“Why not.”
The black wall in front of him began to lighten. Shapes slowly formed out of a gradually paling background: a desk, functionally stark; two dark walls with more of the subdued lights; the third wall—to Cydonian’s left—was a single plasma screen: a mosaic of smaller images. They blinked and flickered, too small and too fast to mean anything to him—
And behind the desk, a silhouette outlined against a high-backed chair by the screen and wall-lights, was Dracula. It was hard to make out details, but Cydonian got the impression of a tall, thin man, much younger than he should be—but that could have been the poor light. Just as the faint luminescence of the vampire’s eyes was probably Cydonian’s imagination.
For a few seconds, he was fooled; then Cydonian noticed the faintest distortion just where the video wall ended. He checked the other side, and the ceiling. Both had the same unfocused edge—as though the room had been sliced neatly down the center, then inexpertly patched up.
Holy shit, he thought, trying not to be impressed—a hologram. Good trick. Despite the inexact blending of the rooms, the image was far and above anything Cydonian had seen. And he had seen plenty. Dracula had money, and obviously bought outstanding talent with it.
No wonder he had proposed the New York meeting: he could go anywhere he wanted, without moving from his office in Berne, or Tirana, or Beijing—or Samarkand, for all anyone knew. It would take just a few days’ notice—enough time to rent office space and install the appropriate equipment.
But why then, Cydonian wondered, the shuck-and-jive with his weapon? If Dracula was sitting in the Australian Outback, silver bullets wouldn’t mean diddly. Cydonian reeled back his memory, trying to find a clear image of the only two he’d met so far: the giant, and the Armani-suited runt. Did either show the signs? If they did, Cydonian hadn’t spotted them—and neither had seemed to care squat whether his slugs had been silver. If one had been a vampire, just brushing the precious metal would have melted flesh like shit through a tinhorn.
“Were you surprised that I requested this meeting?” Dracula asked. There was a note of amusement in his voice; or was it the kind of barely hidden contempt some Europeans showed toward Americans?
“To be frank, yes. Especially the mano a mano bit.” Cydonian picked up his glass and drained it. He waved it at the holographic screen. “But I see you got around that.”
“I believe in taking precautions, Mr. Cydonian. And it does no harm to . . . show off, once in a while.”
“We know all about what your various corporations can do,” Cydonian said. “And how many thumbs you got stuck up whose asses.”
“You’re hardly in a position to be superior. What about your own Agency’s investments?”
“National security.” It was the pat answer. Nobody believed it any more, but Cydonian had seen it scrawled on the toilet-paper dispensers in enough washrooms back at Langley.
“Fascinating how far around the globe the USA seems to feel its national security is threatened.”
“You going to tell me you’re no threat?”
“Not when your Director seems to feel otherwise.”
“With respect, Count—that’s no answer.”
“I asked for this meeting because I’ve grown tired of your constant interference in my affairs.” His voice was curt and businesslike suddenly. If Dracula was irritated by Cydonian’s blunt manner, he wasn’t showing it. “Having to constantly keep an eye open for your frequently inept attempts at subversion is proving too large a drain on my resources . . .”
“Thinking of giving in, Count?” Cydonian allowed himself a chuckle.
Dracula’s outlined head tilted fractionally. “Hardly. But I think the time has come to call for a cease-fire. Perhaps just a temporary one—a break in hostilities.”
“For what? You to regroup and plan another attack. Your friends in the Balkans have been playing that card for the past ten years.”
“I’ve not been travelling in that part of the world for many decades, Cydonian.” He paused and raised a hand to where his lips might be. “Ever since I quit my estates, in fact. How time does fly. They seem to be doing well enough without me, though.”
Cydonian resisted the urge to laugh. The constantly changing demands of the factions in that particular shit-storm had the vampire’s MO all over them. The latest cease-fire—to mark the birth of a new century—didn’t look as though it would be any more permanent than the rest. “Maybe the generals are quick studies.”
Dracula waved the hand. Cydonian saw long nails, and in the back-lighting they looked odd: more like a rat’s claws. “You credit me with too much influence, Cydonian. Humanity has rarely needed prompting to go to war.”
“Is that why you involved yourself in World War II?”
The vampire laughed—this time in simple appreciation; there was no mockery involved. “So you found that out?”
“Didn’t look as though you meant to hide it. A volunteer RAF pilot, enlisting in 1942 under false credentials. You got a couple of medals.”
“In wartime, Cydonian, medals are handed out like candy. It gives the cannon fodder something to strive for. I simply survived all the night raids on cities such as Dresden and Berlin. Bomber Command seemed to think that was a feat worth celebrating.”
“Why should you care?”
Dracula leaned on his desk. Even though he knew the vampire was probably miles away, Cydonian felt himself draw back in his seat.
“Are we going to play dumb and dumber, Cydonian? Will you pretend that, at the time, the OSS didn’t know what Hitler’s more . . . unorthodox scientists were trying to do? Projekt Nachtzehrer? The systematic eradication of all vampires throughout German-occupied Europe? Whilst at the same time trying to isolate whatever factor it was that created the undead.”
“Would these be the same scientists working on the flying saucers?” Cydonian began, then his mouth slammed shut at what he was seeing. Mary, Mother of God! he thought, his eyes really do glow!
“Under the circumstances,” Dracula said, his voice low and velvety, “knowing what we both do of the Agency’s involvement in military Black Projects, I would not consider it wise to mock.” He leaned back, some of the light fading from his eyes. “The Führer’s astrologers forecast that an army of vampires would sweep out from the heart of Europe and conquer the world. Hitler chose to interpret that as meaning a personally selected regiment from the Waffen-SS—vampire soldiers that truly could be called Totenkopf!”
“So you joined up. Didn’t think you were the vengeful type.”
“Then you’ve not done your research thoroughly.” Cydonian didn’t rise to the bait. He wasn’t going to question why the vampire’s reprisals waited until all of his undead cousins had been beheaded with axes. Buried in huge pits filled with poppy seeds, coins placed under each head’s tongue—none of them was ever going to rise again. Despite the Count’s spoken sentiments, Cydonian couldn’t help thinking the vampire had let the Nazis do a little house-cleaning for him.
And maybe Hitler’s crazy eggheads had gotten closer to some kind of vampire factor than Dracula liked.
“Tell me, Cydonian,” the soothing voice interrupted his thoughts again. “What do you think is my greatest desire?”
Cydonian thought hard before replying. He had seen a phrase years ago, and it had sounded so right! Ah, yes—that was it . . .
“Illimitable dominion over all?” He couldn’t help being smug.
“Don’t try and sound literary, Cydonian. It ill-suits you.”
He watched as the rat-claw hand dropped to the desk. Immediately, the light in the holographic room grew. No longer an outline, Dracula’s face was gaunt and pale. His lips looked too dark against the pallor—as did his eyes and hair. And Cydonian was surprised to see how little he had of it: just a thick fringe, leaving the top of his skull bare and shiny. He was wearing an expensive gray jacket, gray shirt and a chaotically patterned silk tie. Just like any other middle-aged businessman
. You could pass him in the street and never know.
“No, Cydonian, just like any other thing on this planet, I want to see myself reflected in my children.”
“Vampires don’t have kids.”
“Not in the ordinary sense, no. But we can reproduce, as you know.”
“If you’re trying to tell me you want to turn the whole world into blood-suckers, that’s old news, Count.”
Dracula’s dark lips thinned into a warm smile. It got nowhere near his eyes. “I’m the new Red Menace, am I? And you’re wrong, Cydonian—all of you. What use to me is a planet of vampires? Off what would I live? Any of us? If you’ll forgive the analogy, the human race wouldn’t survive long if it killed or ate all of its cattle in one go. The predator must allow some of its prey to survive.”
“What are you trying to say? That you don’t intend to prey on us any longer?”
Dracula leaned back in his chair. He waved an arm at the room. “This is the 21st century, Cydonian. The rules have changed; are changing all the time.”
“So?”
“A few years ago someone, I forget who, commented that each century has its own sciences; disciplines which define that particular era. In the 19th, it was engineering; in the 20th, chemistry and, naturally, physics; but the 21st would have biology. In the new millennium, man will not only conquer all disease, but find new ways to exploit the foundation of life itself.”
“Like bio-chips.”
Dracula waved an expansive hand. “Already a reality, to all intents and purposes. Several of my subsidiary companies own the patents on thirteen processes which are part of a bio-chip’s manufacture.”
“Useful combination of interests, right, Count? Paradis-LaCroix gets an arm-lock on wetware manufacture, whilst all the satellite, communications and electronics businesses you own tie up the hardware.”
“Which of us can exert the most influence on the modern world?” Dracula’s smile broadened. Cydonian thought he looked like a Great White about to strike. “Me, or the Agency?”
“You might have Wall Street and the London Stock Exchange kissing your ass, but we have all the secrets no one wants told.” He turned the facts over in his mind. “I guess it’s a stand-off. Between us, we’ve got the world tied up: finance and intelligence.”
“Quite. Whilst a stalemate continues, neither of our great houses can hope to benefit. We are like two giants throwing rocks at each other: neither can hurt the other, but the irritation value is high.”
It all seemed so clear, suddenly. The Company had something the vampire wanted, or he thought he could buy himself some kind of angle. “What do you have to trade?”
“I have no need to trade. I give you a present.” He steepled his long fingers. “The cure for AIDS.”
Cydonian remembered in time, and stopped himself jerking forward in his seat. It wasn’t smart to show too much interest.
“Just like that?”
“Call it a show of faith. Faith in the future. And a demonstration that whatever bungling strikes your department tries to make at me, I am quite capable of setting it right.”
Cydonian settled back in his chair. He wanted another drink, but didn’t dare make one. It didn’t surprise him the vampire knew of the Company’s involvement in the AIDS disaster.
“Of course, I could always send my gift elsewhere—China, for example—whilst letting it be known exactly who released the HIV variants. Black Projects initial coding ASV2a, b and c.”
“No one would believe it. That rumor’s been doing the goddam rounds since the virus was identified.”
“I have proof. Memos from your own department, balance sheets, Presidential authorizations. The idea that the government could release a deadly biological agent before it had been adequately tested—or even an antidote prepared—would sound perfectly reasonable to some paranoid minds . . . Although, I would draw the line at who the original target was. I doubt even the most rabid conspiracy buff would swallow the idea of an anti-vampire virus.”
Cydonian licked his lips. “If you’re going to let us have the cure anyway, why the threat?”
“To show you what Paradis-LaCroix can do. As I indicated, I hope the new century will see an end to all disease. I want PLC to be the lead player.”
It didn’t ring true. No one was that generous. “What do we have to do to get it?”
“Get it? Nothing. Watch.” Dracula reached down below the desk surface and looked as though he slid out a drawer. His clawed hand dipped out of sight and touched something. All the images on the plasma wall blinked out, and then came on again. Parts of one image. It looked to Cydonian, more than anything, like a huge computer monitor.
Dracula touched something else, and words scrolled rapidly down the video wall. Much too quick for Cydonian to make them out. But some kind of program was active.
“Twenty years ago, who would have thought of sending massive packets of data along telephone lines, or satellite links?” the vampire was saying. The image changed. Now Cydonian could make out diagrams and formulae, columns of figures and scatter-charts. Dracula tapped out more commands on what Cydonian had belatedly realized was a keyboard, and the lines of text vanished. A confirmation note flagged up.
Dracula returned the keyboard under his desk and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers again.
“There. Every item of data on the cure is now awaiting your Director’s attention on his private terminal. Formulations, test trials, methodology. Call it a present from the Paradis-LaCroix corporation. And don’t worry about eavesdroppers: all of my lines are perfectly secure.”
He was baiting Cydonian again; Langley had been trying to bug PLC for years, without success. “Call me cynical, Count. But I can’t imagine you just throwing something that’s potentially worth billions of dollars to us. Does it kill the patients after ten years, turn them into shit-eating zombies or something?”
The vampire laughed softly. “I admire your bluntness, Cydonian. I always have. No—it’s a genuine therapy, with few, if any, side-effects. Nothing worse than those associated with, say, normal chemotherapy.”
Cydonian changed track. “If you think this makes up for all the past years—”
“I know: the Agency cannot be bought. Such quaint devotion to a demonstrably untrue concept. I repeat: this is a gift. All I ask is a . . .” he waved a hand as though it helped him frame an unpleasant request “. . . small favor.”
Here it comes, thought Cydonian. Now we get the horse-trading.
“How small?”
“Nothing that will cause any drastic alteration to the Agency’s foreign policy.”
“Which one?”
“Russian.”
“I can’t make promises.”
“You’re trying to be clever again, Cydonian. You’re fully empowered to deal, or you wouldn’t be here.”
Cydonian took a deep breath. “What do you propose?”
“Russia is about to suffer the worst civil war since the final days of Rome. It’s likely that the recent terrorism will escalate into open rebellion. Every general who can find so much as a working tank will make a bid for the Kremlin.”
“That’s not exactly insider information, Count. Anyone with two eyes and an IQ bigger than a shithouse rat could figure it out.”
“Perhaps. But they wouldn’t appreciate how large a part the Agency has in the destabilization of Russia. The policy for the past decade has been to keep Russia on the brink of collapse, constantly warring with itself, to prevent the resurgence of its old Imperialist dream. Good as the game was, no one wants to see the Cold War back—not when the same methods can be used to keep an old enemy on its knees and helpless.”
“Excuse me while I stand and applaud your grasp of politics, Count. What’s all this got to do with your favor?”
“I want a small nuclear war.”
Now Cydonian did lean down and pick up the bourbon bottle. He poured himself a stiff one and took a mouthful.
“You’re fuck
ing crazy!” he said, after the bourbon’s heat had eased off. “The radiation—fall-out!”
“Do you really think I would jeopardize the hub of my operation: Switzerland? My calculations indicate that the risk to the northern hemisphere is minimal. Certainly no worse than the Chernobyl incident. Inconvenient—but not terminal.”
“You can’t calculate risks like ball-game percentages!”
“For twenty years or so, it has become increasingly difficult for me—and my contemporaries—to step outside,” Dracula replied calmly. “Even on the most overcast day. I have every reason to believe this is due to the constant erosion of the ozone layer. You see, Cydonian, vampire and mortal have much in common: the sun is lethal to us both, unless it’s shielded effectively. Thanks to humanity’s usual carelessness, we are all in some danger.”
“Then just come out at night, like your legend says you do.”
“Difficult, when I am supposed to be the owner of a vast corporation.”
“My heart bleeds.”
“Indeed. Lucky for us both.”
Cydonian gulped at his drink. The fear was back. “But I still don’t see the connection.”
“Nuclear winter. Even with a strike as small as the one I propose, the amount of ash and dust thrown into the atmosphere will blanket the sun for years.”
“Further damaging the ozone layer!”
“I’m impressed, Cydonian. Yes, for a few years the ozone layer will be severely compromised; but it can repair itself. During the decades of nuclear winter, all the damage will be fixed.”
“By which time you and all the other nightcrawlers will have taken over the fucking planet!”
“Of course, I cannot rescind my gift. Regardless of your decision.” Dracula waved a hand at the video wall. “It’s too late for that.”
Cydonian wanted to fidget. He was sure there was a trickle of sweat starting at the base of his neck. The leery old son-of-a-bitch wouldn’t give in just like that!
“What’s your game, Count?”
“I don’t play games, Cydonian. You should know that.” His eyes were red now—dark and hot. “If you won’t instigate total civil war in Russia, I will be forced to cause the war myself. It will be a little more difficult—I don’t have a seasoned network already established—and take a while longer. But the results will be the same. There are, I believe, many in the Ukraine who would dearly love to make their old masters a present of the millions of tonnes of nuclear missiles they inherited. Do you doubt I can arrange it?”
In the Footsteps of Dracula Page 57