The shadow war
Page 6
Shadow Boxing.
"Shadow boxing" made a lot more metaphorical sense than "fighting with shadows" or "warring with shade."
Or did it?
After all, besides fighting and struggle, borba could just as easily be interpreated as "war." Borba s tenyu. Warring with shadows? Or, given that the word "warring" didn't exist in Russian, what about the simpler version?
Shadow war.
It occurred to Natalya she should scour the archives for a Russian book that had been translated into English as Shadow War, regardless of its original name in Russian.
She glanced out the window and saw that the outside light was fading as evening approached. Her second wind of curiosity was wearing off. But she had time for one more attempt.
She tapped at the keyboard until English Title = Shadow War was glowing in green letters on her screen. She hit Return.
Immediately there was a result. At first she was surprised by what she read; but then she realized it confirmed her first intuition.
Досmуn в архuв огранuчен read the screen.
Restricted archives.
In bright red letters. Blinking bright red letters.
"Everything all right, Natalya Nikolayevna?"
The voice startled her. She looked up to see one of the guards standing in the doorway. He looked quite threatening in his gray-and-olive camouflage uniform, a small pistol strapped at his waist.
"Yes. Just working." She smiled, and shifted so her shoulders would cover the computer screen.
"On a beautiful Saturday afternoon?" said the guard. "A pretty woman like you should be out enjoying herself, not cooped up in this mausoleum with an old fossil like me."
"Is there a problem?" she asked somewhat curtly. She didn't want him to linger long enough to become curious.
He looked confused. "No, of course not. I just-"
"I am very busy," she said.
He nodded. "Of course." He decided to counter her frostiness by asserting his authority. "But be certain to sign out when you leave. In these days-"
"I will." Now she smiled, hoping that would satisfy him. "You have my word."
He nodded at her, continued on his rounds.
She turned back to the computer screen. The red "Restricted Archives" message was still blinking. She canceled it out, then began filling out the form on the screen that would submit a request for access to the restricted archives; permission that could only come from the Ministry of Internal Affairs, but which would really come from the FSB. Which could take anywhere from a week to forever.
She thought of Yuri. Now she would definitely have to accept that dinner invitation.
And then she thought of one additional source to which she might turn for help.
Her father.
If this book-if it was a book-had something to do with the Cold War, and if it had in fact been somehow leaked to the samizdat press… well, then, it might be something her father had found in his own searching. Not that he would necessarily tell her about it. But she had nothing to lose by asking-other, that is, than suffering another of his inscrutable silences. And she hadn't called him in two weeks. This would give her an excuse.
She logged off and watched the screen go black. She put Fletcher's letter back in her desk drawer and locked it, then reached over and switched off the lamp on her desk.
She had taken her purse and coat and turned to leave when she paused. Taking her keys out again, she unlocked the drawer, took out Fletcher's letter, and put it in her purse.
She had no idea why she did this; it just felt right. Then she shrugged on her coat and walked down the hall to the elevator, her very non-Soviet high-heeled shoes creating echoes as they clicked on the white-and-brown-veined marble floor.
CHAPTER 7
Benjamin and Wolfe were sitting in the dining hall-a one-story brick building behind the manse and across a collegelike quad of open grass, trees, and cobblestone footpaths. Wolfe called it "the Trough." He'd brought Benjamin here after their examination of Fletcher's room so that he might listen to Benjamin's account of his "homework" with "some modicum of civilized comfort," i.e., a glass of orange juice laced with bourbon.
"Well, to begin with the most interesting, the book on Bainbridge, you need first to know that Hessiah Philadelphia Bainbridge was either a fanatic, or a visionary." Benjamin paused to sip his own black coffee, still feeling the effects of his nightcap. "Depends on which of the Puritan factions you asked."
"Factions?" Wolfe raised an eyebrow. "I think of the Puritans as all equally… well, puritanical."
"Not so." Benjamin shook his head. "There were left and right wings, just like political parties. Puritans like Cotton Mather, for instance, were ultraconservative and demanded absolute adherence to doctrine. It was Matherites that conducted the Salem witch trials. But on the other hand, there were Puritans like Jonathan Edwards, who believed in a certain individual liberty when it came to knowing God. And then on the far left were the Antinomians, sort of hippie Puritans, who believed in all sorts of things-almost all of which the Boston Elders called anathema. Which is why they were eventually exiled from Massachusetts."
"And this Hessiah Bainbridge, he was one of these Antinomials?"
"Antino mians. Not exactly. But when Anne Hutchinson and the other Antinomian leaders were sent packing, Bainbridge and his congregation went with them, to New Jersey. It isn't exactly clear why, except that he was a passionate advocate of the Prayer Town movement."
"Prayer Towns?"
Benjamin warmed to his topic.
"Prayer Towns were a revolutionary idea, at least for the period. You've heard of Eleazar Wheelock?"
"Well," Wolfe demurred, "if he had anything to do with Wheelock College in Boston, I have."
"Yes, same family. You know the little ditty about him? 'Oh, Eleazar Wheelock was a very pious man, he went into the wilderness to teach the Indian'? "
"Uh, no," said Wolfe, "can't say as I do." And he raised an eyebrow as though Benjamin had gone slightly mad.
Benjamin saw he was being kidded, smiled, went on.
"Anyway, he and Robert Gray and Hessiah Bainbridge all shared a dream: to build a whole town where the Native Americans could come to learn the English language and customs-and of course be converted to Christianity."
"Of course," nodded Wolfe.
"But Bainbridge was a lot more enlightened than most. He once wrote the Puritans should 'give the savages Civilitie for their bodies before Christianitie for their soules.' He even dared suggest they weren't just savages, that the Puritans might learn something from them. "
"Heresy!" pronounced Wolfe.
"Listen, it was all a helluva lot more enlightened than what the Matherites had in mind for the Natives. They preached about converting them, but it was no secret they'd have been just as happy to see them simply disappear. And if they had to help make them disappear, well, that was God's will."
"So that's what this Ginsburg book is about, this conflict between Bainbridge and those other Puritans in favor of genocide?"
"Well," Benjamin shook his head, "no, not exactly. That's just background. The book is about Hessiah's son, Harlan Phlegon Bainbridge."
"Phlegon?" Wolfe whistled. "My, they certainly had a way with names back then."
"It's a powerful name indeed. From the book of Romans, for 'burning zeal.' And according to Ginsburg, the name fit. Harlan kept at his father's work until he actually convinced a wealthy New Jersey merchant, Henry Coddington, to finance his father's idea."
"And where was this utopia constructed?"
Benjamin frowned. "No one's really certain, that's part of its mystery. It was completely wiped out some time in 1675, burned to the ground, by Wampanoag Indians. But it was somewhere out here, in western Massachusetts."
"And now the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: whoever this Bainbridge was, why was Fletcher interested in him? Still think it had something to do with the Indian wars?"
"Native-Settler war
s," Benjamin corrected, then frowned. "Ginsburg's book does make reference to one John Sassamon, someone connected to both Bainbridge and King Philip's War."
"King Philip's War? My Colonial history's a little rusty. Which king was that?"
"It wasn't really a king, it was the settlers' name for Metacom, chief of the Wampanoags, the most powerful tribe in the region. And King Philip's War was the bloodiest of the time. More people per capita were killed than in any other American war, even World War II; and it was the death knell for Native Americans, their Waterloo. They never recovered that kind of power or unity again. And this Sassamon and the destruction of the Bainbridge Plantation were involved in starting that war. So yes, normally I'd say that's why Jeremy was interested in Bainbridge."
"Normally?" Wolfe pried.
"Well…" Benjamin chose his words carefully. "There are several very strange things about this book. For one, I'd never heard of it, and as far as I know, neither had my father, even though he was much more the expert on the early Puritans. I need to read it again more carefully. I was falling asleep last night and-"
"Well, enough strangeness for now," Wolfe interrupted him, rising. "Let's deal with something definite."
He reached into his pocket and extracted a small appointment book that he tossed on the table in front of Benjamin.
"This was in Fletcher's office," Wolfe said. "It's a list of the people Fletcher had met with here at the Foundation. Or planned to meet with, before his… accident."
Benjamin opened the book, flipped past dozens of empty pages until he came to the pages for that week. • Monday, 10:00 A.M. -E. Stoltz • Thursday, 1:00 P.M. -E. Gadenhower • Friday, 10:00 A.M. -G. Soderbergh
"Gadenhower," read Benjamin. "Isn't that the woman who found his…"
"Yes," said Wolfe simply.
"And these other names?" asked Benjamin.
"Here, read for yourself." Wolfe handed him a brochure about the Foundation that listed the various fellows in residence with brief summaries of their credentials and research.
Benjamin discovered that Dr. Edward J. Stoltz was an historian and the official curator of the Foundation's collection of rare manuscripts, paintings, and other art; that Dr. Gudrun Soderbergh was an expert on "international relations and counterterrorism policy"; and that Mrs. Edith Gadenhower (no "Dr." before her name) was reported as "working on an innovative research project involving the social matrixes of bee colonies."
"While I can possibly understand his interest in Ms. Soderbergh," Wolfe said, staring intently at his empty drink, "I find an art historian and a beekeeper hard to explain. But that isn't the question I find most perplexing."
"No?"
"Fletcher's research, whatever it was, apparently didn't involve the necessity of interviewing anyone at the Foundation in the entire six months he was working here. And then suddenly, upon receipt of this letter from Myorkin, he hurriedly arranges three interviews, writes to this Orlova, and discovers a burning need for your rather limited expertise. No offense."
"None taken. That's the question I've been asking ever since he called. Why me?"
Wolfe shook his head. "As central as that question may be to you, it is still not the most important question. In fact, none of these curious connections are."
"Then what on earth is?"
"As I said, Fletcher's been hard at work at the Foundation for six months, and prior to that, for many years. Yet among his things in his office or on his computer there isn't a half-finished white paper, notes for a journal article, an unfinished book… nothing." Wolfe raised his eyebrows. "You see? Where on earth are the fruits of all that labor?"
CHAPTER 8
Wolfe decided it was best they begin interviewing Jeremy's appointments, to see if the focus of his discussions could shed any light on either his sudden interest in art, bees, and Puritans or the direction (or for that matter whereabouts) of all his important work.
They decided to begin where Jeremy had ended, with Mrs. Gadenhower. They learned she had a laboratory in the biology building-one of the few modern structures on the Foundation's campus: a low, functional, nondescript, white stone edifice that appeared to have been constructed in the 1960s. They entered and, tracking the laboratory numbers down black-and-white linoleum-tiled hallways, eventually came to room 133.
Edith Gadenhower was an older woman, at least seventy, her face and manner of expressing herself graced with wonderful continuity. Yet, for all her tea-and-crumpets charm, Benjamin felt there was something undeniably predatory about the small, rotund old woman. Simply put, she gave Benjamin the willies.
Or perhaps it was her surroundings. Oddly, given the modern fixtures-the aluminum counters, Plexiglas cabinets, even racks of electronic equipment Benjamin didn't associate with bee research-the atmosphere in Mrs. Gadenhower's lab was somehow Gothic. Perhaps it was all the test tubes, vials of colored liquids, and specimen jars containing the preserved dead bodies of various kinds of bees.
After showing them several large hives that were intimidating in their frantic and indifferent activity-all from behind the safety of Plexiglas shields-she invited them to sit down. They pulled up two nearby lab stools.
"I can offer you tea," she said, "or there is a regrettable imitation of coffee." She pointed to a small automatic pot jammed in between test tubes and Bunsen burners. They both declined. "Well, then," she said, settling herself on another small stool that seemed hardly able to support her bulk, "how may I help you?"
Wolfe explained that her name had been on Jeremy Fletcher's appointment list, and they were interested in what they'd discussed. Especially as she was the one who'd discovered his body.
"Poor boy," she frowned. "So very young for heart troubles."
"I agree," Wolfe said with a certain harshness. "But we're particularly interested in what he might have said of his own research."
"Nothing," said Edith simply.
"Nothing?" echoed Wolfe.
"I didn't ask. One becomes so focused, you see, on one's own interests. And there really wasn't time. The lad was so very interested in my little fellows, we talked of nothing else."
"Well, perhaps you could hazard a guess, then, Mrs. Gadenhower."
"Edith," she prompted.
"Edith. Excuse me. What have bees to do with nuclear war?"
If Wolfe had hoped to shock her, he was disappointed. She took the question quite in stride. "Oh, a very great deal, I suppose. If you look at it from the right angle."
"And what angle is that?"
"Why, Dr. Fletcher's angle, of course."
"You mean, statistics?"
"What are statistics but a way to tidy up disorderly numbers?" she said firmly. "To the uninitiated, a bee colony looks quite disorderly. But if one stands back, as it were, for perspective, then one sees the method in that apparent madness."
She settled herself in preparation for a short lecture. "The analytical study of bees goes back quite some time. As early as 1705, a Mr. Bernard Mandeville wrote a wonderful book called The Fable of the Bees; or, Private Vices, Publick Benefits. Mr. Mandeville suggested that bee colonies thrive as long as they are organized around in equity. The workers only work, the gatherers only gather, the queen only lays… you see?"
"Well, yes, but how does this…"
"Dr. Fletcher had his own name for Mr. Mandeville's organized inequity. He called it 'swarm intelligence.' " She paused to take a sip of her tea. "And apparently there are those in the Pentagon who believe this idea holds some promise for, what do they call it? Nanotechnology?"
"You mean," interjected Benjamin, "what appears to be random behavior really isn't?"
"Quite the opposite," corrected Edith, smiling sweetly. "What appears centrally organized is often in fact merely the result of thousands of tiny, overlapping little routines. There is no controlling mind-counter to what most people think of the queen-but still an overall purpose is achieved. It's really quite remarkable. Would you like the same demonstration I gave Dr. Fletcher?"
Arriving before one of the bee chambers, Mrs. Gadenhower turned to them.
"After studying the dance that bees perform when they return from finding a food source, what is called their 'waggle dance,' I decided to see if the bees could give flight instructions for the colony to navigate to a fight as well as a find. Could this honey-dance serve as a bee warning system, a kind of communal radar?"
They nodded and she continued.
"Actually, I must give credit for the idea to what happened in Poland, immediately following Chernobyl. Beekeepers there began to notice that foraging bees were being stung to death by their own colonies, immediately after they returned home. The other bees could somehow sense they'd been irradiated, you see, and were a danger to the colony. Well, if looked at politically, it seemed a lesson in the creation of enemies to benefit the community. The radioactive bees became a threat that the colony organized to fight, in order to survive. So I decided to re-create those conditions. But without the radiation, of course."
As she spoke she set a container on the counter that contained a single live bee. She took a pair of forceps from the counter and, lifting the lid of the container slightly, inserted the forceps and very gently grabbed the bee with them and took it out of the container.
"Now, my methods may seem rather gruesome, but I assure you, bees have absolutely no equivalent to our sensation of pain."
She paused, the bee struggling in the grip of the forceps. Then she took a pair of tweezers and, one at a time, neatly plucked the wings from the bee. She stepped over to the shield and placed her hand on the handle of a small trapdoor set into the shield. She opened the trapdoor about an inch, put the forceps and bee into the chamber, dropped the bee so that it landed squarely in the middle of one of the honeycombs, then snapped the trapdoor closed.