Black Harvest

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

A silver and blue Lear Jet turned at the end of Dansinger's private runway and taxied toward a sun-baked hanger. A white limousine waited near the hanger doors. DCI Lodge gazed out the port window. The Texas panhandle stretched away into shimmering, hazy distance.

Dansinger's research compound took up several hundred acres. It was surrounded by a tall metal fence topped with razor wire. Signs picturing a red lightning bolt marked the fence at regular intervals. Rows of large, identical one story buildings marched along one side. Each was painted light tan. Each had a rounded green metal roof. A perfect grid of paved roads separated the buildings. A black security vehicle patrolled between them. It reminded Lodge favorably of a concentration camp, except the buildings concentrated plants, not people.

Harold Dansinger waited by the limo as Lodge descended from the plane. He looked tan and fit under his white Stetson.

"Wendell, good to see you. Smooth flight?"

"Very smooth, Harold, thanks. I'm looking forward to our meeting."

"I think you'll be pleased."

A driver held the door for them. They got in the back of the car. Dansinger pushed a button. An opaque partition rose behind the driver.

"We can talk freely."

"Demeter?"

"We're waiting for the spring planting to take hold. Another week or so should be about right. We monitor the area daily."

Lodge nodded. "Efficient. It's one of the things I appreciate about you, Harold."

The limo drove toward one of the buildings. Each was the length of a football field and half again as wide. The car turned right and then left. It continued toward the back of a building with a large number 1 painted on the side. The car stopped by a plain door. Lodge and Dansinger got out. Dansinger slid a card through a slotted reader and opened the door.

They entered a room like executive boardrooms everywhere, except there were no windows. A long, polished table of wood. Comfortable leather chairs. An overhead projector mounted on the ceiling. Lighting that illuminated without being intrusive. Walls papered in soothing tones. Thick carpet on the floor. A remote control rested on the table.

Dansinger walked to a large sideboard of polished oak. It was set with decanters and glasses of cut crystal.

"Drink?"

"Single malt, if you've got it. Neat."

"I'll join you." Dansinger poured the drinks. The two men sat down.

"I've prepared a short presentation for you. I thought you'd like to see Demeter in action."

He picked up the remote and pressed a button. A screen descended at one end of the room. The lights dimmed. Dansinger pressed again. The video appeared. It showed the interior of one of the large buildings and a broad field thick with green plants. Overhead, bright UV lighting simulated the sun.

"This is one of our test facilities for wheat. We have others for barley, corn, rice and millet. Also for leafy vegetables like cucumbers. The surface you see here is about one and a half acres."

"Is this one of your engineered crops?"

"No. This is natural, grown using standard methods. Just like the crops in the target area."

On screen, a man entered the room through an airlock. He wore a white hazmat suit and carried a jar with a red label. It could have been taken from the spice rack in anyone's kitchen. He uncapped it and shook some of the contents over a small area. Black specks drifted down over the young plants. He put the cap back on the jar and exited the room.

"Airborne?"

"Yes. Notice that he used a very small amount of material. Now the video will go into time lapse mode. About one minute a day. What you will see takes approximately ten days."

The frames of the video began to flicker through the first day. The lights dimmed as the cycle followed the sun. Not much happened. The plants were green and vibrant. Lodge could almost sense the life pushing up out of the soil.

The morning of the second day dawned. The plants were still green.

On the third day something had changed. A hint of yellow had appeared in the green. Plants were affected in all directions.

On the fourth day a broad swath of yellow had spread outward into the field. Patches of yellow were beginning to appear farther away. Some of the plants were turning brown.

By the fifth day, it had reached the center.

By the sixth day, the entire field was infected.

By the tenth day, the field was dead.

Dansinger used the remote to turn off the projector and raise the lighting. The screen retracted into the ceiling.

"I've been working on this for two years. The genetic code of the virus has been altered to greatly accelerate reproduction. The original virus devastated ancient Mesopotamia. That was just grains like wheat. Demeter will attack the other crops I mentioned as well. The beauty is that the virus has a finite life cycle. Once the damage is done, it dies."

"No permanent damage?"

"None. It was one of the requirements. The outbreak will begin in the Ukraine and spread throughout the old Soviet Union. I estimate two to three months before total crop failure over the entire region. There will be famine. The people will riot. Moscow will not be able to contain it and national and regional governments will collapse. Once it's over, we'll step in with food and seeds for the new crops. And, perhaps, a bit of military assistance as needed. Russia will be finished."

"Is there an antidote to this?"

"There is, stored in the Utah facility. It was another requirement. No one will be able to develop it in time."

Lodge sipped his drink. "It's too bad about Wilkinson."

"Yes. Regrettable. It was a hard decision."

The two men considered their regrettable decision for a second or two.

"Rice will have his hands full. We have a good chance of getting our man into the White House."

"You're a visionary, Harold. You should be President."

Dansinger laughed. "Oh, no. Much better to be in the shadows. It's always been that way for people like us."

He finished his drink. "You did well with those scientists, Wendell. Campbell was too close."

"Harker and her people are still looking for the urn."

"Ah, the urn. It has been in my family forever. Let them look. They'll never find out what happened to it."

"How did your family get it?"

"You know my ancestors were from Germany? Back then they lived in Erfurt. It was quite a place, one of the big medieval cities. Rigidly Catholic. The name was Danzinger back then, with a 'Z'. Anyway, there was a wave of emigration from Bulgaria around the middle of the eleventh century. Mostly Greeks who had become unpopular in the Slavic makeover of what had been Thrace. Some of them were pagans. The smart ones converted. Those who didn't were killed or driven away."

"And the urn?"

"One of my ancestors was on the town council, an influential merchant. He acquired the urn from one of the less fortunate Greeks in return for his conversion and his life."

"And it was never opened?"

"No. It amused my family to keep it sealed. Sort of a family legend. The curse of a goddess, all that. They were wealthy, they didn't need the money the gold would have brought. The urn was a powerful symbol of their wealth. Nothing clinked inside, like coins or jewels, or I'm sure it would have been opened. When they emigrated to the States, the urn came with them."

"But you got curious."

Dansinger nodded. "I knew the story, of course. I thought about it. I decided it was time to open it and see what was actually in there. It contained spores, just as Campbell suspected after he found those tablets. One thing led to another. Now we have Demeter. I'm sure the goddess would be proud."

Lodge swirled whiskey in his glass, drained it. "I've dreamed of this for years. Moscow finished for good. It will be a great day."

Dansinger reached for the bottle of single malt, poured two new drinks. He raised his glass.

"To the dream."