She looked back to the garden. A figure stood beside the willow tree, fumbling at something in coat pockets. The head tilted back. Moonlight bathed the face, bounced off black eyes staring.
"My God. Bianca." She barely whispered the words.
A light flicked in the woman's hand. Ellery dropped to the floor and pressed tight against the wall beneath the window. She heard a faint scratching sound as if metal had scraped the glass. A moment later, a flashlight beam played back and forth around the room, paused on her desk and chair, abruptly disappeared.
She cautiously poked her head up and peered out. A coated shadow was sliding back around the building corner. A few minutes later, she heard the muffled bellow of the warning horn. The cruiser was leaving the island. Ellery drew a deep breath, exhaled slowly. What was that all about?
In the past twenty-four hours, she had begun to understand the devious twists and turns Bianca's mind could take. The woman wouldn't sneak about on a whim; she had a reason for her actions. Ellery's lips pursed as she concentrated. She knew how the brain of Raborman the scientist approached a problem, but did the brain of obsession think the same way? "Ahhhh," she murmured with sudden understanding. Not seeing me leave with the others nor hearing the warning horn of a later trip, she came to see if I was still here, Ellery thought. She had to make certain it was safe for her to leave.
Ellery turned on all the monitor screens. She could almost hear the emptiness of the dimly lit, deserted vestibule and halls. Shadowed silence met her gaze as she searched the corridors in each building. Without hesitation, she reached over and opened the bottom drawer of her desk. A moment later, in the soft glow of her desk lamp, she studied the layout map of building three, the genetics building.
Rummaging through her purse, she found a small, white disc that looked much like a worry stone. She smoothed her thumb across the concavity. With this, she could disengage any lock anywhere on Tartarus—or anywhere else for that matter. It was a legacy from the days of her grandfather's paranoia; one of his private innovations. She laid the disc beside the map.
Hurrying to the coat closet, she retrieved a leather case from which she extracted a small microfiche camera and a clip of film; she dropped both items into her jacket pocket. Back at her desk, Ellery traced a finger along the dimensions of Bianca's laboratory. Satisfied she had the layout memorized, she carefully folded the map and replaced it in the bottom drawer. With disc in hand, she hastened down dim corridors. Moments later, she stepped into the warm darkness of her protégé's working domain.
Chapter 18
Munoz
Munoz fingered the gold Tiara and Keys emblazoned across the cover of the red damask folder lying on the table before him. He listened to Vittorio Cardinal Morandi, Minister of Universal Land Holdings, give his report on the final negotiations with the Arabic Triune. With a broad smile, Vittorio concluded, took a deep breath, and immediately launched into his cost presentation.
The Pope reached for his carafe. Pouring the remaining liquid into his glass, he sipped at the tepid water. Vittorio needs to get to the point with a little less justifying, he thought as his attention wandered. His gaze slid past his staff to the closed, glass panel doors. Beyond the doors, two stiff-backed Euro Guards ensured that this meeting on the third floor of the Palace of Popes would be undisturbed.
He found their bright green uniforms and their shiny black boots an irritant; they didn't blend well with the red regalia of the six assembled Cardinals or the white purity of his own robes. Scowling, he forced his attention back to Vittorio.
"The grids are progressing nicely. Tibor Gombocz inspected the European installation last week, signed his acceptance yesterday. We've also received the finalized Amazon layout from Deuteronomy International." Vittorio shuffled through his papers and pulled out a map of the Amazon basin with an overlay of the grid attached. Swiveling his head to Munoz, his finger jabbed at a small circle in the center of the overlay. "With your approval, Holiness, the engineers will begin from this point and work outward. Deuteronomy estimates it will take four years to clear the forest rubble and complete the project."
Cardinal Morandi closed his report folder. "If you will look at the figures, I believe you will find the cost is considerably less than we first envisioned."
"The Transnationals?" Munoz asked. "They have not protested the pattern of placement?"
"Oh, a little grumbling now and then about 'their turn', but nothing that will require your attention. They are currently focused on Doctor Jensen's life extension serum—it seems everybody wants to live forever." Vittorio's dry laughter rasped across the conference table.
"Between that and trying to buy back the allegiance of the International Latin Republic by pouring more dollars into the hands of Miguel Bordon, their minds are well occupied," he continued. "They know, of course, that the Triune is negotiating for additional grid energy to be funneled toward their barren regions, but are unaware of our financial support. They have no interest in the desert lands."
"Let's hope they stay unaware." Helmut D'Angelo, the Cardinal in charge of bishops, spoke. "And that you are right in your assessment, Vittorio, or the next thing we'll hear is that Ambassador Yago is wooing Arabs instead of Latinos. Keep in mind that the Transnationals have nearly as much money as we do." His laugh was mirthless.
"My Cardinals, let us not make issue over the childish manipulations of the Transnationals," the Pontiff said.
"With respect, Holiness, they seem to be maneuvering for world control. The Latin Republic will make a powerful ally for the right bidder. I don't think we can afford to ignore—"
Munoz held up his hand with a dismissing wave. "Without grid control, Cardinal, the Transnationals do not have the leverage for what you are suggesting—no matter how well they practice la connivance diplomatique."
"Diplomatic Connivance, Your Holiness? The term is not familiar to me." Cardinal Tehard's voice echoed the confusion on his face.
You may not know the term, Munoz thought. But you certainly know the practice, whether you recognize it or not. We are in the midst of just such a process ourselves.
He said, "A phrase coined by an eighteenth-century statesman—Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand. A Frenchman. The term defines an age old political process which governs the behavior of great powers of the world at the earliest stages of any deep change in international affairs. When set in motion by an expert, the entire world succumbs to its siren call, never knowing it has done so."
His face glowed with a strange excitement. "A marvelous process. Marvelous. If you care to explore the procedure, turn to history. An excellent case study from the not too distant past, one that the Transnationals seem to be following verbatim, is the rise to power of a man named Mikhail Gorbachev during the economic salvation of what used to be called the Soviet Union—now a large part of the Eastern Bloc. Like Talleyrand, Gorbachev was a master of the art. You'll find several books on the subject in Our library."
"You are saying the Latin Republic intends to change the world? I find that difficult to believe, Holiness." Cardinal D'Angelo crossed his arms over his chest.
"That is the wonder of the process, Cardinal. While concentrating on one small spot of color—deliberate upheaval—you do not see the other players making great swipes across the canvass. Even now, the Transnationals are secretly meeting in the privacy of diplomatic chanceries, hammering out agreements that define who will commit and how far, what the overall timing strategy will be, which nation will next step into public view, who are the key players, other than themselves, that will be invited to join the circle, and most important, what steps will be taken to lead the general populace down the path of seamless agreement." Munoz leaned back into his chair. "That, gentlemen, is diplomatic connivance."
Around the table, dazed silence quickly turned to a babbling din. Vittorio's gaze riveted on his Pope.
"Cunctando regitur mundus, la connivance diplomatique," he said, his voice so soft it seemed as if he had only mou
thed the words.
Munoz barely tipped his head in surprised acknowledgment. The man had grasped the concept with ease. An admirable ability, one especially fitting for a Secretary of State—when the time came for such an appointment.
Vittorio cleared his throat, called for silence. When all eyes met his, he leaned forward and said, "This diplomatic connivance—how does one respond to overtures?"
"Status quo. See the strategy for what it is, use it to your advantage. Once the momentum is underway, inject your own agenda, one drop at a time. Despite the public image they are projecting, the Latin Republic has not severed itself from the Transnationals. Nor will they."
"What about the Arabic nations?"
"We do not need to be concerned about the Triune joining forces with the Republic. Since the grid command center is located on his land, Shah Nasr-ed-Din will be a jealous guardian. He understands that our capital inflows will cease if the center is disturbed."
He turned to Edouard Cardinal Peterson. "You, Our Minister of Education—have the Epistles been distributed?"
"Your Treatise is in the hands of all concerned, My Pontiff," Edouard kept his eyes downcast.
"And?"
"I . . . there has been some resistance to the message of your scrolls, Holiness." Two bright spots of red tinged his earlobes.
Munoz scowled. "Resistance is spawned by fear, Edouard," he said softly. "Fear of change. The scrolls hold a Divine Truth not unknown by those before us. That Truth will no longer be censored by this Holy Office. Their integration into our doctrine is God's Will and as His Holy Emissary, it is Our will that this be done immediately."
"Yes, Holiness. I will make certain the Archbishop's understand your concerns. However—"
"The Netline is functioning?" Munoz watched the stubborn set of Edouard's jaw loosen at the abrupt change of subject.
"Netline? Oh—yes. In every country, Holiness." Cardinal Peterson's head bobbed up and down with spasmodic jerks. "Every country."
"Good," Munoz said. "Because We have a rather unpleasant task to perform. Unpleasant but necessary. The most expeditious way to get started is through the Netline."
Opening his folder, he withdrew six sets of charts. "These are population graphs," he said while handing a set to each Cardinal. "A terribly unbalanced situation. Is it any wonder We are faced with constant requests for assistance? It is Our moral duty to correct this imbalance, to alleviate the hunger and sorrow that accompanies such overcrowding."
Blank stares met his statement.
Munoz looked from man to man. "Our heart cries out for those countless millions who survive under the most abject conditions and what do We detect here? Blind contentment?" he said. "Is there not one of Our Cardinals who has seen that We must begin a relocation program immediately?" Standing, he began rocking heel-to-toe.
"Unthinkable," Cardinal Tehard gasped.
"Unpleasant, yes. Unthinkable, no." Munoz slammed his hand to the table. "What is unthinkable, Cardinal, is that We would allow such abominable conditions to continue to exist. There is enough land on this planet of ours to provide nicely for every man, woman, and child who is now living. Or will ever live." With forceful gestures and a firm voice, Munoz outlined the relocation program.
"They will never accept your proposal, Holiness. Neither the land-rich nations nor those families you propose to uproot. Never." Edouard Peterson rejected the idea with a dismissing wave of his hand.
"If it is presented by Our Minister of Education in the proper fashion, they will." Munoz ignored the scowl on Edouard's face and continued his presentation of logic. Gradually, the assembled men began to nod their heads in agreement as he spoke. What he said made sense. In every nation, land was bought and sold like any other commodity with little or no restrictions placed on those who would pay the price. As for the downtrodden, uprooting was a way of life. For a place to call their own, for freedom, they would migrate en masse if need be.
"I don't know, Holiness. The cost of such an endeavor—"
"Is less than what this organization has expended over the past five years on financial support. The purchase of land is minuscule by comparison. The returns will far outweigh the cost."
"We would need sophisticated equipment to control such mass migrations," Cardinal Tehard said. "It will take time to build a proper facility." His mouth tightened with concentration.
"We sit back and do nothing then?" Munoz said softly.
"Of course we must do what we can, Holiness. I was not suggesting . . . " The Cardinal's voice trailed to silence. "Perhaps we could use the Foundation's facilities until our own can be completed," he added at last.
"That is an excellent idea," Munoz said. "We feel confident that can be arranged—on a temporary basis."
"Even if the relocation guidelines are accepted, Holiness, will that not place those receiving countries in danger of becoming overpopulated?" Cardinal D'Angelo interjected, his skepticism clearly sounding in his voice. "After all, it is uncontrolled births that have created the overcrowding to start with. In addition, we now have Doctor Jensen's life extension serum with which to contend."
"Your solution, Cardinal?" Munoz felt his mouth twitch. They would make the decision. He could read it in each face before him.
"Population control—limited births," Vittorio said boldly.
"Hmmm, birth control. Yes. We do believe you have solved the problem, Cardinal Morandi." He gathered his damask folder. "You gentlemen prepare the program. I'm certain your recommendations will be fair and equitable to all." He strode toward the glass panel doors. A Euro guard flicked a button on his uniform and one panel swung open.
Munoz paused before stepping through. "Shall We say one week for the first draft of your plan? On Our desk?" he said without turning.
Listening to the shocked silence behind him, he strode past the guard. Amazing, he mused. A twenty minute history lesson and still they strolled down the path. He had what he wanted. Relocation was important for his plan to work, but once that was accomplished, birth control became the critical element. He could not monitor without that control in place.
It would take a while before he would know when and where each birth occurred. Perhaps years. No matter—he had the time. He could wait.
"Cunctando regitur mundus," he whispered to himself. "He who hesitates . . ."
Five minutes later, Munoz shoved open the door to his private study in his fourth floor quarters. Lying on his desk was a large brown envelope with the name of Doctor Ellery Jensen on the return label. Settling into his chair, he opened the envelope and pulled out several typewritten sheets of paper. He read the communiqué with care.
Ellery had attached a postscript beneath her signature.
"After months of deliberation, the FBFI is honoring the European Ministry’s request to interview each staff member on what they did or did not see at the time of the fire. There seems to be a disparity of opinion on the exact cause—arson or accident. If you can recollect anything that would help bring this investigation to a close, I would forever be in your debt."
Munoz replaced the pages into the envelope, laid it on the desk and leaned back in his chair. A distasteful affair, the fire. This time, the Vatican would not use its influence to squelch an investigation. Although Bianca had never expressly taken credit for the disaster, he suspected she had been responsible. If the bureau was able to prove it, there could be nothing to link her actions to the Vatican, most especially not a plea to bring the investigation to a conclusion of accidental negligence—or deliberate arson.
Two lives and a building lost, he mused. All for naught. Ellery Jensen had discovered the hidden laboratory in spite of the destruction of maintenance records. A year later, while earnestly presenting her proof on Bianca's transgressions, she had spread before him a map which showed the layout of Bianca's laboratory—including the secret addition. Then she placed in his hands detailed summaries on three of Bianca's more eccentric experiments. Although hard pressed to conceal hi
s surprise, he had treated the incident as simple miscommunication.
"I'm sorry you weren't informed about the lab, Ellery," he'd said. "No doubt an oversight. Several months ago, Bianca explained to me she kept a private laboratory concealed in order to protect her research from prying eyes until she could present. I have been in that laboratory many times and have seen nothing to be alarmed about."
"She is violating the Twenty-sixth Amendment!"
"A most serious accusation, Doctor Jensen. Your proof is?"
Ellery grabbed up the summaries and thrust them forward in a crumpled wad. "This is my proof! Don't you understand what--?
"What we understand is that times change, Ellery. When technology shifts, we must follow. The old, conservative ways no longer suffice. People want results now, not next year or the year after. If real progress is to be made, especially in the field of genetic medicine, then boundaries must be stretched. As quickly as possible."
"Even if it means breaking the law? Setting ourselves up as the almighty judge of who—or what—is expendable?" Her voice rang bitterly. "That is not medicine, Holiness. That is murder. I will not allow Tartarus to engage in such practices. Bianca Raborman has stepped over the line and I intend to—"
"What, Doctor Jensen? Throw the Foundation to the wolves? You are willing to declare Tartarus guilty of criminal activity with nothing other than what you hold in your hands as proof?"
Ellery glanced down at the papers she clutched. Hands trembling, she began to smooth and straighten the crinkled pages. Her head came up. Her eyes met his.
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