal was coming from … or not coming from.” Halloran hesitated. “But don’t expect any of this to make things any easier for the boys and girls back home. The good old U.S. of A. would still be facing drastic economic realignment.”
“Economic what?”
“Realignment. If a system doesn’t work anymore, it’s got to be thrown out and replaced. Regardless of what happens in South America, we’d still lack even the semblance of an economy as it’s known today. No trading, no commodities, no stock exchanges, no banks as they function now, and cash itself would become increasingly worthless.”
Then something suddenly occurred to Dogan. “But how could crops be grown in South America or anywhere else once the fungus is released? It would spread across the whole globe, wouldn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. This fungus of yours could easily be engineered to be chemotrophic, meaning exposure to sunlight and oxygen causes it to gradually break down. It might have a built-in time clock of, say ten days—plenty of time to knock out the United States, Canada, and parts of Central America, while sparing South America and the rest of the world.” Halloran ran another piece of crumpled paper over his face. “But don’t worry because ten days would be plenty of time to plunge half our population into very real poverty. You’d see the evolution of a new two-class system divided simply into those who can afford food and those who can’t. You’d need martial law, curfews, holding pens for the millions of homeless driven to live in the streets. There’d be more people unemployed than working, with the gap continuing to widen because the resources and capital wouldn’t be available to reverse the trend. I could go on forever with this, but then so can you. Just use your imagination.”
Dogan had been doing just that for much of the flight, trying to see what the world would be like as Halloran described the Committee’s vision. Now, as the 747 streaked for the runway, his mind turned to more immediate concerns. After he had spoken to Halloran, Dogan had initiated a series of calls through usual channels in an attempt to make contact with his own people apart from Division Six. None of the conversations had gone well. There was hesitance, uncertainty, contrivance in the responses of his contacts, and only one explanation was possible
: Since Dogan had failed to comply with his orders, he had been quarantined. Field operatives would have been warned not to cooperate with him, especially those he’d worked with in the past. And if the quarantine order was restricted, as he fully expected it was, isolation was just the beginning. Qualified field agents would have an open mandate to take him out.
And there was more. Dogan tried to recall the final words of the woman he had killed in the shack overlooking San Sebastian.
The Committee is changing and there is nothing you can do to stop it. It‘s too late. You can‘t fool me with your words. I know they sent you.
The last sentences seemed to indicate a charge that he was part of the Committee. But if so, who did she represent? Perhaps a faction of the Committee had broken off. But what would such a faction have to gain? The operation was well underway. U.S. crops were going to be wiped out while the Committee began the process of turning South America into the greatest crop producer the world had ever seen. So why would there be need for change? What was it he couldn’t stop?
The 747’s tires grazed the runway. Dogan rejoiced to be back on the ground, ready to pick up the elusive trail once again. His trip had filled in all the missing pieces of Locke’s story. He recalled the college professor’s rendition of Lubeck’s final words on tape.
I‘m in a position overlooking the fields now. It appears that … Oh, my God. This can‘t be. It can’t be! I‘m looking out at—
Lubeck must have been looking at the very sight the boy had described for Dogan in San Sebastian: a few fertile rows of crops standing amid utter destruction. The shock of that would have triggered his final, panicked words. Lubeck had known all along the key was food. He must have realized instantly the true significance of San Sebastian. And his report would have detailed it, but they had gotten to him. Yes, it made sense.
What didn’t make sense was that on top of all this, something else was going on, as hinted at by the woman in the shack.
The 747 came to a halt at the terminal building.
The passengers started crowding into the aisles and he joined them. His isolation was a temporary matter. He would contact Vaslov with news of a shadowy terrorist group called SAS-Ultra. Its one-eyed leader had to be found and convinced to join him in attempting to destroy the Committee.
Locke would be waiting for him at the Rome Hilton. Dogan would begin the process from there.
Forenzo, the hotel manager, knew his old friend would be arriving sometime that night. Of course, the American could not be allowed to enter the hotel. The forces that had caught Locke were undoubtedly still about and discretion had to be observed. It would be a small matter to ward Dogan away and one that Forenzo would take on himself. His friend would be looking for him and Forenzo had already prepared the signal. The only other thing required was his presence in the lobby.
Night had already fallen when Forenzo returned to his windowless office. The hotel still had to operate and he was behind in his work. He opened the door to his office and limped inside, flicking on the light switch.
Nothing happened. The bulb must have blown, he figured. He had started to turn back out the door when he felt his shoulders grabbed and twisted. At the same time, the door closed all the way plunging the room into total blackness.
Forenzo was shoved viciously against the wall and was about to scream when he felt the burst of agony in his abdomen. All that emerged was a gasp and a gurgle as the blade was pushed in and drawn up, splitting his midsection in two. Blood poured up his throat but Forenzo was dead before it began to spill out. He slumped down against the wall drenched with his own insides.
Minutes later, after depositing the manager’s body in a pile of dirty linen, Shang stepped into a room on the tenth floor and began the wait for Dogan.
Audra St. Clair held the receiver tighter to her ear.
“Dogan will be out of the way by the end of this evening,” Mandala reported.
“And Locke?”
Mandala hesitated. “He slipped away from us again in Plymouth but he won’t get far.”
The old woman breathed a sigh of relief. She was playing with dynamite here, but a person did not reign over the Committee for a quarter century without developing a stomach for such things. Matters were out of hand, she knew that now along with the fact that Mandala was to blame. He was shrewd and cunning and would not be easy to best. She had defeated other worthy opponents, though, and he would prove no different.
“You learned nothing from Locke in Rome?”
“I’m afraid he’s better than we thought. Displaying his son’s finger should have gained us everything but, still, he held back.”
“You underestimated him, Mr. Mandala.”
“We all did.”
“If you find him, you will bring him to me with no more of these childish games. It’s time for Mr. Locke to join our crusade instead of fighting it. That means the release of his son is mandated. Understood?”
Mandala remained silent.
“I asked if my instructions were understood. I want the boy returned safely to America.”
“As you wish, madam.”
Mandala hung up the phone, hoping he hadn’t hesitated long enough to make the old bitch suspicious of what was really going on without her knowing. Her orders had puzzled him greatly. Not that they mattered, of course. Locke’s son was to be executed just after midnight unless instructions were received to the contrary. And since he had no intention of issuing them, the boy for all intents and purposes was already dead.
Chapter 26
IT WAS PITCH BLACK when Nikki pulled her car to a halt down the road from Bruggar House.
“You still haven’t told me a damn thing about who you are or what your stake in this is,” Locke said. “You are obviously part of the Committee, yet you acted against those who eliminated Burgess and his men at the Holiday Inn.”
“If you know that, you know enough for now,” she said firmly.
“But at the airport in Rome this morning, how did you know I’d use you the way I did?”
“I made myself available to aid your escape. You chose the proper strategy. I was impressed.”
“Spoken like a true professional… .”
“It’s going to take one to save your son’s life.”
That silenced Locke and suddenly he understood. Nikki was a killer, same as the dark man and Shang. The hardness of her eyes now was identical to theirs—and Dogan’s—but the look didn’t fit her. She should have been the smiling, happy girl from the airport. In the world he had entered, nothing could be taken for what it seemed to be. People became whatever best suited them at the time, revealing their true selves only rarely. Chris wondered if he was seeing Nikki’s now. He followed her from the car.
They had discussed the plan on the way into Cadgwith Cove, going over and over it along the Lizard. She estimated four or five men would be inside Bruggar House. The key was swift and silent action. The men’s orders would be to kill their hostage immediately if assaulted. They could not know an assault was underway until it was too late.
Nikki opened the trunk and handed Locke a pair of Mac-10 machine guns.
“Thirty-shot clips. Nine millimeter,” she explained. “One for each of us but you’ll have to carry both and stay out of sight until I get inside. I’d expect them to have a man watching the outside from one of the upstairs windows. That means you’ll have to approach from the side. That’s a lot of ground to cover in very little time.”
“I can handle it.”
“Once inside, your job is to protect my back. With any luck, my gun will be the only one we’ll need.”
Nikki grabbed a twin pair of sheathed blades from the trunk and stuck them on opposite sides of her belt. Chris noted their unique shape, blades circling off in near forty-five degree angles from the hilts.
“Kukhri knives,” he muttered, “weapon of the legendary Gurkha soldiers from India. Where in hell did you learn how to use them?”
Nikki made no reply,
just closed the trunk and started away. Locke followed in step toward the dark outline on the cliff that was Bruggar House.
The leader of the team holding the boy inside did not like working with Chinks. Too damn creepy for his tastes. The two they had sent him this time were better than most, but he still avoided turning his back on them.
He was a bear of a man with a pockmarked face and had reserved the duty of killing their hostage for himself. If the Chinks didn’t like it that was too fucking bad. He would have preferred to be done with the job already, but the orders specified midnight and the damn Chinks always insisted orders be followed to the letter. He didn’t want to push things too far with them. They were slippery creatures, these two, small but incredibly quick.
Now midnight was almost here and the leader was spinning the cylinder of his Magnum. A long time ago he might have felt pity for the fair-haired boy with the blood-dried bandaged around his mangled hand, perhaps even regret at having to kill him. Tonight, though, all he felt was amazement at the job the damn Chinks had done on him with their knives, a surgical masterpiece.
Little bastards had been good for something, after all.
Locke split from Nikki halfway down the street and moved toward the cliff out of sight from Bruggar House. Nikki approached straight on. Chris kept her in view as long as he could, then stepped up his pace when she disappeared into the darkness.
Nikki moved right up the front walk without hesitating and rapped the brass knocker hard.
“Hey, is anybody home? Come on, I need help!”
Above her in a second-floor window, a shadow flickered. Obviously the lookout. She rapped the knocker harder.
“Come on, I know there’s somebody in there.”
She heard footsteps approaching but the shadow remained in the upstairs window. That was bad. If he saw Locke coming, the boy would probably be killed.
Nikki heard locks being turned inside the heavy door. Still no lights had gone on outside, leaving her Kukhri shielded by darkness. The door opened. From the dimness inside, a face peered out, inspecting her.