Dragonfly

by Dean R. Koontz

  mcalister: Oh, for God's sake!

  rice: Because his roommate, Chou P'eng-fei, was more lightly sedated than Chai, we knew he would wake up first in the morning, smell the whiskey, see the lace panties. We didn't foresee, couldn't foresee, how these crazy damned Chinks would react. When they got back to China, Chai was sent straight to a farm commune instead of to Peking. He was punished for what they call “counterrevolutionary” behavior.

  mcalister: The People's Republic is an extraordinarily puritanical society.

  rice: It's crazy.

  mcalister: Most developing countries are puritanical. We were like that for a couple of hundred years, although not quite so fiercely as China today.

  rice: We wouldn't send an American boy to a slave-labor camp just because he got drunk and took up with a hooker. It's crazy, I tell you.

  mcalister: They didn't see it as just “taking up with a hooker.” To them it was a political statement.

  rice: Craziness. Crazy Chinks.

  mcalister: Chai wasn't an American. Didn't you see, didn't you even suspect, that American standards might not apply? Christ, you fouled up the project at the very beginning! You screwed up on such a simple bit of business — yet you think you know how to run the world!

  rice: It was an oversight. Anybody could have made the same mistake.

  mcalister: You're dangerous as hell, but you're a real buffoon.

  rice: (Silence)

  mcalister: Chai is still on this commune?

  rice: No. He was released. He arrived in Peking at five o'clock this morning, our time.

  mcalister: When will he be triggered?

  rice: As soon as possible, within the next twelve hours.

  mcalister: Who is the trigger man in Peking?

  rice: General Lin Shen-yang.

  mcalister: What? General Lin?

  (A flurry of indistinct conversation)

  mcalister: Is General Lin a part of The Committee?

  rice: No.

  mcalister: Does he know he's the trigger?

  rice: No.

  mcalister: He's been used, just like Chai?

  rice: That's right.

  mcalister: How was it done?

  rice: General Lin keeps a mistress in Seoul. We went to her, threatened her, and got her cooperation. When he visited her last March, we drugged his wine, planted a series of subliminal commands deep in his subconscious mind. When he woke, he had no knowledge of what had been done to him. When he is told to do so, he will seek out Chai Po-han and trigger him.

  mcalister: When he's told to do so?

  rice: Yes.

  mcalister: Then you've established a sort of double trigger. Is that right?

  rice: Yes.

  mcalister: Why so complex a mechanism?

  rice: The sophisticated surgical facilities we needed to implant the spansule of bacteria existed only here in the States. We couldn't haul it off to Korea and turn General Lin into Dragonfly. We had to operate on someone who was visiting the Washington area. Then we had a problem setting up a trigger man. We couldn't use any of the three deep-cover agents the CIA has in China, because they're not Committeemen. So we had to rely on a Westerner who was one of us. Now, Chai Po-han doesn't have much contact with Westerners in Peking. Our man would have a difficult time getting to him without causing a spectacle. General Lin, on the other hand, has a great deal of contact with Westerners and with his countrymen alike. Our man, we realized, could trigger General Lin; the general could then trigger Dragonfly.

  mcalister: I understand. But who is your first trigger man, the one who gives the word to Lin?

  rice: Alexander Webster.

  mcalister: Our ambassador to China?

  rice: Yes.

  (A babble of voices)

  mcalister: Are you saying our embassy in Peking is a nest of Committeemen?

  rice: No. Just Webster.

  mcalister: You're positive of that?

  rice: Yes.

  (Ten seconds of silence)

  mcalister: What disease is Chai Po-han carrying?

  rice: A mutated strain of the bubonic plague.

  mcalister: In what way is it mutated?

  rice: First of all, it's transmitted differently from every other kind of plague. Most strains are carried by fleas, ticks, or lice. Wilson's plague is totally airborne.

  mcalister: It's transmitted through the air? Through the lungs?

  rice: Yes. You're contaminated simply by breathing.

  mcalister: What are the other mutations?

  rice: It's extremely short-lived and has a very low level of fertility. In three days it will be dead and gone.

  mcalister: So the Nationalist Chinese can move in then?

  rice: Yes.

  mcalister: What other mutations?

  rice: The bug needs just nine to twelve hours after it hits your lungs to kill you.

  mcalister: Is there a vaccine?

  rice: Yes. But Wilson didn't produce much of it. You don't need much if the plague's one hundred percent abated by the time you send in troops.

  mcalister: How much vaccine is there?

  rice: One vial. Webster has it.

  mcalister: What about the other Americans at the embassy?

  rice: They will be sacrificed.

  mcalister: How noble of you.

  rice: It was necessary. They aren't in sympathy with The Committee. They couldn't have been trusted.

  mcalister: How many people will die if Dragonfly is triggered?

  rice: We have computer projections on that. Somewhere between two million and two and a quarter million deaths in the Peking area.

  mcalister: God help us.

  When McAlister switched off the tape recorder, the President said, “You sounded badly shaken on the tape, but now you're so damned calm. And it isn't over!”

  “I've sent my message to Canning,” McAlister said. “I have faith in him.”

  “Let's hope it's well founded, or we're all finished.”

  “In any event,” McAlister said, “there's nothing more that you or I can do. Let's talk about that unorthodox plan of mine.”

  SEVEN

  PEKING: SUNDAY, 1:30 A.M. UNTIL DAWN

  The CIA's third deep-cover agent in Peking was very much like the first two deep-cover agents in Peking. He was in his sixties, just as Yuan and Ku had been. His name was Ch'en Tu-hsiu. Like Yuan and Ku, he had lost his family and money when the Maoists assumed power. Like Yuan and Ku, he had fled to Taiwan, but had returned soon enough as a dedicated CIA operative who would live under the Maoists for the rest of his life and pass out what information he could obtain. He had worked hard to prove what a loyal Maoist he was. As a result, and because he was an intelligent man to begin with (as were Yuan and Ku), he was promoted and promoted until he became Vice-Secretary of the Party in the Province of Hopeh, which included the capital city of Peking. And finally, just like Yuan and Ku, he was judged a truthful man by the computerized polygraph.

  Canning could not understand it. He examined the machine, found it to be functioning properly, and asked Lee Ann to go through the list of questions once more. Ch'en answered precisely as he had the first time; the machine said he was not a liar; and Canning was baffled.

  Lee Ann said, “If neither Yuan nor Ku is the trigger, then it has to be Ch'en, doesn't it? I'll ask the questions a third time.”

  She did that.

  The purple line didn't move through any of Ch'en's answers.

  After having been misled with Sung Ch'ung-chen, General Lin was very suspicious. He stood stiff and straight, not bothering to work off the excess energy that always filled him, letting it build up toward an explosion. “You mean to say that none of your deep-cover agents knows about Dragonfly?”

  “I don't understand it,” Canning said.

  Lin's face was twisted, blush-red beneath his olive complexion. “What sort of trick is this?”

  “It's no trick,” Canning said.

  “This entire affair has been so
me sort of hoax.”

  “I don't think so.”

  “You don't think so?” the general raged.

  “If it was a hoax,” Canning said, “then I was a victim of it too. I don't know why the CIA would want to hoax you or me.”

  The general moved closer to him, glared up at him. “I want to know why you've come all the way around the world to waste my time here in Peking. What have you really been doing in China?”

  “Exactly what I've told you I've been doing,” Canning said, exasperated. But he could understand the general's anger.

  “Sooner or later you will tell me what the trick is.”

  “There is no trick.”

  “I'm afraid you will not be permitted to leave China until I am given a full explanation,” General Lin said. “Perhaps the rules of diplomacy forbid me to drag you out of your embassy and beat the truth from you. But I can see that you remain here, grow old, and die here if you will not explain your real purpose in Peking.” He turned away from them and started toward the drawing-room door.

  Webster came out of his armchair as if propelled by a bad spring in the cushion. He hurried after Lin and caught up with him in the downstairs hall. “General, please wait a moment. Give me a moment to explain. I can explain this entire affair. Just come up to my office for five minutes, and I'll put your mind at rest, sir.”

  “Then there has been some trick?” General Lin asked.

  “Let's not discuss it here,” Webster said. “Upstairs. In my office. That's the proper atmosphere.”

  When they had gone up the steps, Lee Ann said, “What could Webster know that we don't?”

  “Nothing,” Canning said. “He's in the dark too. But he can't let Lin go away that angry. He has to play the diplomat for a while.”

  Pushing a lock of her black hair from her face, Lee Ann said, “My opinion is that if the general goes all the way upstairs just to hear a bunch of diplomatic goo, he's going to be twice as angry as he is now. Just my opinion, of course.”

  “Then he's Webster's problem, not ours.”

  “What about Dragonfly?”

  “Maybe there is no such thing.”

  “How could that be?” Her eyes were huge.

  “Maybe McAlister was using us.”

  “For what?”

  He said, “God knows. But it happens in this business.”

  “I think Bob was sincere,” she said.

  “Then he might be misinformed.”

  “He's not the kind to make a move unless he's positive of what he's doing.”

  Canning agreed with her. He felt uneasy. He felt as though he had missed something vital.

  “What happens now?” she asked.

  “That's what I'm trying to figure.” He looked down at Ch'en, who smiled at him and nodded. To Lee Ann he said, “We'll see that our friend here is put in a room on the third floor with Yuan and Ku. Then we'll go down to the communications room and get off a wire to McAlister, asking for his instructions.”

  In his office, Ambassador Webster went directly to the bar in the corner and put ice cubes in two squat glasses. “Is bourbon all right, General?”

  Lin Shen-yang stood by the desk, barely able to control his temper. “I do not want a drink. I want an explanation.”

  “This is fine bourbon,” Webster said. “And I've got good branch water to mix with it. They fly my branch water all the way in from Louisiana. Only way to drink bourbon.”

  “No, thank you,” the general said stiffly.

  Smiling, the ambassador said, “Very well.” He poured bourbon and branch water into his own glass. “You won't mind if I indulge?”

  The general glared at him.

  Webster took his drink to one of the two overstuffed armchairs that stood in front of his desk. He sat down and indicated that the general should sit opposite him.

  “Mr. Webster—” Lin began.

  “Please, let's be amiable,” the ambassador said. “Sit down and relax. I will explain everything.”

  Reluctantly, General Lin sat in the other armchair. He perched on the edge of it; he refused to be comfortable.

  Taking a long, cool swallow of his drink, the ambassador said, “Do you know what branch water is? It conies from certain streams, river branches, in Louisiana. It's pure, perfectly tasteless. It is the only way to mix a whiskey. In Louisiana we know how—”

  “I am not interested in Louisiana or in your branch water,” the general said curtly. “I want that explanation.”

  Webster sighed. “I was just savoring the moment. But if you insist…” He put down his drink on a small round side table. He smiled at the general and said the key phrase: “Yin-hsi is as lovely as a swan in the lilies.”

  General Lin's eyes glazed. His mouth sagged open, and he leaned back in the armchair.

  “Can you hear me?” Webster asked.

  “Yes,” Lin said faintly. He stared through the ambassador.

  “Do you know how to find the home of Chai Chen-tse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Chai Po-han is there now. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will go to him and say that phrase which you have been taught. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you have spoken those words to him, and to no one else but him, and in privacy with him, you will return to your house and go to bed. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  Webster picked up his drink and sipped it. He enjoyed seeing the general sitting there, mouth open and his eyes blank as the eyes of a moron. “When you wake in the morning, you will not remember your visit to Chai Po-han. You will not remember having said anything to Chai Po-han. In the morning you will go about your business as you ordinarily would. Do you understand me?”

  The general hesitated.

  “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Once more. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go to Chai now.”

  The general closed his mouth. His eyes refocused, but they still did not look quite normal. He got up and left the ambassador's office, closing the door behind him.

  Webster picked up his drink and took it back to his desk. He sat down in his, high-backed posturmatic chair. From the bookshelves behind him, he withdrew a copy of The Wind in the Willows. He opened the book and removed a flimsy sheet of paper that had been pressed in the front.

  The paper was a copy of the order for Chai Po-han's transfer from the Ssunan Commune to Peking. A clerk in the Office of Revolutionary Education had taken it from the files the very day that the transfer had been approved and had passed it to an old gentleman who pedaled one of the few remaining bicycle rickshaws that still operated in Peking. The clerk had received a handsome sum, all in good Chinese yuan, without knowing why anyone would so desperately need to know when Chai was coming home. Like all of his kind, the rickshaw operator was extremely independent; after all, he conducted business in defiance of a Party order outlawing rickshaws, and he had done so for many years now. The Party had decided to let the rickshaw operators die off gradually, while issuing no new licenses. Therefore, the officials ignored the rickshaw men — and the rickshaw men, independent as they were, made good conduits for certain kinds of information. This particular old gentleman had passed the transfer notice to Webster when Webster had taken a rickshaw ride around Wan Shou Shan's lake — as he managed to do once or twice a month. In his turn, the old gentleman had received another substantial sum in yuan. Back at the embassy, after spending hours translating the ideograms into English, Webster saw that Chai was coming home, and he wired the news to Rice.

  Now, if the train had been on time — and Chinese trains were always on time — Chai Po-han was at home, and the Dragonfly project could be launched at last. In twenty minutes, or half an hour at most, General Lin would trigger him. Chai would puncture the spansule within a few minutes of the general's visit, as soon as he was alone and could find a sharp instrume
nt. The plague virus would spread rapidly through Chai's system, reproducing in his bloodstream. Within two hours millions of deadly microorganisms would be passing out through the alveolae in his lungs. Then he would begin contaminating the very air that Peking breathed, and the flight of the Dragonfly would have begun.

  Webster smiled and drank some bourbon and branch water.

  Chai Po-han had written a long letter to his parents, explaining his decision to leave them like a coward in the middle of the night and seek political asylum at the United States Embassy. It had been a most difficult letter to compose, and he had wept freely as his pen had drawn the characters which spelled out his future. But now it was done, folded and sealed in a red-lined envelope. He put the envelope on the center of the bed and turned away from it before he lost his courage and tore it to shreds.

  Taking only one bag of mementos and remembrances, he slipped out of his room and went along the dark hall to the rear door of the house. Outside, he strapped the leather bag to the handlebars of his brother's bicycle.

  The United States Embassy was less than two miles away. Even if he took the long way around, used only the back streets and lanes, he would be there in ten or fifteen minutes. He would need another fifteen minutes to slip into the compound without being seen or stopped by a Chinese patrol. In half an hour he would be talking with the United States ambassador, and he would have taken the last irrevocable step into a new lif e.

  The embassy's communications room was in the basement. It was a rather uninviting, thirty-foot-square, concrete-wall chamber with no carpet and no windows. It contained a telecommunications computer as large as four refrigerators arranged side by side. There was also a radio-controlled Telex printer, a Telex sender, a traditional wireless machine, a desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet, and a pornographic Chinese calendar made in Hong Kong: semi-abstract but altogether recognizable human figures engaged in coitus, a different position for each month.

  The night-duty communications officer was a man named Pover. He smiled and apologized to Lee Ann for the calendar and asked if he could be of assistance.

  “I want to send a message to Robert McAlister care of the White House communications center. Can do?” Canning asked.