by Dean Koontz
In the book-lined first-floor study of his elegant town-house in the Georgetown section of the capital city, Robert McAlister poured himself a third bourbon on the rocks and returned with it to his desk. He sat down and had time for one sip before the telephone rang. It was the call that he had been waiting for since ten o'clock. He said, "Hello, Mr. President."
"I'm sorry to be late, Bob."
"That's all right, sir."
"It's this flare-up in the Mideast."
"Certainly."
"Ever since they discovered those new Israeli oil deposits, it's been a nightmare."
"Yes, sir."
The President sighed and clicked his tongue. "Any progress on your end of the Dragonfly mess?"
"Not much," McAlister said. "It's been a bad day right from the start—thanks in part to your Mr. Rice."
The President clicked his tongue against his teeth again. "Andy? What did Andy do?"
McAlister closed his eyes and held the glass of bourbon against his forehead. "I'm sorry, sir. It's a small thing. Inconsequential, really. I shouldn't even have mentioned it. But I'm so tensed up—"
"I want to know." He clicked his tongue.
"Well, he was supposed to round up a dozen federal marshals—"
"He didn't?"
"He did. But he didn't call them until around ten o'clock last night. Now, some of them weren't scheduled for duty, and they'd made plans for an extra-long weekend. They went home yesterday and packed suitcases and loaded up campers . . . and then had to unload and unpack when Rice called them late last night. They weren't happy this morning, and the apologies were mine to make." He lowered the glass of bourbon to the desk. "Oh, what the hell, it's really nothing. I'm just frustrated by all of this, and I'm trying to find a convenient punching bag."
"No, you're right, Bob. There was no reason he couldn't have called the marshals before five yesterday. I'm going to mention this to Andy in the morning." Click! went his tongue.
"Well, it really is petty of me. After everything that has happened today, the murder and all—"
"Murder?" the President asked.
"You don't know about that?"
"I've been tied up on this Mideast thing."
McAlister swallowed some bourbon. "The best investigative lawyer I have is a man named Bernie Kirk-wood."
"I've met him. He's done a great job for you these last six months," the President said. He didn't click his tongue.
What was he doing instead? McAlister wondered. Boring at his ears? Drumming his fingers on the desk? Or perhaps he was picking his nose—
"Bob? Are you there?"
"Sorry, sir. Wool gathering."
"Bernie Kirkwood."
"Yes, sir. Early this afternoon Bernie came up with what we thought was a damned good lead. He was working on a list of names—scientists with experience in biological-weapons research. And he discovered that a man named Potter Cofield had once worked for Dr. Olin Wilson. Furthermore, Cofield had received a promotion at the Pentagon almost entirely on the recommendation of Wilson."
"Ah," the President said.
"Next, Bernie learned that Dr. Cofield had retired from his job at the Pentagon two years ago."
"How old was he?"
"Fifty."
"It's possible to retire from government service that young."
"Yes, sir. But Cofield wasn't the kind of man to pack it up and lie in the Caribbean sun. Bernie studied his record and talked to a few of Cofield's friends. The man lived for his research."
"I see."
"So Bernie, two other lawyers, and the federal marshal who's protecting them, went to talk to Cofield. He was dead."
"How?"
"Stabbed repeatedly in the chest and throat."
"My God!"
McAlister swallowed some bourbon. He felt lousy. "His house had been torn up a bit. As if a burglar had been going through the drawers looking for cash and valuables."
"But you don't think it was a burglar?"
"The place hadn't been torn up enough. It was a very hasty job, a cover, nothing more. Besides, Co-field still had his wallet, and there was seventy dollars in it."
"Any clues?"
"We brought in the FBI," McAlister said. "They've got some of the best forensic men combing the house. But I don't have much hope that anything'll come from that. For one thing, we can't trust everyone in the FBI. And for another, these killers are professionals. They don't leave fingerprints."
"What about the police?"
"We didn't inform them," McAlister said. "If we had, the press would have been crawling all over the house. And sure as hell, someone from the Times or the Post would pick up on the whole Dragonfly mess by tomorrow morning."
"They're good reporters," the President said.
"One other thing about Cofield."
"What's that?"
"He was killed no more than half an hour before we got to him."
The President clicked his tongue: he had come full circle. "So it isn't just a case of The Committee routinely killing off the men who worked with Wilson."
"That's right. Cofield was killed because the other side knew we wanted to talk to him. And the only way they could know that is if they've got somebody inside my organization."
"Who?"
"I haven't any idea." He rattled the ice cubes in his glass and wished he could put the phone down to go get another drink. He was ordinarily a light drinker, but these last several months had given him a taste for Wild Turkey.
After clicking his tongue twice, the President said, "What are you going to do?"
"Just be careful, watch everyone closely, and hope the damned son of a bitch will trip himself up sooner or later." Ordinarily, he was no more of a curser than a drinker. But that had changed too.
"It's not likely that he will," the President said after a few seconds of thought. "Trip himself up, I mean."
"I know. But I don't see how else I can handle it."
"What about the agent that Berlinson killed out there in Carpinteria? Anything on him yet?"
"No leads at the moment. Not on him or his partner. We're verifying the whereabouts of every current and ex-agent, but this is going to take a good deal of time."
"Have you heard from Canning?"
"His cover is blown."
"But how is that possible?"
"I don't know," McAlister said wearily. "The only people who knew about him were me, you, and Rice."
"Where is he now?"
"Tokyo."
"Then it's about time for us to send his name along to the Chairman."
"No, sir. Canning just arrived in Tokyo. He's a full day behind schedule, thanks to some trouble he ran into in Los Angeles." He quickly explained about that.
"Yes, Bob, but now that his cover has been blown, I don't see any reason for us to keep his identity a secret from the Chairman until the very last minute."
"Well, sir, the Chairman's going to want to know how Canning will be arriving in Peking. You can tell him our man will be aboard one of the two dozen authorized flights from Tokyo to Peking. But I'd like to keep that a secret until the plane is in the air."
"Okay," the President said. "We'll send all the data except the name of the flight—and we'll stat that by satellite as soon as it takes off from Tokyo. Which flight is it?"
"For now," McAlister said, "I'd like to keep it a secret from you as well as the Chairman, sir."
The President hesitated, sighed, and said, "Very well. Is there anything else?"
Once more the President had stopped clicking his tongue. McAlister was happier when he could hear that sound, for then he didn't have to wonder what the man was doing. He longed for another series of clicks. He thought; I'm going mad. And he said, "Sir, there's something I believe we have to do, but it's beyond my jurisdiction. Are you open for a suggestion?"
"I'm always open for suggestions."
"Arrest A. W. West."
There was a long silence on the line.
"Sir,
" McAlister said, "we strongly suspect that he's one of the men behind The Committee, behind Dragonfly. Arresting him might throw the organization into confusion. That might buy us time. And they might panic, start making mistakes."
"We have no proof against him," the President said sternly. "We may suspect that West is behind it, but we have nothing that would convince a judge."
"Then arrest him for the Kennedy assassinations. We know that he was one of the people who financed all of that."
"We have circumstantial proof. Only circumstantial proof. We may know that he was part of a conspiracy, but again we have nothing to show a judge, nothing concrete. Furthermore, I thought we had all made a policy decision not to open that can of worms and throw the country into a turmoil."
McAlister sagged in his chair.
"Do you agree, Bob?"
"Yes, sir," he said, exhausted. The bourbon was getting to him. His mind was clouded.
"I'll leave instructions with my secretary to put you through to me at any hour. If something comes up, call me at once."
"Yes, sir. And, Mr. President?"
"Yes?"
"If you have any speaking engagements over the next few days—cancel them."
"I have none," the President said soberly.
"Don't even go for walks on the White House grounds."
"And stay away from windows too?"
"Sir, if you were assassinated now, we'd be thrown into such turmoil that we'd never be able to stop Dragonfly—if it's stoppable under any conditions."
"You're right, of course. And I've had the same thoughts myself. Did you take my advice about a bodyguard?"
"Yes, sir," McAlister said. "There are five men stationed in my house tonight."
"FBI?"
"No, sir. I don't trust the FBI. These are Pinkerton men. I hired them out of my own pocket"
"I suppose that's wise."
McAlister sipped some of the melted ice in his glass. "We sound like true psychotics, thoroughbred paranoids. I wonder if we're ready for an institution?"
"Someone once said that if you think everyone is out to get you, and everyone is out to get you, then you're not a paranoid but merely a realist."
Sighing, McAlister said, "Yes, but what are we coming to? What are we coming to when wealthy men can hire the assassination of the President—and get away with it? What are we coming to when private citizens and crackpot elements of the CIA can find the means to wage biological warfare against a foreign country? What are we coming to when all this can be happening—and you and I are so relatively calm about it, reasonable about it?"
"Bob, the world isn't going to hell in a handbasket —if that's what you're saying. It got pretty bad there for a while. But we're straightening it up, cleaning it up. That's what my administration is all about."
And how many times have I heard that before? McAlister wondered.
The President said, "Bit by bit we're putting it all back together, and don't you forget that."
"I wonder," McAlister said. He was seldom this morose, and he realized that Dragonfly was the final catalyst necessary to start major changes in him. He didn't know what those changes might be; they were still developing. "Sometimes I think the world just gets crazier and crazier. It certainly isn't the world that I was taught about when I was a young man in Boston."
"You're just tired."
"I suppose."
"Do you want me to relieve you? Would you like someone else to take over the agency?"
McAlister sat up straight. "Oh, Christ, no! No, sir." He wiped one hand across his face. "I can't think of any other poor son of a bitch"—and here he was cursing again—"who could have stood up to these last six months as well as I have. That's not egomania—it's just fact."
"I have faith in you."
"Thank you."
"We'll get through this."
"I hope you're right."
"I want to be informed the moment there are any major developments. And if you don't call me, if nothing comes up, I'll still give you a ring around five o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
"Yes, sir."
"Get some rest."
"I'll try."
"Goodnight, Bob."
"Goodnight, sir."
The President clicked his tongue and hung up.
While McAlister was on the telephone with the President, Andrew Rice was in his car, cruising around one of the unofficial red-light districts of Washington. He drove slowly past a couple of blocks of cocktail lounges, cheap bars, adult movie theaters and bookstores, boutiques, pawnshops, and shuttered delicatessens. Young and generally attractive girls, alone and in groups of two or three, stood at the curb near the bus stops. Although they were dressed and posed provocatively, many of them were trying to look—for the benefit of the police, who were not deceived but pretended to be—as if they were waiting for a bus or a cab or their boyfriends. They were all prostitutes; and Rice had already driven through the area once before in order to study and compare the merchandise. Finally, he turned a corner, pulled his Thunderbird to the curb, stopped near two flashily dressed young girls, and put down the automatic window on the passenger's side.
A tall blonde in a tight white pantsuit and a short red vinyl jacket leaned in at the open window. She smiled at him and said, "Hello there."
"Hi."
"Nice night, after all that rain."
"Yes, it is."
She looked him over, studied the leather-upholstered interior of the car. She said nothing more.
"Ah . . ." His hands were slippery with sweat. He was gripping the wheel so hard that his knuckles were bloodless; they poked up sharp and hard in his fat fingers. "I'm looking for someone."
"What's his name? Maybe I know him."
You rotten bitch, he thought. He took his wallet from his inside jacket pocket. "How much?"
She pretended to be confused. "For what?"
"You know."
"Look, mister, so far as I know you're a cop. And I ain't going to proposition no cop, no way."
"Sex," he said.
"Not interested," she said, turning away from the window.
"Hey! What about your friend?" He nodded at the girl behind her.
"I'll ask her."
The other girl came to the window. She was a petite brunette, in her late teens or early twenties. She was wearing tight jeans and a long-sleeved white sweater and a short buckskin jacket. "Yeah?"
"How much?"
"You just did that routine with Velma."
"Okay, okay." Embarrassed, he told her what he wanted.
She appraised the car and said, "Seventy bucks."
"Okay."
"You have a motel room, or what?"
"I thought maybe we could use your place," he said.
"That's ten extra."
"Okay."
"Eighty—in advance."
"Sure."
She went over to the blonde, and they talked for almost a minute. Then she came back, got in the car, and gave him her address.
She had three rooms and a bath on the fourth floor of a thirty-year-old apartment house. There was a new wall-to-wall carpet in every room, including the kitchen; but she didn't have much furniture. What pieces she did have were expensive and in good taste.
In the bedroom, when they had both undressed, he said, "I'll stand up. You get on your knees."
"Whatever makes you happy." She got down before him and took his penis in one hand.
Before she could bring it to her lips, he chopped a knee into her chin and knocked her backward. As she fell he tried to imagine that she was not a hooker, that she was McAlister, that he was beating McAlister. He kicked her alongside the head and laughed when her eyes rolled back. He imagined that he was kicking McAlister and David Canning and the President and everyone else who had ever gotten the best of him or held authority over him. He even imagined that he was kicking A. W. West—and that made him feel best of all. He stopped kicking her and stood over her, gasping for breath. Then he dropp
ed to his knees beside her and touched the bloody froth at her nostrils. Sighing contentedly, he began to use his fists.
TWO
TOKYO: FRIDAY, 3:15 P.M.
Someone knocked gently on the door, three times.
Canning stood up. He put one hand under his coat and touched the butt of the pistol in his shoulder holster.
The knocking came again, somewhat louder and more insistent than it had been the first tune.
Keeping one hand inside his jacket, he turned away from the door which opened on the hotel corridor. The knocking came from the other door, the one that connected to the adjoining room. He walked over to it and stood against the wall. When the knocking sounded a third time, quite loud now, he said, "Who is it?"
"Tanaka." The voice was rather soft and high-pitched, just as McAlister had described it.
That didn't mean it was Tanaka.
It could be anyone.
It could even be the man who had followed him from the airport, the man who had watched him board the elevator.
"Are you there?"
"I'm here."
"Open up."
Whether or not it was Tanaka, he couldn't just stand here and wait for something to happen; he had to make it happen.
"Just a minute," he said.
He drew his pistol and stepped to one side of the door. He pushed the chair out from under the knob and out of the way. Then he twisted the brass key, pulled the door open, stepped past it, and shoved the silenced barrel of the Colt against the trim belly of a strikingly lovely young Japanese woman.
"I'm so happy to meet you, too," she said.
"What?"
"A gun in the stomach is so much more interesting than a plain old handshake."
"Huh?"
"A saying of Confucius."
He stared at her.
"Ah, and you're so articulate!"
He blinked. "Who are you?"
"Lee Ann Tanaka. Or would you like me to be someone else?"
"But . . ."
"Yes?"
He looked at her face carefully and saw that she fit the description that McAlister had given him. A tiny scar marked the left corner of her upper lip—although it was only as wide as a hair and half an inch long, certainly not a souvenir of a fight to the death with broken bottles. High on her left cheek there was a tiny black beauty mark: the "mole" for which McAlister had advised him to look. Finally, her hair was full, rich, and as black as raven wings. McAlister's only sin was one of omission.