"But surely if it came down to protecting our country . . ." Sandecker protested.
Bass shook his head. "I don't think you understand the true horror of the Quick Death organism, Admiral. Nothing known can impede its deadly effects. Allow me to cite an illustration: if five ounces of QD were delivered over Manhattan Island, the organism would seek out and kill ninety-eight percent of the population within four hours. And no one, gentlemen, no human, could set foot on the island for over three centuries. Future generations could only stand on the New Jersey shore and watch the once-mighty buildings erode and crumble over the bones of their former inhabitants."
The other men around the table paled; their blood ran cold. For a while no one spoke. They sat frozen, visualizing a city entombing three million corpses. It was Pitt who finally broke the uneasy silence.
"The people in Brooklyn and the Bronx-they would not be affected?"
"QD organisms spread in colonies. Strangely, they do not travel by human contact or by the wind. They tend to stay localized. Of course, if enough of the biological agent were delivered by aircraft or rockets, theoretically blanketing all of North America, the entire continent would become barren of all human life until the year 2300."
"Is there nothing that can kill QD?" asked Steiger.
"H-two-oh," answered Bass. "The organism can only exist in an atmosphere with a high gaseous-oxygen content. You might say it suffocates when immersed in water, just as we do."
"It strikes me as odd that Vetterly was the only one who knew how to produce it." This from Pitt.
Bass smiled thinly. "I would have never permitted one man to keep the critical data to himself."
"So you destroyed the doctor's records."
"I also falsified all orders and paperwork I could lay my hands on that related to the project, which included, by the way, the original flight plan of Vixen 03."
Steiger sat back and sighed with apparent relief. "At least that's one part of the puzzle that won't bug me any longer."
"But surely the project left tracks," Sandecker said spe3ulatively.
"Skeletons still lie on Rongelo Island," said Pitt. "And what keeps unsuspecting fishermen or yachtsmen off its beaches?"
"I'll answer your question in reverse," said Bass. "First, all nautical charts of that area designate Rongelo Island as a dumping ground for hydrogen cyanide. The shores are also ringed with buoys warning of danger."
"Hydrogen cyanide," Giordino repeated. "Sounds like bad medicine."
"Truly. It is a blood agent that interferes with all respiration. In certain doses it causes almost immediate death. This is spelled out on the charts and in six languages on signs attached to the buoys." Bass paused and pulled out a handkerchief and patted the sweat that gleamed on his bald head. "Also, what few records that remain dealing with the QD project are lying deep in a Pentagon high-security vault that contains documents classified as FEO."
"FEO?"
" 'Future eyes only,' " Bass explained. "Each file is sealed and marked with a date when it can be opened. Even the President lacks the power to examine a document's contents before the specified time. It has been referred to as the closet where our nation's skeletons are kept. The file on Amelia Earhart, UFOs, the truth behind the government's insistence on the swine-flu shots in the mid-seventies, political scandals that make the old Watergate stories seem like Boy Scout adventures. They're all there. The QD-project file, for example, cannot be opened until the year 2550. By then, President Eisenhower hoped, our descendants would fail to glean its true implications."
The other men in the NUMA conference room had never heard of the Future Eyes Only file, and they were astonished.
"I suppose the next obvious question," said Pitt, "is why, Admiral, are you taking us into your confidence?"
"I requested this meeting to clear the air on Vixen 03 because I find myself in the position of having to trust someone to recover the QD in the aircraft and destroy it."
"You're asking a great deal," Sandecker said. He relit another cigar and puffed it to life. "If the Pentagon gets wind of this, we could all be branded as traitors."
"A disagreeable possibility that cannot be overlooked," admitted Bass. "Our only comfort would be in knowing that public and moral opinion stand on our side."
"Somehow I've never quite been able to picture myself as a savior to mankind," Giordino mumbled.
Steiger looked steadily at Bass, perhaps seeing his Air Force career going up in smoke for the second time in as many weeks. "I get the feeling your choice of accomplices is backed by mad logic, Admiral. Myself, for instance-where do I fit in with the recovery of Vixen 03?"
Bass's tight smile loosened. "Believe it or not, Colonel, you're the critical man on the team. Your report alerted the Air Force to the existence of the aircraft. Fortunately, someone high in government found it inconvenient to pursue the matter further. Your job will be to see that any Pentagon interest remains negative."
There was understanding on Pitt's face now. "Okay, so Admiral Sandecker bankrolls the overall effort with NUMA resources while Giordino and I handle the actual salvage work. How do you intend to destroy QD's lethal properties once we raise the canisters?"
"We deep-six the warheads in the ocean," Bass replied without hesitation. "In time, as their exterior surface erodes, the water will neutralize the disease strain."
Pitt turned to Sandecker and found himself saying, "I can transfer Jack Folsom and his crew from the Chenago job and have 51
them on site at Table Lake with all necessary equipment inside forty-eight hours."
Admiral Sandecker was a realist. His choice was clear. He had known Bass well enough not to write off the old man as an alarmist. Every head angled toward the fiery little director of NUMA. He seemed lost in the blue cigar smoke that curled to the ceiling. Then at last he nodded.
"All right, gentlemen, we go."
"Thank you, James," Bass said, obviously pleased. "I fully realize the gamble you're taking merely on the word of a rusty old sea dog."
"I'd say those were pretty good odds," Sandecker replied.
"A thought just occurred to me," Giordino cut in. "If water kills this QD stuff, why don't we simply leave it on the bottom of the lake?"
Bass shook his head solemnly. "No thank you. If you found it, so can someone else. It's far better we deposit it for eternity where no human will ever set eyes on it. I can only thank God the canisters have gone undiscovered all these years."
"Which brings up another matter," Pitt said, noting the sudden uneasy lowering of Giordino's and Steiger's eyes.
Sandecker flicked an ash into an abalone-shell tray. "What is that?"
"According to the original flight plan, Vixen 03 departed Buckley Field with a crew of four. Is that correct, Admiral Bass?"
Bass's expression went quizzical. "Yes, there were four."
"Perhaps I should have brought this up sooner," Pitt said, "but I was afraid of complicating the issue at hand."
"You're not the type to beat around the bush," Sandecker said impatiently. "What are you getting at?"
"The fifth skeleton."
"The fifth what?"
"When I dove on the wreckage, I found the bones of a fifth man tied to the floor of the cargo section."
Sandecker looked at Bass. "Have you any idea who he's talking about?"
Bass sat like a man who had been slapped in the face. "A ground maintenance man," he murmured vacantly. "One must have somehow been left on board when the plane took off."
"Won't wash," said Pitt. "Flesh was still evident. The remains haven't been immersed as long as the others."
"You said the canisters were still sealed," replied Bass, snatching at threads.
"Yes, sir, I saw no evidence of tampering," Pitt reassured him.
"My God, my God!" Bass held his hands to his face. "Someone besides ourselves knows about the aircraft."
"We can't be sure of that," said Steiger.
Bass lowered his hands and stared
at Pitt through glazed eyes. "Bring her up, Mr. Pitt. For the sake of humanity, bring up Vixen 03 from the bottom of that lake-and do it quickly."
Pitt could not shake the feeling of dread as he left the meeting and passed through the main entrance of the NUMA building. The Washington night was heavy with humidity, the stickiness adding to his depression. He walked across the deserted parking lot and opened the door to his car. He was halfway behind the wheel before he noticed a small figure on the passenger seat.
Loren was asleep. She was cuddled in a ball and lost to the world. She wore a Grecian-style green dress and calfskin boots under a long fur coat. Pitt leaned over and brushed the hair from her cheeks and gently shook her awake. Her eyes fluttered open and then locked on his. Her lips arched into a feline smile and her face looked strangely pale and young.
"Mmm. Fancy meeting you here."
He leaned over and kissed her. "Are you crazy? A luscious creature all alone in an empty Washington parking lot. It's a miracle you weren't assaulted and gang-banged."
She pushed him away and wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, you reek of stale cigars."
"Blame that on being cooped up with Admiral Sandecker for six hours." He settled back and started the car. "How did you track me down?"
"No great feat. I called your office to get your number in Savannah. Your secretary said you were already back in town, tied up in conference." «
"Whatever possessed you to stake out my car?"
"I fought and lost an overwhelming urge to do something foolish and feminine." She kneaded the inside of his thigh. "Glad?"
"I cannot tell a lie," he said, grinning. "You come as a welcome relief after the last twenty-four hours."
"Welcome relief?" Loren faked a pout. "You really know how to charm a girl with flattery."
"We don't have much time," he said, turning serious. "I'm off again in the morning."
"I figured as much. That's why I've planned a nice surprise."
She snuggled closer and her hand worked its way up his thigh.
"I don't believe this," Pitt murmured in awe.
"Felicia hinted it was sexy, but I had no idea."
Pitt and Loren stood ankle deep in a crimson carpet, staring in fascination at a room whose four walls and ceilings were solidly paneled with gold-tinted mirrors. The only piece of furniture was a large circular bed raised on a platform and covered with red satin sheets. Illumination came from four spotlights embedded in the corners of the ceiling, emitting a soft blue light.
Loren stepped over to the raised bed and touched its gleaming pillows reverently, as though they were exquisite art objects. Pitt studied her reflection, multiplied into infinity, for several moments, and then he walked up behind her and deftly stripped off her clothes.
"Don't move," he said. "I want my eyes to devour a thousand naked Loren Smiths."
Her face flushed dark, her eyes riveted to the unending images of herself in the mirrors. "Lord," she whispered, "I feel as though I'm performing in front of a crowd." Then she tensed and said something blurred and murmurous as Pitt bent down and flicked his tongue in her navel.
The telephone's muted ring summoned Frederick Daggat from a sound sleep. Beside him Felicia moaned softly, rolled over, and continued sleeping. He groped for his wristwatch on the bedstand and focused his eyes on its luminous dial. It read four o'clock.
He picked up the receiver.
"This is Daggat."
52
"Sam Jackson. I have the pictures." ~
"Any problems?"
"A breeze. You were right. I didn't have to shoot with infrared. They left the lights on. Can't say as I blame them-the room mirrored from top to bottom and all. High-speed film should bring out all the details you asked for. They put on quite a show. Too bad we didn't tape it."
"They didn't suspect?"
"How could they know one of the mirrored panels was two way? They were too busy to notice anything short of an earthquake.
Just to play safe, I used a special noiseless camera."
"When can I expect to see the results?"
"By eight in the morning, if it's a dire emergency. I could use some sack time, though. Wait till early evening and I promise you eight-by-ten glossy prints fit for a gallery exhibit."
"Take your time and do it right," said Daggat. "I want every detail highlighted."
"You can count on it," Jackson said. "By the way, who's the foxy lady? She's a real tiger."
"That doesn't concern you, Jackson. Call me when you're ready. And remember, I'm only interested in the artistic positions."
"I get the message. Good night, Congressman."
39
Dale Jarvis was just getting ready to clear his desk and leave for the thirty-minute drive home to his wife and a traditional Friday supper of pork roast when there was a knock at the door and John Gossard, who headed up the agency's Africa Section, entered.
Gossard had come to the NSA from the Army after the Vietnam war, where he had served as a specialist in guerrilla logistics. A quiet man with a cynical sense of humor, he walked with a limp caused by a rifle grenade whose shrapnel had severed his right foot. He was known as a heavy drinker, but also as a man who fulfilled all his section's requests for data in precise and abundant detail. His intelligence sources were the envy of the entire agency.
Jarvis spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. "John, chew my ass if you will; it completely slipped my mind. I had every intention of RSVPing your fishing-trip invitation."
"Can you make it?" Gossard asked. "McDermott and Sampson, over in Soviet Analysis, are going."
"I never turn down a chance to show those Kremlin guys how to catch the big ones."
"Good. The boat is reserved. We cast off from slip nine at the Plum Point Marina at five sharp, Sunday." Gossard set his briefcase on Jar-vis's desk and opened it. "Incidentally, I had two motives for stopping by your sanctum sanctorum before heading home. The second is this." He dropped a folder in front of Jarvis. "I'll let you take it over the weekend, providing you promise not to shit-can it along with your old paperback spy novels."
Jarvis smiled. "Small chance of that. What've you got?"
"The data you asked for concerning a weird South African feasibility plan called Wild Rose."
Jarvis's brows raised. "That was fast work. I only put in the request this afternoon."
"The African Section does not allow the moss to grow," Gossard said, pontificating.
"Anything I need to know before reading it?"
"Nothing of any earth-shattering consequence. Pretty much as you suspected: a wild pipe dream."
"Then Hiram Lusana was telling the truth."
"Insofar as the plan actually exists," Gossard replied. "You'll especially enjoy the plot. The concept is intriguing as hell."
"You've piqued my curiosity. Just how do the South Africans posing as AAR blacks intend to carry out the raid?"
"Sorry," Gossard said, smiling devilishly. "That would be giving away the meat of the story."
Jarvis threw him a serious look. "Can you fully trust the quality of your source?"
"My source is genuine, all right. Strange sort of duck. Insists on going under the code name of Emma. We've never been able to establish an identity. His information is solid enough. He sells to anybody and everybody willing to pay."
"I gather you doled out a pretty penny for Operation Wild Rose," Jarvis said.
"Not really. It was included in a box with fifty other documents. We paid only ten thousand dollars for the lot."
As the photographs dropped from the dryer into a basket, Sam Jackson scooped them up and neatly jiggled their edges until they were straight and orderly. He was a tall, angular black man with braided hair, a youthful face, and long, slender hands. He passed Daggat the photos and pulled his apron off over his head.
"That's all she wrote."
"How many?" Daggat asked.
"About thirty that clearly show faces. I checked out the contact prints with a magnifying g
lass. All the rest were nothing shots."
"A shame they aren't in color."
"Next time, hang something besides those blue lights," said Jackson. "They might hype a sexy gig, but they sure ain't got what it takes to make sharp color transparencies."
Daggat carefully studied the eight-by-ten black-and-white prints. He went through them a second time. The third time, he sifted out ten and put them inside a briefcase. The remaining twenty he handed to Jackson.
"Put these together with the negatives and contact prints in an envelope."
"You're taking them with you?"
"I think it best if I alone am responsible for their safekeeping. Don't you agree?"
It was clear Jackson did not. He threw Daggat an uneasy look. "Hey, man, photographers aren't in the habit of giving up their negatives. You're not going to produce these for sale, are you? I don't mind shooting a private porno job for a good customer, but I'm not about to make a commercial living at it. Trouble with the fuzz I can do without."
Daggat closed upon Jackson until their faces were only inches apart. "I am not 'Hey, man,' " he said coldly. "I am United States Congressman Frederick Daggat. Do you get the message, brother?"
For a brief moment Jackson glared back. Then, slowly, he lowered his eyes and stared at the chemical stains on the linoleum floor. Daggat held all the cards, bankrolled by his congressional powers. The photographer had no choice but to fold.
53
"Suit yourself," he said.
Daggat nodded, and then, as if dismissing Jackson's objections completely, casually smiled. "I'd appreciate it if you'd hurry things up. I have a lovely but anxious lady waiting in the car outside. She's the impatient type, if you know what I mean."
Jackson slid the negatives, contact prints, and eight-by-ten glossies into a large manila envelope and handed it to Daggat. "About my fee."
Daggat flipped him a hundred-dollar bill.
"But we agreed on five hundred," Jackson said.