Bianca's talent had provided the only two weapons he needed to insure the Plan's completion; George Kayman and Revival. In due time, George and his ilk would bring the world to its knees. Her preservation techniques would keep him and his safe until the bloodletting had run its course. Then—revival. He was not about to let either slip through his fingers like so many grains of sand.
"Well, Bianca," he muttered to himself. "It's time for me to administer an addictive injection of my own—before your life becomes cluttered with bargain hunters."
Driving to the airport, Bianca ended her description of Patrick's agony with, "The Dakotans knew exactly what to do. This isn't the first time they've had to deal with such a thing. I'm sure of it."
Munoz frowned. If what Bianca had witnessed was common with Dakotan males, there should have been at least a passing reference to the fact in the Vatican's permanent files and he didn't recall having read of any such occurrences. Had a massive cover-up been perpetrated—one so tight even the Pope appointed spies had missed it? If that was the case, why?
"So what do you think, Raphael? Is this something important?"
"Perhaps. The records in our vaults include just about any subject you could name for as far back as you would care to remember, but I don't recall any mention ever being made of what you have just described. If such bizarre happenings are normal, somewhere there's a Dakotan who's willing to talk about it—for the right price, of course."
"Ha," Bianca said. "If there's one thing I know about the Dakotans, it's that they are close-knit and close-mouthed when it comes to answering personal questions. Their loyalty to their creator is phenomenal."
"There should be some around who don't carry that loyalty. All we have to do is find them."
"Oh?"
He nodded. "Ninety years ago, Tartarus funded an impregnation program which ended in abysmal failure. The BH Gene was an integral part of that program."
Her gaze jerked from the highway to his face. The car swerved. She regained control and slowed somewhat. "A what?"
"Impregnation experiment."
"I've spent years researching the Dakota Saga. I've never run across anything even remotely suggesting an impregnation project."
"That doesn't surprise me. A lot of money kept it quiet. Victor Dakota's as well as some forty government agencies worldwide," he said. "Information censoring was rampant during the early twenty-first century." He chuckled softly. "Actually, not much has changed since then. Unadulterated knowledge can be a dangerous opponent."
"But there must be records somewhere."
"Turned into confetti. Unless you're an addicted collector with a hidden archive."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. On all counts." He motioned to the side. "Just pull over to the curb. No sense parking and walking. The plane leaves shortly, anyway."
"This isn't . . . you're doing commercial?"
"I'm on private business."
"But I thought—"
"The pageantry of Popes is hardly one's choice if one wishes to be an undistinguished member of the crowd. Stop here, please."
Bianca guided the vehicle smoothly through the traffic to the loading zone and Munoz unloaded his bags.
"I'll mail copies of everything we have on the Dakotas," he said. "It takes longer, but it's safer."
"Don't I know that."
Munoz laughed softly at the sardonic emphasis her statement carried. "You may spot some answers in those files. I'll expect weekly reports on your findings."
She nodded.
"Remember, one year on the tank. Keep me informed of George's progress. He says it will take him forty-five days to complete those campaign programs I want. Keep that in mind when you're administering your serum."
"Yes, Sir." She snapped a salute. "Anything else?"
He slammed down the lid of the trunk and motioned to a skycap. "Yes, there is." Cupping her face between his hands, he leaned forward, and kissed her gently. "But it will have to wait until I get back."
A warm glow suffused her face. Her eyes softened.
Reaching into his pocket, Munoz pulled out a ring of keys. "There's not much time left so pay attention. This one opens the door to the vestibule, this one opens the inside door. Oh, yes, this one goes to the exterior door of the garage, this one—"
"What are you talking about?"
"The palace. My San Francisco residence. Didn't I tell you?"
Bianca shook her head.
"It's yours to use while I'm gone. Even when I'm not gone, if you like. You can set up your own lab—there's plenty of room, as you'll see—and the staff is discreet. It'll take about sixty days before the private wings are completed. One for you and one for Sefura. Even dear old George will have his own quarters." He held up the keys.
"Why are you doing this?" Her eyes narrowed.
"Because I need someone I can trust to oversee it and because . . . I want you where I can watch you." His smile was disarming. "You don't mind do you?" he said.
She shook her head. "I don't know, Raphael."
"Please, Bianca," he whispered, stroking a finger down her cheek. "Don't make me beg for your favor. Say you'll move in."
A flash of triumphant power flicked the suspicion from her face. She held out her hand. "I'll take good care of it for you."
"I know you will," he answered, dropping the keys into her open palm. He stepped off the loading strip, paused, and turned around. "I almost forgot. The Rolls is yours, the Ferrari belongs to Sefura. Titles are in the glove compartments." He nodded toward her hand. "You'll find the keys to both cars on that ring."
As he strode across the lanes, he could feel her eyes staring after him. My kind of shots aren't as painful as yours, dear Bianca, he thought, but for you, just as addictive.
Without a backward glance, he picked up his ticket from the luggage desk and pressed his way into the crowd.
Chapter 32
Ellery
Ellery pulled her car into the driveway. Turning off the motor, she sat for a moment wondering why she felt so relaxed. After all, she no longer had a place to go each day, no longer had decisions to make. This is going to take some time, she thought. She opened the car door and stepped out. What in the world am I going to do with myself? Shaking her head, she entered the house.
In the living room, Matthew's bags were stacked neatly beside the couch. John's duffel, bulging and taut, was slung casually across the cushions. How like each of them, she thought. Matthew so precise and ordered while John. . . She chuckled aloud. A stuffed duffel certainly portrayed his comfortable relationship with life. She skirted the couch and walked out onto the rear deck.
Breathing in the smell of the blue waters, she listened to the gentle slap of waves against the sand below. On the beach, John threw a Frisbee to Matthew, laughing as it arced toward the water. Her countenance saddened. Tomorrow, they'll be gone, she thought. I'll be alone for the first time in forty years. She leaned against the rail. What am I going to do? John turned toward the house, raised his arms and waved them in a crisscross motion. Matthew followed suit, then both went back to their game.
"Ellery Jensen," she scolded herself aloud. "Do I hear a bit of self-pity here?" She nodded her head up and down. "Yes, you do, old girl," she answered. A wide grin stretched across her face. Lord, I've already started talking to myself, she thought. Next thing you know, I'll be rocking in some institution just a-muttering away.
Institution. The word rang in her mind. Well, so much for all that rest she was afraid she was going to get. Whirling around, she went back into the house and straight to her private study on the second floor.
Ellery pressed her palm against a light square beside the locked door and the door swung open. Inside, she stood with hands on hips, as if seeing the room for the first time. In a way, she was, she thought. She had forgotten how comfortable her study was. A fireplace dominated the room. A large, rounded couch sat a few feet back, opposite the glass fire screen. Two deep-tufted recliner
s faced each other on either side of the couch, each with a reading lamp bowed gracefully overhead. On the right wall, a Renoir hung, companion to the one still at Tartarus. Books lined the back wall, and elled from either side of her view screen and console. She inhaled deeply, relishing the faint odor of old leather the volumes still released. She could almost hear the ancient voices wandering through those pages, voices seldom heard in this day of fast access and doctored knowledge. Few books such as those she owned, passed from her grandmother, still existed for common use. Ellery sighed. Unfortunately, book burning took many forms, both overt and covert and man was the worse for it. The day will come, she thought, when that will change.
She strode to the room beyond, smiled at the crisp whiteness, the precise instruments, the cabinets, and freezing wells. Her tinkering place, she called it. In this room, she worked her miracles. The Foundation never saw her work until it was perfected. She ran her fingers lightly across sparkling countertops. She could do anything here she could do in the Tartarus labs; perhaps she would do some private consulting. The idea appealed to her.
After, she thought. The three thousand come first. She strode to the far end of the lab and pressed her thumb against a small nail head in the center of decorative doors.
"Print please," a mechanical voice said.
"Dakota. Ellery."
She counted the seconds. On five, the voice sounded again.
"Print, please."
"Ellery Jensen. Doctor," she answered.
At the second count of five, the faux doors slid back to reveal a large room—eight hundred square feet divided into five cubicles, four of which were filled with bulging boxes, all neatly labeled. Floor to ceiling drawers were built into each wall of the far cubicle. Ellery searched the tags on each bottom drawer, which listed by code the contents of the drawers above it. She pulled a small ladder from behind the door, dragged it to the left wall, and set it up. The top drawer held the journal she wanted.
With book in hand, she thumbed the door closed behind her and walked thoughtfully to her desk. As she reached over to turn the console on, the room shuddered, jerked and twisted. Across the way, a lamp crashed to the floor. Books fell behind her. She clung to the edge of the desk so tightly her knuckles turned white. After what seemed forever, the waves of movement ceased.
Ellery charged out into the hall and looked over the balustrade into the living room below. Glass littered the floor and sheer curtains fluttered wildly in the ocean breeze. She was half way down the stairs when Matthew burst into the house.
"Mom? Mom, are you okay?"
She heard his panic. "I'm fine, Matthew, but the living room window isn't," she called back.
He ran into the living room with John right behind him. "You're sure you're okay? No cuts or anything?" he said.
She laughed. "I'm okay! We've had earthquakes before, Matthew—a lot bigger than this one." She turned to her youngest son, saw the same look of panic fading from his face. "What's with you two? It was nothing. Now get a broom and let's get this mess cleaned up."
"Yeah. It was a little one." Matthew grinned sheepishly at his brother.
"How did we miss it?" John looked puzzled.
"If we missed it. The direction of movement suggests otherwise. I think a new east-west fault line is developing."
"Tut’s butt! That’s not a good sign, brother."
"We’ll get into it later." Matthew turned to his mother. "How come you're home so early?"
"I resigned from Tartarus today. His Holiness took me at my policy—you don't stay long whether resignation is tendered or otherwise." She shrugged. "I'm now officially retired."
"That's great," Matthew said enthusiastically. "About time, too."
"Now you can tinker like you've always wanted to," John chimed in. "So hike on up those stairs, Mom. Matthew and I will take care of this." He waved a hand at the shattered window and blowing curtains. Both boys headed for the garage and she returned to her study.
A few minutes later, books and lamps back in place, she switched on the console. A small silver blip danced across the screen, spiking twice: the isolate signature of the Jerico computer at Tartarus. Her hand flew to her mouth as if to stifle the sharp intake of breath. Leann's in trouble, she thought.
"On screen."
The words Jerico—TESTING flashed, immediately followed by the words Omega line secure, then screen after screen of rapidly scrolling information. The flow ceased. Ellery's jaw went slack. A download. All of her files, including her private notes from Raborman's lab, dumped from the Tartarus mainframe. She blinked at the sudden sting of tears. Dear, sweet, courageous Leann. Thank you. "But don't ever pull such a stunt again. Do you hear me?" she scolded as if Leann were standing before her. "Never again."
The girl had taken a terrible chance.
Setting the Foundation's sophisticated control center to isolate mode was no small feat; all data files in the computer required beading and once started could not be interrupted—no other requests could be processed. How had she managed without rousing suspicion? Ellery stared at the screen, thinking. She chuckled softly as it came to her.
A resourceful young woman, she thought. Leann took advantage of the one risk free opportunity she would ever have—clearing my impress from the files. Neither Bianca nor Munoz would halt that process.
Shaking her head at Leann's audacity, Ellery saved the files, cleared the screen, and opened Victor Dakota's journal. She began calling names and numbers into the machine. She would find the Dakotans and bring them to San Francisco. Her strip of beach was perfect for a mass joining, secluded as it was; here, the dancers would draw no attention.
Then what? March en masse on the Vatican?
All input abruptly ceased at the questioning thought. That would be a foolhardy move under the best of circumstances. Munoz clung as stubbornly to his views as she did to hers. Where she saw only horror and death, he saw miracle cures and return on investment.
It was obvious he stood in awe of Bianca's talent. As did I, she thought, a wry smile twisting her lips. Bianca had shown herself to be a clever and dangerous adversary. She would play to that awe.
Ellery leaned back in her chair. "Bianca must be stopped," she muttered to herself. "But if I force him to choose between her talent and his church, will he try to keep both by throwing the Dakotan memory onto Bianca's table like a scrap of meat to a raging wolf?"
Ellery shuddered. He might.
She resumed calling names. The joining would take place, but she would err on the side of caution when it came to confronting Munoz.
Chapter 33
George
George picked absently at a scab on his upper arm. The tip of his tongue, held firmly in place by his teeth, protruded from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on the pages of his final program for Pope Munoz. A smile spread across his face as he worked. These two programs would net him another three million. Not a bad haul.
He leaned back from the table. Reaching into his hip pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and patted it across his face while he scanned the conference room. Where the hell is the thermostat, he thought. It's too damned hot in here. Throwing his pen against the wall, he charged out of the room and down the hall to Bianca's lab.
"Where is it?" he yelled, slamming open the lab door.
Bianca looked up from her microscope. "Where is what, George?"
"The goddamned thermostat for that conference room. It's boiling in there. I can't even think anymore!"
She spread her hands, palms up. "The building is automatically controlled, George. There is no thermostat."
He scrubbed the handkerchief across his face. "I'm trying to get Rafe's program finished. How the hell do you expect me to do that when I have to spend all my time wiping sweat off my face? Goddamn it!" He hiccupped. Hiccupped again.
Bianca strode close and peered into his eyes. "When did the hiccups start, George?"
"Just now. Forget about the fucking hiccups, just get m
e some cool air. I don't know why the devil you haven't done something about it already, hot as it is in here."
"All right. I'll see what I can do. First, I want to check your eyes and lungs. You may be coming down with something." She motioned toward the papered examining table. "On the table, pet. Take your shirt off, leave the trousers on. This won't take long."
"There was a time when that order would have been reversed, Bianca." He smirked. "Am I getting to be too much for you?"
"You always predicted that would happen, didn't you? I guess you are smarter about this virility stuff than I gave you credit for."
"Damn right. A good man only gets better, you know." He removed his shirt and sat on the edge of the table. "Pants on or off, it's all the same to me. I don't feel much like screwing anyway."
She held the blue light to his eyes until his vision blurred and tears came. She listened to his lungs, making him breath. In. Out. In. Out. Strapping a black-light eyepiece to her left eye, she leaned close to a crusted pustule on his upper arm. Using a small, hooked instrument to lift the scab, she removed a sample of the tissue beneath, placed it in the center of a slide, and slipped the square piece of glass into her scope.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm sure it's nothing, but no sense taking chances after we've come so far."
"It's this thing on my arm, isn't it?"
"A serum allergy, I suspect." She bent over the scope for a moment. "It can't be," she muttered under her breath. When she raised her head, George saw the frown on her face.
"Can't be what?"
"Hmmm? Oh. I'm not sure. I'll have to run a few tests to be certain."
Craning his neck to see, he watched her jot down cryptic names and numbers in a notebook.
Shadows in the House With Twelve Rooms Page 23