by Dean Koontz
"I received a coded message from the capital just this morning," Mr. Yu said. "We are virtually one hundred percent prepared."
"Excellent."
"Two thousand paratroopers will be in the air within three hours of your go-ahead signal. Within nine to twelve hours they will have seized every one of Communist China's nuclear weapons."
"The seaborne troops?"
Pausing only to take an occasional sip of sherry, Mr. Yu spent the next ten minutes discussing the preparations which had been made for the invasion. When he had nothing more to report, he said, "As you can see, we need no advantage except the confusion caused by the plague in Peking."
Rice said, "I too, have received a coded message."
"From Taipei?"
"From Peking."
"Sir?"
"Dragonfly is on the move at last," Rice said. "He will arrive in Peking around nine o'clock Saturday night, their time."
Mr. Yu was delighted. He slid to the edge of his chair. "And when will he be triggered?"
"As soon as possible," Rice said. "Within twenty-four hours of his arrival in the capital."
"I will alert my people." Mr. Yu finished his sherry and got to his feet. "This is a momentous occasion, Mr. Rice."
"Momentous," Rice agreed as he struggled out of his chair.
They shook hands.
At the door, Rice said, "How are your wife and daughters, Mr. Yu?"
"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Rice."
"Will you give them my best, Mr. Yu?"
"I certainly will, Mr. Rice."
"Good day, Mr. Yu."
"Good luck, Mr. Rice."
WASHINGTON: FRIDAY, 6:00 P.M.
After giving the President a progress report by telephone at five o'clock, McAlister had gone straight to dinner. He was not at all hungry, but dinner gave him an excuse for drinks. By six he was at his favorite corner table in an expensive Italian restaurant that was popular with Cabinet officials, White House aides, senators, congressmen, and reporters. This early in the evening, there were very few customers. McAlister sat alone with his back to the wall, the Washington Post in front of him and a glass of iced bourbon ready at his right hand.
As it had been for more years than he liked to think about, the news was sprinkled liberally with insanity, with signs of a society enduring a prolonged attack of schizophrenia. In Detroit three men had been killed when a group of young Marxist factory workers, all of whom earned salaries that provided them with a Cadillac-standard of living, planted a bomb under a production-line conveyor belt. In Boston, an organization calling itself The True Sons of America was taking credit for a bomb explosion in the offices of a liberal newspaper, where a secretary and bookkeeper were killed. And in California the left-wing Symbionese Liberation Army had surfaced once again. Eight SLA "soldiers" had crashed a birthday party in a wealthy San Francisco suburb and murdered two adults and five small children. They had kidnapped three other children, leaving behind a tape recording which explained that after much consideration and discussion among themselves about what would be best for the People, they had decided to stop the capitalist machine by either murdering or "reeducating" its children. Therefore, they had kidnapped three children for reeducation and had slaughtered those for whom they had no available SLA foster parents.
McAlister picked up his bourbon and finished nearly half of it in one long swallow.
In the past he had read this sort of news and had been appalled; now he was outraged. His hands were shaking. His face felt hot, and his throat was tight with anger. These SLA bastards were no different from the crackpots who were behind the Dragonfly project. One group was Marxist and one fascist, but their methods and their insensitivity and their self-righteousness and even their totalitarian goals were substantially the same. Was it possible for even the most single-minded liberal to support fair trial, mercy, and parole for these bastards? Was it possible for anyone to try to explain their behavior as having its source in poverty and injustice? Was it possible, even now, for anyone to express equal sympathy for killers and victims alike? He wished it were possible to execute these people without trial . . . But that would be playing right into the hands of men like A. W. West—who, of course, deserved the same treatment, the same quick and brutal punishment, but who would probably wind up administering it to the left-wingers. None of these people, revolutionaries or reactionaries, deserved to live among men of reason. They were all animals, throwbacks, forces for chaos who had none but a disruptive function in a civilized world. They should be sought, apprehended, and destroyed—
Yes, but how in the hell did that sort of thinking mesh with his well-known liberalism? How could he believe in the reasonable world his Boston family and teachers had told him about—and still believe in meeting violence with violence?
He quickly finished the last of his bourbon.
"Bad day, was it?"
McAlister looked up and saw Fredericks, an assistant attorney general at the Justice Department, standing in front of his table.
"I thought you were pretty much a teetotaler," Bill Fredericks said.
"Used to be."
"You ought to get out of the CIA."
"And come over to Justice?"
"Sure. We whittle away hours on anti-trust suits. And even when we've got a hot case, we aren't rushed. The wheels of justice grind slowly. One martini a night eases the tension."
Smiling, McAlister shook his head and said, "Well, if you've got it so damned easy over there, I wish you'd make an effort to help take the pressure off me when you get the chance."
Fredericks blinked. "What'd I do?"
"It's what you didn't do."
"What didn't I do?'
McAlister reminded him of how long he'd taken to send that list of federal marshals to Andrew Rice.
"But that's not true," Fredericks said. "Rice's secretary called and asked for the list. No explanations. Very snotty. Wanted to have it sooner than immediately. National security. Fate of the nation at stake. Future of the free world in the balance. Danger to the republic. That sort of thing. I couldn't get hold of a messenger fast enough, so I sent my own secretary to deliver it. She left it with Rice's secretary." He stopped and thought for a moment. "I know she was back in my office no later than four o'clock."
McAlister frowned. "But why would Rice lie to me?"
"You'll have to ask him."
"I guess I will."
"If you're dining alone," Fredericks said, "why don't you join us?" He motioned to a table where two other lawyers from Justice were ordering drinks.
"Bernie Kirkwood is supposed to join me before long," McAlister said. "Besides, I wouldn't be very good company tonight."
"In that case, maybe I better join you, Bill," Kirk-wood said as he arrived at McAlister's table.
Kirkwood was in his early thirties, a thin, bushy-headed, narrow-faced man who looked as if he'd just been struck by lightning and was still crackling with a residue of electricity. His large eyes were made even larger by thick gold-framed glasses. His smile revealed a lot of crooked white teeth.
"Well," Fredericks said, "I can't let any newsmen see me with both of you crusaders. That would start all sorts of rumors about big new investigations, prosecutions, heads rolling in high places. My telephone would never stop ringing. How could I ever find the time I need to nail some poor bastard to the wall for income-tax evasion?"
Kirkwood said, "I didn't know that you guys at Justice ever nailed anyone for anything."
"Oh, sure. It happens."
"When was the last time?"
"Six years ago this December, I think. Or was it seven years last June?"
"Income-tax evader?"
"No, I think it was some heinous bastard who was carrying a placard back and forth in front of the White House, protesting the war. Or something."
"But you got him," Kirkwood said.
"Put him away for life."
"We can sleep nights."
"Oh, yes! The streets are saf
e!" Grinning, Fredericks turned to McAlister and said, "You'll check that out —about the list? I'm not lying to you."
"I'll check it out," McAlister said. "And I believe you, Bill."
Fredericks returned to his own table; as he was leaving, the waiter brought menus for McAlister and Kirkwood, took their orders for drinks, fetched one bourbon and one Scotch, and said how nice it was to see them.
When they were alone again, Kirkwood said, "We found Dr. Hunter's car in a supermarket parking lot a little over a mile from his home in Bethesda."
Dr. Leroy Hunter, McAlister knew, was another biochemist who had connections with the late Dr. Olin Wilson. He had also been on friendly terms with Potter Cofield, their only other lead, the man who had been stabbed to death in his own home yesterday. He said, "No sign of Hunter, I suppose."
Kirkwood shook his woolly head: no. "A neighbor says she saw him putting two suitcases in the trunk of the car before he drove away yesterday afternoon. They're still there, both of them, full of toilet articles and clean clothes."
Sipping bourbon, leaning back in his chair, McAlister said, "Know what I think?"
"Sure," Kirkwood said, folding his bony hands around his glass of Scotch. "Dr. Hunter has joined Dr. Wilson and Dr. Cofield in that great research laboratory in the sky."
"That's about it."
"Sooner or later we'll find the good doctor floating face-down in the Potomac River—a faulty electric toaster clasped in both hands and a burglar's knife stuck in his throat." Kirkwood grinned humorlessly.
"Anything on those two dead men we found in David Canning's apartment?"
"They were each other's best friend. We can't tie either of them to anyone else in the agency."
"Then we're right back to square one."
Kirkwood said, "I called the office at six o'clock. They'd just received a telephone call from Tokyo. Canning and Tanaka took off in that Frenchman's jet at five P.M. Friday, Washington time—which is nine o'clock tomorrow morning in Tokyo."
McAlister handed him a section of the Washington Post. "Let's make a pact: no more talk about Dragonfly until after dinner. The world's full of other interesting crises and tragedies. I would advise, however, that you skip all that negative stuff and look for the harmless human-interest stories."
Nodding, Kirkwood said, "You mean like 'Hundred-Year-Old Man Tells Secret of Long Life.'"
"That's exactly it."
"Or maybe, 'Iowa Man Grows World's Largest Potato.' "
"Even better."
The waiter returned, interrupting their reading long enough to take two orders for hearts of artichokes in vinaigrette, cheese-filled ravioli, and a half-bottle of good red wine.
Just before the artichokes arrived, McAlister was reading about a famous Christian evangelist's ideas for the rehabilitation of the thousands of men in American prisons. The evangelist wanted to surgically implant a transponder in each prisoner's brain so that the man could be monitored by a computer. The computer would not only keep track of the ex-prisoner but it would listen in to his conversations wherever he might be—and give him an electric shock if he used obscene language or tried to break the terms of his parole. The minister thought that, indeed, such a device could benefit a great many Americans who had never been to prison but who had engaged in hundreds of minor violations of the law all their lives. The evangelist also felt—and said that he was certain God agreed with him—that the punishment for various crimes should be brought into line with the nature of the original transgression. For example, a rapist should be castrated. A thief should have some of his fingers chopped off. A pornographer should have one eye poked out because it had offended God. A prostitute—
"What in the hell?" Kirkwood's voice was uncharacteristically breathless, quiet.
McAlister looked up from his section of the newspaper. "It can't be as bad as what I'm reading."
After he'd taken a moment to reread a paragraph, Kirkwood said, "Last night, right near here, a prostitute was badly beaten by one of her Johns."
"Don't read about prostitutes," McAlister said. "Read something uplifting. I'm reading about this evangelist—"
"She couldn't talk very well because her mouth was swollen," Kirkwood said. "But she was plucky. While they worked on her at the hospital, she insisted on trying to tell the cops a few things about her assailant. Do you know what this John kept saying, over and over, while he beat up on her?"
"I guess you're going to tell me."
"He kept saying, 'You can't stop Dragonfly, you can't stop Dragonfly.'"
They stared at each other.
Finally Kirkwood said, "The police think he was just raving, that it doesn't mean anything."
"Maybe it doesn't."
"Maybe."
"I mean even to us."
"Maybe."
"Could be coincidence.'
"Could be."
McAlister said, "Let me see that."
Kirkwood handed the newspaper to him.
After he had read a few paragraphs, McAlister said, "Did she give a description of the man?"
"Top of the second column."
McAlister read what the girl had told the police: her assailant had been fat, she meant really fat, three hundred pounds or more, and he was middle-aged, sloppily dressed, didn't belong in that expensive car, probably stole the car, she didn't know what kind of car, maybe a Cadillac or a Continental, all those luxury cars looked the same to her, she knew nothing about cars, she just knew he was fat and strong and kept saying she couldn't stop Dragonfly, whatever in the hell that was . . . With each word he read, McAlister felt the blood drain out of his face.
Kirkwood leaned over the table and said, "Hey, do you recognize this guy?"
No. It was impossible. It was crazy. It made no sense. He would never have taken such a risk.
Rice?
No.
Rice?
McAlister began to remember things and to connect them: Rice had been so eager to know whom McAlister was sending to Peking, even more eager than the President had been; the Committeemen had tried to kill Canning at his apartment within a couple of hours after Rice had been given his name; and Rice had lied about Bill Fredericks and the list of federal marshals who lived—Good Christ, the federal marshals!
"Bob? Are you there?"
The waiter brought their hearts of artichokes and the half-bottle of red wine.
McAlister sat very still: stunned.
The moment the waiter had gone, Kirkwood said, "You look like you've been pole-axed."
Softly, McAlister said, "I don't know . . . I may be wrong and . . . I have to be wrong! It would be such a foolish thing for him to do! What a risk to take in his position! Yet if he's as unbalanced, as completely crazy as he'd have to be to get involved in this, and if he's feeling the pressure half as much as I'm feeling it, he just might . . ." His voice trailed off.
Frowning, Kirkwood said, "What in the name of God are you talking about?"
McAlister stood up. "We don't have time for dinner." He dropped his napkin and turned away from the table.
"Bob?"
McAlister hurried toward the front of the restaurant, weaving between the tables, nearly running.
Bewildered, Kirkwood followed close behind him.
PEKING: SATURDAY, 11:00 A.M.
In the second-floor study of a stately old house in Peking, a man sat down at a large mahogany desk and unfolded a sheet of paper. He placed the paper squarely in the center of the green felt blotter. It was a list of numbers which had been transmitted by laser wireless in Washington, bounced off a relay satellite high over the Pacific Ocean, and picked up by a receiver in this house.
The man at the desk smiled when he thought that the Chinese counterintelligence forces had surely monitored and recorded this same transmission at half a dozen different points along the Eastern Seaboard. Even now a score of code specialists would be trying to break down the numbers into some sensible message. But none of them would ever crack it, for there was
no intrinsic alphabetic value to the numbers. They referred to chapters and page numbers within a certain book which was known only to the man in Washington and the man in this house.
He poured himself some whiskey and water from the bottle and pitcher that stood on the desk.
He opened the center drawer of the desk and took from it a pencil and a small brass pencil sharpener. Holding both hands over the wastebasket in order to keep the shavings from falling on the carpet, he put a needlelike point on the pencil and then placed it beside the list of numbers. He dropped the brass gadget into the desk, closed the drawer, and dusted his hands together.
Still smiling, he tasted his whiskey.
He was savoring the moment, drawing out the thrill of anticipation. He was not at all worried, for he knew precisely what the message would be, what it had to be. He felt fine.
At last he turned around in his chair and took a copy of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows from the bookshelves behind him. This was the 1966 slipcased Grosset and Dunlap edition, illustrated by Dick Cuffari. In Washington, Andrew Rice had had the same edition at hand when he'd composed the message which had come in on the laser wireless.
The first line of Rice's message read:
8000650006
The man at the desk opened The Wind in the Willows to Chapter Eight, which was titled "Toad's Adventures." He counted to the sixty-fifth line from the start of that chapter and then located the sixth word in that line. He picked up the pencil and wrote:
snapdragon
He drank some more of the whiskey. It was excellent, due in large measure to the water with which he had cut it. You had to mix fine whiskey with the proper water; otherwise, you might just as well drink vinegar or moonshine—or that absolutely terrible rice wine which the Chinese fermented and served with such great pride. He had gone to considerable trouble to obtain the right water for this whiskey, and now he took time to enjoy it. After another sip, which he rolled on his tongue, he said "Ahhh," and put down his glass.
The second line of the number code read:
10003210004