by Tom Clancy
It was easier for Henriksen. What people were doing to the world was a crime. Those who did it, supported it, or did nothing to stop it, were criminals. His job was to make them stop. It was the only way. And at the end of it the innocent would be safe, as would Nature. In any case, the men and the instruments of the Project were now in place. Wil Gearing was confident that he could accomplish his mission, so skillfully had Global Security insinuated itself into the security plan for the Sydney Olympics, with the help of Popov and his ginned-up operations in Europe. So, the Project would go forward, and that was that, and a year from now the planet would be transformed. Henriksen’s only concern was how many people would survive the plague. The scientific members of the Project had discussed it to endless length. Most would die from starvation or other causes, and few would have the capacity to organize themselves enough to determine why the Project members had also survived and then take action against them. Most natural survivors would be invited into the protection of the elect, and the smart ones would accept that protection. The others—who cared? Henriksen had also set up the security systems at the Kansas facility. There were heavy weapons there, enough to handle rioting farmers with Shiva symptoms, he was sure.
The most likely result of the plague would be a rapid breakdown of society. Even the military would rapidly come apart, but the Kansas facility was a good distance from the nearest military base, and the soldiers based at Fort Riley would be sent to the cities first to maintain order until they, too, came down with symptoms. Then they’d be treated by the military doctors—for what little good it would do—and by the time unit cohesion broke down, it would be far too late for even the soldiers to take any organized action. So, it would be a twitchy time, but one that would pass rapidly, and so long as the Project people in Kansas kept quiet, they ought not to suffer organized attack. Hell, all they had to do was to let the world believe that people were dying there, too, maybe dig a few graves and toss bags into them for the cameras—better yet, burn them in the open—and they could frighten people away from another focal center of the plague. No, they’d considered this one for years. The Project would succeed. It had to. Who else would save the planet?
The cafeteria theme today was Italian, and Popov was pleased to see that the cooks here were not “vegans.” The lasagna had meat in it. Coming out with his tray and glass of Chianti, he spotted Dr. Killgore eating alone and decided to walk over that way.
“Ah, hello, Mr. Popov.”
“Good day, Doctor. How did my blood work turn out?”
“Fine. Your cholesterol is slightly elevated, and the HDL/LDL ratio is a little off, but I wouldn’t get very upset about it. A little exercise should fix it nicely. Your PSA is fine—”
“What’s that?”
“Prostate-Specific Antibody, a check for prostate cancer. All men should check that out when they turn fifty or so. Yours is fine. I should have told you yesterday, but I got piled up. Sorry about that—but there was nothing important to tell you, and that’s a case where no news really is good news, Mr. Popov.”
“My name is Dmitriy,” the Russian said, extending his hand.
“John,” the doctor replied, taking it. “Ivan to you, I guess.”
“And I see you are not a vegan,” Dmitriy Arkadeyevich observed, gesturing to Killgore’s food.
“Oh? What? Me? No, Dmitriy, I’m not one of those. Homo sapiens is an omnivore. Our teeth are not those of vegetarians. The enamel isn’t thick enough. That’s sort of a political movement, the vegans. Some of them won’t even wear leather shoes because leather’s an animal product.” Killgore ate half a meatball to show what he thought of that. “I even like hunting.”
“Oh? Where does one do that here?”
“Not on the Project grounds. We have rules about that, but in due course I’ll be able to hunt deer, elk, buffalo, birds, everything I want,” Killgore said, looking out the huge windows.
“Buffalo? I thought they were extinct,” Popov said, remembering something he’d heard or read long before.
“Not really. They came close a hundred years ago, but enough survived to thrive at Yellowstone National Park and in private collections. Some people even breed them with domestic cattle, and the meat’s pretty good. It’s called beefalo. You can buy it in some stores around here.”
“A buffalo can breed with a cow?” Popov asked.
“Sure. The animals are very close, genetically speaking, and cross-breeding is actually pretty easy. The hard part,” Killgore explained with a grin, “is that a domestic bull is intimidated by a bison cow, and has trouble performing his duty, as it were. They fix that by raising them together from infancy, so the bull is used to them by the time he’s big enough to do the deed.”
“What about horses? I would have expected horses in a place like this.”
“Oh, we have them, mainly quarter horses and some Appaloosas. The barn is down in the southwest part of the property. You ride, Dmitriy?”
“No, but I have seen many Western movies. When Dawson drove me around, I expected to see cowboys herding cattle carrying Colt pistols on their belts.”
Killgore had a good chuckle at that. “I guess you’re a city boy. Well, so was I once, but I’ve come to love it out here, especially on horseback. Like to go for a ride?”
“I’ve never sat on a horse,” Popov admitted, intrigued by the invitation. This doctor was an open man, and perhaps a trusting one. He could get information from this man, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich thought.
“Well, we have a nice gentle quarter horse mare—Buttermilk, would you believe?” Killgore paused. “Damn, it’s nice to be out here.”
“You are a recent arrival?”
“Just last week. I used to be in the Binghamton lab, northwest of New York City,” he explained.
“What sort of work do you do?”
“I’m a physician—epidemiologist, as a matter of fact. I’m supposed to be an expert on how diseases riffle through populations. But I do a lot of clinical stuff, too, and so I’m one of the designated family practitioners. Like a GP in the old days. I know a little bit about everything, but I’m not really an expert in any field—except epidemiology, and that’s more like being an accountant than a doc, really.”
“I have a sister who is a physician,” Popov tried.
“Oh? Where?”
“In Moscow. She’s a pediatrician. She graduated Moscow State University in the 1970s. Her name is Maria Arkadeyevna. I am Dmitriy Arkadeyevich. Our father was Arkady, you see.”
“Was he a doctor, too?” Killgore asked.
Popov shook his head. “No, he was like me, a spy—an intelligence officer for State Security.” Popov dropped that in to see how Killgore would react. He figured he didn’t need to keep it a secret out here—and it could be useful. You give something to get something . . .
“You were KGB? No shit?” the doctor asked, impressed.
“Yes, I was, but with the changes in my country, KGB diminished in size, and I was, how you say, laid off?”
“What did you do with KGB? Can you say?”
It was as though he’d just admitted to being a sports star, Popov saw. “I was an intelligence officer. I gathered information, and I was a conduit for people in whom KGB had interest.”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, I met with certain people and groups to discuss . . . matters of mutual interest,” he replied coyly.
“Like who?”
“I am not supposed to say. Your Dr. Brightling knows. That is why he hired me, in fact.”
“But you’re part of the Project now, right?”
“I do not know what that means—John sent me here, but he didn’t say why.”
“Oh, I see. Well, you’ll be here for a while, Dmitriy.” That had been obvious from the fax the physician had received from New York. This Popov guy was now part of the Project, whether he wanted to be or not. He’d had his “B” shot, after all.
The Russian tried to recover control of the
conversation: “I’ve heard that before, project—what project? What exactly are you doing here?”
For the first time, Killgore looked uncomfortable. “Well, John will brief you in on that when he gets out here, Dmitriy. So, how was dinner?”
“The food is good, for institutional food,” Popov replied, wondering what mine he’d just stepped on. He’d been close to something important. His instincts told him that very clearly indeed. He’d asked a direct question of someone who supposed that he’d already known the answer, and his lack of specific knowledge had surprised Killgore.
“Yeah, we have some good people here in food services.” Killgore finished his bread. “So, want to take a ride in the country?”
“Yes, I’d like that very much.”
“Meet me here tomorrow morning, say about seven, and I’ll show you around the right way.” Killgore walked away, wondering what the Russian was here for. Well, if John Brightling had personally recruited him, he had to be important to the Project—but if that were true, how the hell could he not know what the Project was all about? Should he ask someone? But if so, whom?
They knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Sullivan and Chatham waited a few minutes—they might have caught the guy on the toilet or in the shower—but there was no response. They took the elevator downstairs, found the doorman, and identified themselves.
“Any idea where Mr. Maclean is?”
“He left earlier today, carrying a few bags like he was going somewhere, but I don’t know where.”
“Cab to the airport?” Chatham asked.
The doorman shook his head. “No, a car came for him and headed off west.” He pointed that way, in case they didn’t know where west was.
“Did he do anything about his mail?”
Another headshake: “No.”
“Okay, thanks,” Sullivan said, heading off to where their Bureau car was parked. “Business trip? Vacation?”
“We can call his office tomorrow to find out. It’s not like he’s a real suspect yet, is it, Tom?”
“I suppose not,” Sullivan responded. “Let’s head off to the bar and try the photos on some more people.”
“Right,” Chatham agreed reluctantly. This case was taking away his TV time at home, which was bad enough. It was also going nowhere at the moment, which was worse.
Clark awoke to the noise and had to think for a second or so to remember that Patsy had moved in with them so as not to be alone, and to have her mother’s help with JC, as they were calling him. This time he decided to get up, too, despite the early hour. Sandy was already up, her maternal instincts ignited by the sound of a crying baby. John arrived in time to see his wife hand his newly re-diapered grandson to his daughter, who sat somewhat bleary-eyed in a rocking chair purchased for the purpose, her nightie open and exposing her breast. John turned away in mild embarrassment and looked instead at his similarly nightie-clad wife, who smiled benignly at the picture before her.
He was a cute little guy, Clark thought. He peeked back. JC’s mouth was locked onto the offered nipple and started sucking—maybe the only instinct human children were born with, the mother-child bond that men simply could not replicate at this stage in a child’s life. What a precious thing life was. Just days before, John Conor Chavez had been a fetus, a thing living inside his mother—and whether or not he’d been a living thing depended on what one thought of abortion, and that, to John Clark, was a matter of some controversy. He had killed in his life, not frequently, but not as seldom as he would have preferred, either. He told himself at such times that the people whose lives he took had deserved their fates, either because of actions or their associations. He’d also been largely an instrument of his country at those times, and hence able to lay off whatever guilt he might have felt on a larger identity. But now, seeing JC, he had to remind himself that every life he’d taken had started like this one had—helpless, totally dependent on the care of his mother, later growing into a manhood determined both by his own actions and the influence of others, and only then becoming a force for good or evil. How did that happen? What twisted a person to evil? Choice? Destiny? Luck, good or bad? What had twisted his own life to the good—and was his life a servant of the good? Just one more of the damned-fool things that entered your head at oh-dark-thirty. Well, he told himself, he was sure that he’d never hurt a baby during that life, however violent parts of it had been. And he never would. No, he’d only harmed people who had harmed others first, or threatened to do so, and who had to be stopped from doing so because the others he protected, either immediately or distantly, had rights as well, and he protected them and those from harm, and that settled the thoughts for the moment.
He took a step toward the pair, reached down to touch the little feet, and got no reaction, because JC had his priorities lined up properly at the moment. Food. And the antibodies that came with breast milk to keep him healthy. In time, his eyes would recognize faces and his little face would smile, and he’d learn to sit up, then crawl, then walk, and finally speak, and so begin to join the world of men. Ding would be a good father and a good model for his grandson to emulate, Clark was sure, especially with Patsy there to be a check on his father’s adverse tendencies. Clark smiled and walked back to bed, trying to remember exactly where Chavez the Elder was at the moment, and leaving the women’s work to the women of the house.
It was hours later when the dawn again awoke Popov in his motel-like room. He’d fallen quickly into a routine, first turning on his coffeemaker, then going into the bathroom to shower and shave, then coming out ten minutes later to switch on CNN. The lead story was about the Olympics. The world had become so dull. He remembered his first field assignment to London, as in his hotel he’d watched CNN comment and report on East-West differences, the movement of armies and the growth of suspicion between the political groups that had defined the world of his youth. He especially remembered the strategic issues so often misreported by journalists, both print and electronic: MIRVs and missiles, and throw weight, and ABM systems that had supposedly threatened to upset the balance of power. All things of the past now, Popov told himself. For him, it was as though a mountain range had disappeared. The shape of the world had changed virtually overnight, the things he’d believed to be immutable had indeed mutated into something he’d never believed possible. The global war he’d feared, along with his agency and his nation, was now no more likely than a life-ending meteor from the heavens.
It was time to learn more. Popov dressed and headed down to the cafeteria, where he found Dr. Killgore eating breakfast, just as promised.
“Good morning, John,” the Russian said, taking his seat across the table from the epidemiologist.
“Morning, Dmitriy. Ready for your ride?”
“Yes, I think I am. You said the horse was gentle?”
“That’s why they call her Buttermilk, eight-year-old quarter horse mare. She won’t hurt you.”
“Quarter horse? What does that mean?”
“It means they only race a quarter mile, but, you know, one of the richest horse races in the world is for that distance, down in Texas. I forget what they call it, but the purse is huge. Well, one more institution we won’t be seeing much more of,” Killgore went on, buttering his toast.
“Excuse me?” Popov asked.
“Hmph? Oh, nothing important, Dmitriy.” And it wasn’t. The horses would survive for the most part, returning to the wild to see if they could make it after centuries of being adapted to human care. He supposed their instincts, genetically encoded in their DNA, would save most of them. And someday Project members and/or their progeny would capture them, break them, and ride them on their way to enjoy Nature and Her ways. The working horses, quarters and Appaloosas, should do well. Thoroughbreds he was less sure of, super-adapted as they were to do one thing—run in a circle as fast as their physiology would allow—and little else. Well, that was their misfortune, and Darwin’s laws were harsh, though also fair in their way. Killgore f
inished his breakfast and stood. “Ready?”
“Yes, John.” Popov followed him to the doors. Outside, Killgore had his own Hummer, which he drove to the southwest in the clear, bright morning. Ten minutes later they were at the horse barns. He took a saddle from the tack room and walked down to a stall whose door had BUTTERMILK engraved on the pine. He opened it and walked in, quickly saddled the horse, and handed Popov the reins.
“Just walk her outside. She won’t bite or kick or anything. She’s very docile, Dmitriy.”
“If you say so, John,” the Russian observed dubiously. He was wearing sneakers rather than boots, and wondered if that was important or not. The horse looked at him with her huge brown eyes, revealing nothing as to what, if anything, she thought of this new human who was leading her outside. Dmitriy walked to the barn’s large door, and the horse followed quietly into the clear morning air. A few minutes later, Killgore appeared, astride his horse, a gelding, so it appeared.
“You know how to get on?” the physician asked.
Popov figured he’d seen enough Western movies. He stuck his left foot into the stirrups and climbed up, swinging his right leg over and finding the opposite stirrup.
“Good. Now just hold the reins like this and click your tongue, like this.” Killgore demonstrated. Popov did the same, and the horse, dumb as she appeared to be, started walking forward. Some of this must be instinctive on his part, the Russian thought. He was doing things—apparently the right things—almost without instruction. Wasn’t that remarkable?
“There you go, Dmitriy,” the doctor said approvingly. “This is how it’s supposed to be, man. A pretty morning, a horse ’tween your legs, and lots of country to cover.”