Cold Frame

PROLOGUE

Hiram Walker pointed down at one scraggly-looking plant. “Now this little jewel, Mister Strang, discourages predation by blinding the animal temporarily the moment it takes the first few little nibbles.”

“How in the world does it do that?”

“Its leaves secrete a powerful toxin the instant the plant senses predatory pressure. The first bite is free. The second one causes an ocular migraine within seconds. The animal then experiences retinal flashes that it associates with a nocturnal predator eye-flash. It backs away immediately, which is when it discovers it can’t see a thing. It usually freezes in place and often defecates in mortal fright.”

“So the plant stops the attack and gets some fertilizer in the bargain,” Strang said, peering closer at the plant. “Nasty-looking weed. What’s it called?”

“We call it Sister Dark Surprise,” Hiram replied. “Its Latin name is unnecessarily complicated.”

“Is the damage permanent?”

Hiram Walker had been in full lecture mode as he walked carefully among randomly placed raised beds of what looked like tangled weeds. Carefully, because he was a full seven feet, three inches tall, and also because his joints, afflicted with Marfan syndrome, were increasingly unreliable, especially when he ventured out of the big white house up on the hill. He was wearing light, woolen trousers under what looked like a nineteenth-century frock coat, complete with a small white flower in his lapel.

Hiram was fifty-two years old but looked older, with an oversized head, thinning hair, a gaunt face, deep-set, almost hooded eyes, and very large hands. Because of the Marfan, he moved in a hesitant, jerky fashion, which inevitably reminded people of Dr. Frankenstein’s outsized monster.

The manor house, known as Whitestone Hall in the Great Falls neighborhood, sat on ten acres of extremely valuable riverside property that was surrounded by a fourteen-foot-high, ivy-covered brick wall on all four sides, including along the river. The house was situated high enough that there was a river view from the back terraces. There were massive wrought-iron gates at the front entrance, and solid, almost medieval wooden gates on the river side that led to more terraces cascading down to the river itself, where there was a small boathouse. The ten acres were heavily wooded except for a wide avenue of descending walks and pools edged by formal gardens that ended down by those huge wooden gates. The front drive was packed yellowish gravel, but where one might have expected more formal gardens there seemed to be a complete jungle of plants of all descriptions spreading out to the front and side walls of the property, interspersed with trees and large, strange-looking shrubs. Not visible from the road was a rooftop greenhouse that spanned the entire width of the house on the back side, facing the river. Anyone driving by on Deepstep Creek Road could catch just a momentary glimpse of the house through wrought-iron gates, but otherwise, that imposing brick wall offered complete privacy.

Hiram was the only child of the man who had invented, and then, happily, patented, the compound that kept the oil in an automatic transmission from frothing under load. Hiram was thus now a very wealthy man. His father had built the house for him, meaning that every dimensional aspect of the house and all its furnishings had been designed for a man who was just over seven feet tall and more than a little shaky on his feet. He had seldom ever left since moving onto the property twenty-six years ago. Everything he needed or wanted could be brought to him, and had been since childhood, when he had begun to inspire people to back away when they first saw him.

“Not the first time,” Hiram said.

Strang smiled.

“The animal probably isn’t amused,” Hiram said. “But after about ten minutes its vision returns. Sometimes it tries for another bite. Not a good idea.”

“Because…?”

“Because Sister Dark Surprise is a rather short-tempered weed, Mister Strang. The first toxin is a precursor; if it’s attacked again, a special bulb in its roots opens and pushes an alkaloid compound resembling the one in wormwood into all of its branches. A mouthful of that shuts the animal’s autonomous nervous system down. It then pretty much drops dead.”

“Autonomous system meaning breathing, heartbeat, stuff like that?”

“Stuff exactly like that,” Hiram said, patiently.

“Now, alkaloids — those are always bad, yes?”

“We botanists prefer to think of them as quick,” Hiram said.

“And it’s the living plant that does all this, right? Not just, say, some of its dried leaves?”

“Correct.”

“Hmm.”

Hiram chuckled. “Let’s move on, shall we? I’ve lots more interesting plants to show you.”

They proceeded to the next cold frame. “Do Sister Dark Surprise’s abilities occur in nature?” Strang asked as they were walking.

Hiram nodded. “The phase-one response does,” he said. “But, no, the second response is not found in nature. Yet.”

Strang gave him an arch look. “Your Phaedo Botanical Society bears watching,” he said.

“You have no idea, Mister Strang.”

“Well, I know a little bit,” Strang said. “The society was formed to investigate the possibility that plants had brains. Its principals do research on this theory in different ways, but focus primarily on how plants defend themselves.”

“That’s a good, general description,” Hiram said. “As far as it goes.”

“And how far do this Sister Dark Surprise’s abilities go?” Strang asked. “For instance, what would that badass little weed do to, say, a human being?”

Hiram stopped short and looked down at the man from the so-far-undisclosed government agency. “It sounds to me that we’ve come to the purpose of your visit, Mister Strang,” Hiram said. “Why don’t we go inside now?”

Strang smiled and nodded. Hiram thought that Strang was the plainest-looking man he’d ever seen. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about him from a physical-appearance perspective. Plain face, five-eight, brown eyes, a mild, patient expression; he would probably be just about invisible in a crowd. Hiram couldn’t guess the man’s age, but somewhere between mid-forties and mid-fifties. His only interesting feature was his hands, which were elongated, sinewy, with curling fingers and what looked to Hiram like heavy calluses on the edges of his palms. Karate? He had that calm and totally balanced air of physical confidence that genuine martial arts masters displayed. The whole effect told Hiram that Strang was probably affiliated with the clandestine-operations side of the agency.

They walked back to the house and went up the steps to the front doors, which were opened by the butler at just the right moment.

“Thank you, Thomas,” Hiram said, stepping through the lofty entrance. “We will take coffee in the library, if you please.”

“Very good, sir,” Thomas Hennessy intoned as Hiram and his guest entered the main foyer. He followed them down the hallway with its thirty-foot ceilings at a respectful distance. Thomas was in his late forties, brimming with personal dignity and dressed all in black with the starched white collar and shirt befitting a proper English butler. His posture was ramrod straight and his expression reflected a watchful reserve. He spoke with a semipolished Cockney accent, smoothed out over the twenty years he had spent with an organization called the British Special Boat Service. That had been almost ten years ago, but he still carried himself with the assurance of someone who could take care of business should the need arise.

Hiram settled into a massive leather thronelike armchair in front of an equally massive fireplace, where Thomas had laid a crackling fire. He indicated a chair for Strang to sit in as Thomas pulled the library doors closed after checking the fire. Strang had to scoot back in the chair to get comfortable, which is when he discovered his feet no longer touched the ground.

“I apologize, Mister Strang,” Hiram said, eyeing his visitor’s discomfiture. “All the furniture in this house has been sized for me, I’m afraid. I keep meaning to get some normal-sized things put in, but then, I don’t often receive visitors.”

Strang nodded. He seemed to know that he looked like a kid trying out his father’s desk chair for the first time. “Well, again, Mister Walker — thank you for seeing me. My boss said you were dealing with Marfan syndrome, which has made you something of a recluse.”

“More than something, Mister Strang,” Hiram said with a sigh. The half-hour tour of his special gardens had been an effort, and not for the first time he wondered how much longer he had on this earth. Marfan syndrome was a degenerative disease of the connective tissue, and the older Hiram got, the more he learned just how much connective tissue there was in the human body. If the daily pain in his joints was any indication, his prospects were not all that good. This wasn’t news.

Thomas opened the doors to the library and wheeled in a coffee tray. He served them both and then withdrew again, reclosing the big white doors.

Hiram decided to get right to it. He needed to lie down, and soon. “This nameless government agency you work for, Mister Strang — is it involved in federal law enforcement? I ask because the original call came from a friend in the Bureau.”

“No, sir, it is not. Or not exactly. We asked the Bureau to make the appointment for me because you’ve helped their lab with some forensic work in the past. Our office of course does have a name, but we try to keep our invisibility cloaks on as much as possible, given what we do.”

Hiram smiled. “And what exactly does your office do, Mister Strang?”

“We coordinate the hunting down and execution of important foreign terrorists, Mister Walker. Men who are dedicated to the destruction of the United States.”

“Ah,” Hiram said. “You’re involved with the sharp end of the DMX.”

Strang’s eyebrows rose in evident surprise.

Hiram smiled again from across the coffee tray. “I’ve worked with the Agency as well as the Bureau, Mister Strang,” he said. “Forensically, of course, never operationally. Our little society has helped what used to be called the Clandestine Services to unravel some, ah, rather intractable mysteries from time to time. I called someone after I received the call from the Bureau about your wanting to meet. He told me you were coming at the behest of Carl Mandeville.”

Strang just stared at him.

“I encourage you to speak freely to me, Mister Strang,” Hiram continued. “It will save lots of time.”

Strang cleared his throat. “You have the advantage of me, Mister Walker,” he said. “I wasn’t aware that you were read into DMX.”

Hiram said nothing, waiting. Strang plunged ahead.

“The DMX committee is under political attack,” he began. “There are some important members of the Senate who’ve taken issue with the whole concept behind DMX. There’s been a proposal floated to conduct a classified policy review.”

“Their objection being what, exactly? That the U.S. government is indulging in assassination of foreign nationals without any sort of due-course proceedings?”

“That’s the way it’s being framed,” Strang said. “And, as with most Senate ‘policy reviews,’ the desired outcome is known well before the review even begins.”

“Which is that DMX should be shut down, I presume?”

“Exactly. The CT world, that is, the federal counterterrorism bureaucracy, takes the view that DMX ‘candidates’ are engaged in a war against the United States. It may be an asymmetric war, but a war nonetheless. Therefore the people who end up on the Kill List are genuine enemy combatants, not just foreign nationals, as you phrased it. In wartime, enemy combatants are fair game. Especially since these same enemy combatants have no qualms about targeting innocent civilians, like they did in New York, or in Benghazi.”

“You don’t have to convince me, Mister Strang,” Hiram said. “In my book, all terrorists, foreign or domestic, were born to die badly.”

Strang nodded. “And it’s not true that there’s no due process,” he said. “Hence the DMX committee. You know the concept, but do you know how it actually works?”

“Enlighten me,” Hiram said, sipping some tea. The depth of his knowledge about the DMX was his business, not Strang’s. He felt a slow warmth building in his tortured joints. Thomas, recognizing Hiram’s discomfort after a rare walk around the grounds, had dosed his tea, God bless him.

“There are now eighty-plus federal agencies, offices, bureaus, task forces, operations committees, and even cabinet departments involved in the so-called War on Terror,” Strang said. “The DMX is where all their efforts come together. Simply put, the DMX is where all the agencies involved in counterterrorism nominate candidates for execution. It’s a tortuous process, with many iterations, but ultimately, one or two names will be approved at each meeting to go forward to the President for inclusion on something called the Kill List. The President, himself, personally must approve any such operations.”

“Many are nominated, but few are chosen?”

“Exactly, Mister Walker,” Strang said with a wintry smile. “The criteria for selection are both complex and time-dependent, as you can imagine. There has to be evidence presented, not just speculation, and the focus is on the terrorist leadership, not whole groups.”

“Do the agencies who develop the Kill List carry out the actual executions?”

“No, sir. There is a Chinese wall between the selection process and the actual operations that follow presidential approval. The people who do the wet work have no interaction with DMX, and that is a deliberate separation.”

And which side of the wall do you come from, Mr. Strang? Hiram wondered. The separation had probably been the only way they’d been able to convince the senior government officials who sat on the DMX committee to accept the assignment. I’ll help to define the most valuable targets, but I will not be associated with any killing. Harrumph. As if that made any difference, Hiram thought, with an invisible smile.

“And what is it you want with me and our botanical society?”

“The politicians who want to see the Kill List shut down know they cannot directly come out against the counterterrorism effort, per se. They would be seen as un-American. So: they are working to shut off the assets used by the executives on the other side of that Chinese wall. The drones in particular. If they proscribe the most effective weapons, they can gut the program while still being able to claim they’re in complete support of counterterrorism.”

“You sound as if they might succeed.”

“They very well might,” Strang admitted. “There’s a lot of backlash out there regarding things like, say, the NSA’s domestic spying program. Snowden’s drip-by-drip revelations keep fueling that fire. Ordinary citizens are becoming alarmed, to say the least. We feel they are more upset with the sheer scale of the CT world’s scope than with the underlying concept, but—”

“Can you blame them, Mister Strang?” Hiram interrupted. “There are disturbing historical parallels with what the American federal government is doing to the citizenry these days.”

Strang put up his hands in a defensive gesture. “I know, I know,” he said. “But this is a vital program, Mister Walker. If nothing else, it gives potential terrorist leaders in the war against western civilization considerable pause to know that a promotion, as it were, makes one a candidate for the Kill List.”

“You think they know about it?”

“Of course they do,” Strang said. “We’ve made sure they know about it. In a way, we may have shot ourselves in the foot by doing that.”

The rule of unintended consequences at work, Hiram thought. “I would think,” he said, “that the size, eighty-plus agencies you said, would make this CT endeavor in general and the DMX in particular difficult to control. That it might get out of hand, somehow. Leaders of Al Qaeda-in-wherever are clearly enemies of the state and thus candidates for the list. What’s to keep that mind-set from expanding?”

“Expanding?”

“To enemies of, say, the sitting administration?”

“The President must approve each name, Mister Walker.”

“My point exactly.”

Strang frowned. “Yes, sir, but the people who are involved in developing the list come from across the whole political spectrum. Some are appointees, but most of them are longtime senior civil servants who’ve lived through both parties being in power. Plus, they are completely excluded from the subsequent clandestine operations to carry out the executions. DMX is a process, a very convoluted and even controversial process, admittedly, but unlike most of the CT world’s efforts, this one produces a tangible scorecard.”

“Do these senators have any allies on the DMX itself?” Hiram asked.

“It’s possible,” Strang said. “As I said, the members of the committee are, for the most part, senior executive service bureaucrats — career civil servants, with a few political appointees thrown in at the assistant secretary level. The DMX is no place for mere deep-pocket campaign contributors. That’s another reason why the senators are going after the actual means of execution — civil servants can’t be touched.”

“So,” Hiram said. “What do you want from me and my colleagues?”

“We want your society’s help,” Strang said. “Actually, sir, I think we want some of your plants.”

“Who’s ‘we,’ Mister Strang? Carl Mandeville?”

“Yes, sir. He is a very — determined man. He’s looking way ahead.”

“To what end, may I ask?”

“To be able to continue the work of the DMX should its opponents succeed, of course.”

Hiram thought about that for a moment. If Mandeville was the driving force behind Strang’s visit, then someone on the DMX knew far too much about the society’s research. He may have surprised Strang with his unexpected knowledge of the DMX, but Strang had just surprised him back. Then something occurred to him.

“It seems to me, Mister Strang, that there’s a hole in that Chinese wall. Assuming you’re on the execution side, why are you and Mister Mandeville working together?”

Strang nodded. “I know what it looks like, Mister Walker. The thing is, Carl Mandeville’s in charge of the whole thing. Think of him as standing astride that wall. Once the President signs off, it’s Mandeville who actually puts the name on the Kill List and designates the action agency. After that, of course, he’s no longer involved.”

“So you’re saying that he wants some of my botanical toxins as a backup for the assassination methods in play right now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me think about that, Mister Strang,” he said. “The toxins we’ve discovered, or accidentally created through mutations, are merely scientific curiosities. To weaponize them, as it were, is a major departure from the realm of scientific research.”

“The U.S. signed the biological weapons convention a long time ago,” Strang said. “We don’t want to weaponize the toxins — we want to study them so that we can develop defenses against them.”

Hiram gave Strang a skeptical look. “And that’s your story, and you’re sticking to it, right?”

Strang gave a hint of a smile. “Yes, sir.”

Hiram sighed. “Okay,” he said. “I will need to consult with my colleagues in the society. On balance, and if they agree, we might be able to help you.”

Thomas entered the library room bearing a tea tray along with Hiram’s noontime medications.

“Thank you, Thomas,” he said. “I’m going to need a video teleconference with the society tonight.”

“Very good, sir,” Thomas said. “I’ll sort out the time zones.” Then he withdrew.

Or what’s left of the society, Hiram thought, once Thomas had left. Like all too many familiar things these days, the Phaedo Botanical Society was beginning to fade from view. He poured a cup of tea. He looked over the pastries and decided not to indulge, hoisted himself upright, and then went over to the tall windows overlooking the south gardens, which presented the only formally sculpted features on the estate.

God, but he loved it here. The serenity of the grounds, the security provided by that all-excluding wall and what lay just inside it, and the knowledge that anything he wanted could be summoned at his every whim. His father had been right: you were destined for a secluded life, Hiram, he’d said, but that doesn’t mean you need to be imprisoned. He could indulge in every aspect of the world except travel, and, for enough money, the world would willingly come to him. He’d lived on this estate for twenty-six years, and by now he’d learned that money could indeed buy most anything except sincerity and love.

The rise of the Internet had made life even more interesting, and that had been his entrée into the Phaedo Botanical Society. He’d published one paper in the American Journal of Botany about his research on the genetic capabilities of weeds two years after moving onto the estate. Weeds had fascinated him since the days of exploring his father’s estate gardens. Weeds: annoying, omnipresent, and yet seemingly capable of resisting every modality humans used to attack them. Spray them, they die — and then move. Root them out of the ground, they come back. They grow in the cracks of cement sidewalks and in oil-spattered railroad beds, no matter what humans do to inhibit them. That was the first time he’d broached the notion that plants, and especially weeds, might have something analogous to a brain. His paper had been well received, by and large, except for one dissenting commentary that had arrived by e-mail, along with an invitation to confer with some strangely named garden society.

Only four of the original ten left now, he thought. Besides Hiram, there was Hideki Ozawa in the Sendai prefecture of Japan, Archibald Tennyson in Kent, England, and Giancomo de Farnese in the Toscana region of Italy. Four rich old men who probably held the world’s most comprehensive reservoir of knowledge on botanical toxins. Each of them had different interests, with Hiram’s being on the amazing resilience of weeds and his growing conviction that so-called weeds acted as if they had brains. He had become an expert in the field of botanical mutations to see if he could replicate the natural abilities of weeds to mutate for survival. Ozawa was actually a medical doctor who researched the applicability of some of Hiram’s plant toxins to cancer. Tennyson’s specialty was the natural mutation of plants to produce useful toxins instead of man having to modify them chemically for medicinal use. De Farnese was a toxicologist who was assembling a database of the markers left behind by plant poisons in homicide cases where poisoning was suspected, a natural enough avenue of research for an Italian born in Florence.

Thomas came back with the best time to make the conference call. Hiram nodded. He began to think about how he would present Mr. Strang’s request.