Gates of Hades

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The ferry provided overnight accommodations, but, unlike a hotel, no passport was required; nor was there a metal detector to screech at the weapon Jason was carrying. Jason stood at the boxy stern, watching the sun sink into the Tyrrhenian Sea. Maria would be following tomorrow morning with Adrian on the afternnon ferry. After a day or so Jason would be leaving, even though he was unsure as to where. Washington, certainly, for a debriefing. He supposed he had rid the world of Eglov, entombing him with a number of his radical environmentalists.

But what else? He had discovered a very strange plant and a rock that gave off a nonlethal anesthetic, the hallucinogenic gas ethylene. Hardly a threat like a nuclear or biological weapon.

In fact, some might even enjoy the high.

More questions remained than were answered. Why would Eglov and his fellow eco-nuts commit the time and effort to exploit something of such limited use, Breath of the Earth notwithstanding? As a practical, rather than ideological matter, it made no sense.

He shrugged, a man with no explanation. His job was over. Time to find a place to get on with his life, as the talk-show shrinks said, as though living were some kind of task to be fulfilled.

Returning to the Turks and Caicos was out. Even if he were able to satisfy the colonial government as to his innocence in the house fire, that hiding place had been exposed. Pity. In the short time he had lived on North Caicos, he had grown to love the remoteness, the fact that the feel, the very essence of the island had not been sacrificed to the tourist dollar.

Yet.

He would probably choose another island, the smaller the better. A place with only occasional air service, or, better yet, none at all, small enough that the arrival of a stranger was noticed. One place he could not live was the United States, not with the sizable bank balances he had accumulated since going to work for Narcom, accounts in capital-friendly countries that saw the wisdom of holding foreigners’ money, not confiscating it with punitive taxes. The very existence of the income produced by such accounts as could be found would attract the attention of the IRS, which would ask questions best left unanswered.

Besides, Jason had no desire to participate in the evergrowing and thinly disguised intent of American politicians to redistribute the wealth.

His wealth.

He turned and walked to the stairs leading up to the passenger lounge. Even though the sea breeze was blowing its salty air in his face, he imagined he could smell baking crusts from the cramped pizzeria that was the boat’s sole dining facility. He climbed the steel steps and went inside.

Jason could not decide between the artichoke-mushroom and the multiple cheese selections. He ordered a square of each and made his way to one of the ten or so small tables, only half of which were occupied. He had taken only a bite out of the cheese pizza when he noticed a copy of the London Times crumpled on the adjacent table. Glancing around the room to be certain the paper was abandoned, he opened it up.

He scanned the day-old headlines. The lead story concerned a conference on the environment, a meeting in Washington whose main purpose, Jason guessed, was politics rather than statesmanship. The only agreement on allocation of the world’s resources would come when they either no longer existed or could be produced artificially. Those who profited by exploiting the earth were not likely to voluntarily relinquish them.

He took a bite of artichoke and mushroom.

He was about to turn the front page when he happened to notice a reprint from the Washington Post. The word Hillwood sprang out at him. He had escorted Laurin to some sort of function there, one of the several charity balls to which she had dragged him annually.

He hated the things.

Disease balls. Benefit for multiple sclerosis, funding for breast cancer research, cure for whatever. Mostly social aspirants, those unable to attain membership in the better clubs — women more on the outside than the inside of Washington society, could put on a five-thousand-dollar gown and chance meeting the current social glitterati in the name of charity. God forbid they be subjected to disgusting and dreary work at a homeless shelter or soup kitchen, where they would never be photographed for the society section of the paper.

Or at even in the small magazines that sold subscriptions to the very people they covered.

Jason had pointed out that a two-hundred-dollar ticket to such galas meant the charity in question would be lucky to get fifty. Why not, he reasoned, simply give the institution half the cost of the unbought gown and go out to a good restaurant while others were busy climbing the social ladder?

After all, as a partner in one of the city’s premier law firms, Laurin had multiple club memberships paid for by her partners. There was no need to spend an evening of bad food and worse company among social wannabes.

Laurin would have none of it.

She spent at least one weekend a month doing the true grunt work of charity — helping in a hospice, giving free legal advice at a halfway house — efforts that would never be rewarded by public recognition. So why not do the glitzy part, too?

He didn’t remember the specific event or the malaise it celebrated.

Prevention of terminal flatulence, maybe?

He did recall the former home of the Post heiress. Far from the street, out of the way. Small for the wealth it represented but on a large estate, one that would be difficult to totally close off from the rest of the world.

He supposed the conference would be held in the dining room, where he had experienced a lavish buffet of overcooked roast beef, rubber chicken, listless salad, et cetera, by the yard. The usual poor quality of the food had been overshadowed by the appearance of a man whose name Jason had forgotten within minutes of hearing it, a doctor who attached himself to Jason like a human leech. He was typical of the tedious types that peopled such functions, unable to discuss anything but his golf score and his brilliance in the stock market.

Jason had introduced him to Laurin and disappeared, leaving the man trying to be discreet in looking down the décolletage of her ball gown while she frantically searched for a way to disengage herself.

It seemed ample revenge for her dragging Jason there.

He had escaped through the French doors that led into a garden, where rosebushes were just beginning to bloom. Jason had guessed those doors could be left open, letting diners enjoy the fragrance of the flowers.

Or some other fragrance.

Like in a trawler in the Bering Sea.

Or at Baia.

The thought that had prowled the back of his mind now leaped from the tangle of his subconscious, a concept so powerful it would have struck him dumb had he had anyone to talk to.

He checked his watch. Hours before the ferry docked.

A ship-to-shore telephone on board?

He would certainly arouse suspicion by demanding to use it.

But he couldn’t simply sit here and allow events to spin on their present course by his inaction. He had to do something, get the word to Mama no matter what.

But how?

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Shirlee Atkins had been right.

Them mens hadn’t given a shit whether they tracked dirt into the house or not. Chattering in some language she had never heard before, they went about their work in the rose garden and they would walk right cross the Chinese Oriental rug to go to the bathroom without so much as wiping their dirty boots. Mr. Jimson, he wouldn’ta let ’em do that, but this new fella, the one whose head look like an Easter egg, he didn’t much seem to care.

Prolly wouldn’ta much cared ’bout what Shirlee done found in one of the silver drawers in the sideboard, either. The drawer stuck and she’d had to give it a real tug. Thing fell out on the floor, spillin’ knives ’n’ forks everwhere. But underneath them knives ’n’ forks was some kinda false bottom, a place Shirlee reckoned Ms. Post used to hide real valuables. Like the curve-bladed knife with a golden handle. She ’spected there be no reason tell the new man she near done broke that drawer, jes’ put it back like it was.

Ever since that man what call himself Rassavitch showed up this mornin’ in that big ol’ beat-up truck, the mens with the shovels, they workin’ harder’n Shirlee had seen all week. They was sho’ gonna finish this afternoon, git the place ready fo’ that big meetin’ tomorrow.

Stuff on that truck strange.

Some kinda spindly little plant. Downright ugly, and hadn’t no flowers on it. Then they unloaded a bunch o’ rocks. Big, round white-colored stone, look like they coulda weighed tons. But they didn’t. One o’ them scrawny little guys could pick one o’ them rocks right up an’ carry it to where they were planting those scraggly little bushes between them rocks in a line right outside the floor-to-ceiling doors of the dinin’ room.

Not near as pretty as rosebushes.

But then, what did Shirlee know?

She wasn’t nothin’ but a cleanin’ lady.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Jason looked up from the table, most of his two squares of pizza uneaten. His attention was focused on the man standing in the doorway talking on a cell phone and smoking a cigarette at the same time. Both hands occupied. Jason picked up his London Times, pretending to read while he kept his eyes on the man by the door.

The minute the conversation ended, the man turned, jamming the phone into a jacket pocket. Jason moved as quickly as he could while appearing to be just one more bored passenger with nothing to do but try to find an alternative to the ferry’s tiny staterooms.

Outside, the bright lights of the car deck outlined everything along the edges of the passenger deck above. The man Jason was interested in was leaning against the rail as the breeze snatched sparks from his cigarette into the air like a child’s sparkler.

Jason muttered something unintelligible and staggered against the side of the cabin, bouncing off the railing. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he was pretty certain it was turned toward him. Jason stopped a few feet away, swaying with the ocean’s swells like the drunk at sea he was imitating.

He waited until the next large wave, then lurched forward, colliding with the smoker.

“Mi dispiace,” Jason mumbled. I’m sorry.

His victim never felt the hand slip into the jacket pocket.

The smoker gave Jason a gentle push as he stepped back. “Prego.”

The Italian word that translated as anything from you’re welcome to quickly to a simple acknowledgment of an apology.

Jason staggered down the steel catwalk, trying not to seem in a hurry until he was certain he was out of sight of his victim.

Once in protective shadows, he held up the cell phone. Its keyboard lit up when he flipped it open. He turned his back in the direction of its owner. He hoped he couldn’t be seen using the stolen device. He punched series of buttons, the number of the American consulate in Naples, one of several he had memorized before leaving Washington.

The voice that answered was definitely American and just as certainly bored. The person Jason wanted to speak with was gone for the evening, sorry.

“It’s important,” Jason said.

Not to the person on the other end of the line. “He’s still not here.”

“Your name?”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters,” Jason growled, “because when I hang up, I’m calling the ambassador in Rome. I’m telling him he has some lazy little dweeb down here in Naples who doesn’t care enough to get off his ass even where national security is involved.”

“Oh, yeah? And who is this, the secretary of state?”

“No, but if you’ve got any sense at all, you’ll put me on hold while you contact extension two-oh-one in the Rome embassy and tell them you’re talking to one of Narcom’s people.”

Two-oh-one was the extension number for the agency office in the embassy, those supposed trade, cultural, and military attachés whose actual work had nothing to do with their titles.

Apparently the jerk in Naples at least recognized that anyone who knew the extension number might be important. “Hold on.”

Jason heard a loud, angry voice from above. No doubt someone had found their pocket picked and their cell phone gone. Jason moved farther back into the shadows.

The voice that came back on the phone was noticeably chastised. “Yes, sir, what can we do for you?”

“I need a patch through to a Washington number.”

“A secure patch might take a little while. Where can I call you back?”

Jason had no way to know the number of the cell phone in his hand.

“You can’t.”

“But I—”

“I’ll hold.”

He could hear steps clamoring on the steal deck overhead. More than one person.

“Listen,” he hissed into the phone, “things are a little busy at my end right now. Get the patch ready.” He gave the number Mama had monitored twenty-four/seven. “I’ll call you back in five minutes. Tell the recipient of the call it’s from Italy.”

He hung up before the voice could protest. Hopefully Mama wasn’t running any other operations in Italy at the moment.

Squaring his shoulders, he tried to stand as tall as possible as he strode purposefully toward the ferry’s forecastle, the location of his small stateroom. The two men, one in the uniform of the ferry company, pushed by him, the victim of the theft pointing toward the bow. Obviously they were looking for a drunk whose face had been obscured in the darkness.

Jason flipped on the single overhead light as he entered his quarters. He sat on the stingy bunk and redialed the Naples number.

Nothing.

He tried again with the same result.

He glared at the steel bulkheads that imprisoned the cell phone’s signal as securely as any jail held an inmate. He wasn’t going to be able to connect with the satellite from here.

Cracking the door, he checked the narrow hallway outside and climbed the companionway to the top deck. Other than a few passengers leaning on the rail, staring into the night, it was deserted. He descended to the automobile deck and selected a white van.

It was locked.

His next choice was a small Mercedes truck. The door opened at his touch and he slipped inside, settling into the darkest corner. He flipped the phone open and punched in numbers.

This time the voice from the consulate was polite, almost solicitous. “We have your connection, sir. Understand you’re calling from an unsecured source. Anything said in this conversation is subject to interception.”

Like any other call made by phone users the world over. Unless the ecoterrorists had somehow found the number he was calling and managed to alert a computer to scan all its calls, this conversation would be hidden among millions of others the same way a pickpocket relied on the numbers of a crowd to conceal him.

“Yes?” The voice was unmistakably Mama’s.

Besides the volume of phone traffic, Jason knew brevity would help, though there was no guarantee of anonymity.

“Conference in Washington tomorrow. Hillwood.” He paused, wondering if the words would trigger the search program of some monitoring device. There wasn’t time for circumlocution. “Breath of the Earth. It’s ignited from rocks by plants that spontaneously combust.”

The silence that followed was only seconds, but it seemed long enough for Jason to wonder if the connection had been broken.

“Plants? Rocks?”

“Like the trawler. If the conference is held near open windows, like the dining room at Hillwood.”

Another pause.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“The gas, ethylene, will make everyone — delegates to the meeting, security, everyone — both drowsy and delusional, but it won’t kill them. That’s the beauty of it. While everyone’s on a high, someone will slip into the room from outside, slit a few throats, and disappear while the Secret Service guys are on the nod. No one to yell, cause a ruckus till it’s too late. Or, maybe one or more of the Eco people’ll have a breathing device concealed on him. When the gas dissipates, no one knows what happened. People have been murdered literally in front of their security and no one knows anything. The Earth will have claimed some sort of revenge with its natural products, the plant and the gas.”

“My God, the president is planning to attend!”

“I suggest he make other plans.”

“You can document this?”

“Not by tomorrow morning.”

Another pause before Mama’s rich Creole voice said, “This conference is important. He thinks he can become the person history will record as dedicating his life to reconciling industrialists and conservationists.”

“He will. Just not the way he’d planned.”

“We’ll look like idiots if you’re wrong.”

“How will you look if I’m not?”

“I see what you mean. Tell you what: I’m passin’ this along to the CIA. They’re our client and can do what they want.”

In Washington, the buck never really stopped; it was in perpetual motion.

CHAPTER FIFTY

There were three men in the rented Mercedes that had pulled off the ferry two hours ago. The face of one of the men in the rear seat was partially covered by a large eye patch. One cheek displayed scars that were angry red, as though recently inflicted. All four wore the loose blouse and baggy pants of the local farmers for whom they easily could have mistaken.

Sardinian farmers, however, would have been unlikely to drive such a car. It was equally doubtful locals would drive through the night to a simple farmhouse, one where a thorough search demonstrated that the normal occupants were still not in residence and had not been for several days.

The refrigerator had a sour smell about it, containing only an open canister of milk long gone rancid. The source of the house’s electricity, wherever it was, had been turned off, and flashlight beams revealed that a light patina of dust had begun to collect on flat surfaces. There was nothing remarkable in the house. A few inexpensive oils hung on the walls and a huge sword over the fireplace — a sword, though effective in its time, that would be no match for the weapons these men carried.

One of the men turned to the one with the eye patch, speaking in Russian. “You are certain the Scotsman and the American will return?”

The man with one eye nodded. “And with the woman. We will wait.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Jason was careful he was not observed as he dropped the stolen cell phone overboard before being one of the first to disembark from the ferry. A quick survey of the harbor revealed fishing craft, private sailboats, a few motor launches, and no place to rent a car. Adrian had omitted that factoid, he thought sourly.

Taxis, though, were plentiful. He took one to the airport.

The ride through town began as one of no particular interest. Apartment houses of undistinguished architecture and recent vintage shouldered one another for room, screening the view of the ocean. The churches gave some small clue as to the island’s multicultural history. Graceful Moorish facades were only blocks from chunky Romanesque fronts left by conquering Normans and Spanish. The ebullience of Italian Gothic, unlike any other of the period, was equally represented. It looked like every second street corner hosted an outdoor market.

The airport was featureless modern. Jason paid the driver and went inside the terminal, where boutiques, tour guide offices, and duty-free shops outnumbered the two ticket counters. Turning to his left to follow the signs, he crossed a neatly groomed patch of ground to another building housing rental car offices. There were no lines in front of any of them.

The Rugger passport had been left at the pensione in hopes of convincing the authorities that Jason had perished at Baia. He pulled a leather pouch from a jacket pocket and examined the other two IDs Mama had sent him before he left the Dominican Republic. The pictures on both driver’s licenses and passports were the same. He selected the documents and cards in the name of Andrew Forest Stroud of New York City. He looked at the address. East Seventy-second Street.

Jason hoped he looked like someone from the tony Upper East Side. But then, New York’s wealthy made a practice of shabby dress.

Eurocar had a selection varying from the largest Mercedes to the tiniest Smart Car, also by DaimlerChrysler, though the manufacturer was understandably ashamed to adorn it with the three-pointed star. Jason chose a fourdoor Peugeot, something that would attract as little attention as possible.

The drive back to town was unremarkable, other than the normal frustration of finding a parking space. Jason felt truly blessed when he pulled in behind a departing Opel only six blocks from the harbor.

From his table outside a waterside trattoria, Jason watched the ferry dock. As the cars drove off, the few pedestrian passengers disembarked. The bright colors of Maria’s gold-and-blue scarf were visible all the way across the quay. Jason could only marvel how the woman always managed to come up with a different one. He had little doubt she could find a Hermès shop in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

Women possessed some sort of internal navigational system for such things. Laurin could detect the proximity of a shoe store in cities she had never visited. Once in Paris…

He pushed the thought aside, surprised at how easy it was becoming to dismiss his former wife. He watched Maria seat herself at a table identical to his but on the other side of the small harbor. The plan called for her to have a cup of coffee and remain where she was until Jason verified that she was not being followed or observed.

Unlike their American counterparts, Italian and most European trattorias, bistros, or whatever considered the price of a single beverage to be a ticket to occupy a table as long as the customer wished. In fact, the national pastime in many large cities was to order a sole glass of wine and spend the afternoon watching the passing crowds from the same table.

After forty minutes, the only interest in Maria that Jason noted was the openly admiring glances for which Italian men were notorious. He was amused by the persistence of one who had tried to share her table and finally admitted defeat after ten minutes of being intensely ignored.

He stood, reluctant to leave the pleasant morning sun, and walked casually along the edge of the port, feigning interest in first one sailboat, then another. He barely gave Maria a glance as he passed within ten feet of her and sauntered on. Without looking back, he turned away from the water’s edge and strolled up one of the two streets that dead-ended into the harbor. He paused in front of a gelaterie, seeming to marvel at the variety of flavors of ice cream the small shop displayed. In the glass of the adjacent store’s display window, he saw Maria turn the corner and enter the same street.

She stopped, distracted by the size of the prawns on ice under a sign proclaiming FRUTTI DI MARE. Although the sidewalks bore some pedestrian traffic, no one showed any lingering interest in her.

Jason took the time for admiration. She had a figure Hollywood would envy, honed, no doubt, by scurrying in and out of volcanic craters. The olive skin framed by crow-wing black hair she had let loose around her shoulders. He shook his head. The object of the exercise was to get her safely to Adrian’s for a few days before she returned to her life.

He was in no hurry for that.

Periodic checks of reflections in shop windows confirmed that she was following him to the car at a casual pace. He had to fight the temptation to hurry, to rush to the moment he could take her in his arms.

He turned a final corner, waiting to see her follow.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Shirlee hadn’t minded comin’ to work half an hour early, not at all. Wasn’t ever’body, ’ticularly ever’body in her ’hood, was gonna see the president up close ’n’ personal.

For the tenth time in as many minutes, she looked out the windows beside the front door, searching the driveway for that procession of long black cars she’d always seen on TV. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she smoothed her uniform, making sure no wrinkles marred its appearance. Shouldn’t be none. She done took it home and washed and ironed it herse’f. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she walked back into the kitchen, making sure the big coffee urn was turned on and the doughnuts and other breakfast pastries were in neat rows on the trays that Mr. Jimson used for special events. This time, though, granola bars, high-fiber cereal, and fresh fruit occupied equal space on those things Mr. Jimson used to call salvers.

Why he’d call a silver tray spit was beyond Shirlee.

Mr. Jimson… Wouldn’t he proud, he be ’live? Havin’ the president hisse’f come to Hillwood?

The thought was interrupted by two men in dark suits entering the kitchen. Both in their mid-thirties, both with athletic builds. Both with small tubes in their ears and murmuring into the little mikes pinned to their lapels. “Bout the fifth time one of ’em had come through here, lookin’ into the oven and microwave like they thought mebbe Shirlee done put a bomb in there.

Them mens were ’bout the politest Shirlee ever seen. Always a smile that look like it be stuck on with glue, always, “Yes, Ms. Atkins, No, Ms. Atkins,” when she axed questions. But they be so serious, they scary. But nowhere near as scary as them other fellas, the Russians, the ones that wore what looked like pajamas belted at the waist stuffed into knee boots. They really scary, lookin’ around with angry expressions like they done eat a mess o’ collards somebody done put too much pepper sauce on. They didn’ much care ’bout the house like the mens in suits. ’Stead, they kept lookin’ at them whitish-colored rocks and scrawny little bushes right outside the French doors in the dinin’ room, doors Shirlee been tolt to open so the room wouldn’t get all stuffy during the meetin’. What them Russians think, like mebbe them stones an’ plants gonna disappear somehow? An’ they didn’ care much for women, either, least not Shirlee and Cornicha, the other custodian work there. Ever’ time either Shirlee or Cornicha speak to ’em, even a “good mornin’ ” or somethin’, them mens just glare like they angry.

The sound of sirens made her forget the two types of men. She rushed to the front door. Must be the president come a little early.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

As the only one who knew the way, Adrian drove. At a place that qualified as a town only because it had a small piazza, he parked just outside the square.

“Victuals,” he explained before either Jason or Maria asked. “Before we left the house, I tossed whatever was perishable.” There was no mistaking his remorse for the waste. “The haggis we didn’t eat, everything. Y’ recall the last thing I did was switch off the ginny motor. No sense wastin’ fuel, but no ginny, no electricity an’ no refrigeration.” He got out of the car. “Also, this is the only place I know of around here that sells dry ice.”

“Dry ice?” Jason asked.

“Dry ice. Y’ know, carbon dioxide in frozen, solid form. It’ll take a bit for the fridge to cool down once it’s restarted. Th’ dry ice’ll preserve what needs to be refrigerated.”

Minutes later, all three emerged from the store laden with eggplant that seemed too purple to be real, tomatoes the size of softballs, peppers almost as large as the tomatoes, bread, cheese, and sliced sausage meats. Jason carried a carton of bottled water. When it was all loaded, they set out for Adrian’s home, a journey of only a half an hour.

Adrian pulled up in front of the house. Taking the empty pipe out of his mouth, he got out of the car and whistled.

No response.

“Jock! Jock!” he called.

The hills gave him back a faint echo, but there was no sign of the dog.

“You think it was okay to leave him?” Maria asked.

Adrian filled the pipe as his eyes looked around. “Aye. He’s not your city-dwelling lapdog. Plenty smart enough to seek sustenance from the neighbors. They’d feed ’m, f’ sure.”

“Maybe they fed him too well,” Jason suggested, lifting the carton of water from the trunk. “He’s decided to take up with them.”

“ ’Tis possible,” Adrian admitted, the levity of the words not matching the serious scan he was giving the surrounding countryside, “but a dog’s not like a person. Y’ canna buy his loyalty.”

Jason was certain Jock was not what was on Adrian’s mind at the moment. He was about to ask what the Scot sensed when he heard grunts from behind the house.

“Jock may be taking time off, but your pigs sound hungry.”

“Always are. That’s why they’re pigs. May have to turn ’em loose to forage f’ themselves if we canna find slop for ’em.”

Adrian’s eyes were fixed on the house.

“You’re not thinking about the dog or the pigs,” Jason said.

“There’s somethin’ not quite cricket here. I’m tryin’ to figger out what.”

In small, highly mobile strike groups like Delta Force or SAS, instincts were sharpened to the level of a sixth sense: a sudden quiet in the clamor of a jungle night, a pebble recently knocked loose from a mountain footpath, an old and battered automobile in a wealthy residential neighborhood. More than once, Jason had saved his own life as well as those of his men by noticing some almost imperceptible incongruity.

He put the carton of water down, freeing a hand to go to the weapon in the small of his back.

“What is the matter?” Maria asked.

Adrian shook his head. “Naught, lassie, jus’ an old man’s years of paranoia.”

Perhaps, but Jason noted that the Sten gun under the seat was the first thing his friend removed from the Peugeot.

Each of the three loaded what they could carry. Adrian used a foot to open the door.

“Unlocked?” Jason asked.

“Aye. Someone come by to be a-borrowin’ somethin’ an’ find th’ door locked, I’d be regarded as an inhospitable sod, or, worse, one who dinna trust his neighbors. ’Sides, I dinna recall th’ las’ time I even saw th’ bloody key.”

Jason headed for the kitchen. “Where do you want me to put the dry ice?”

“Th’ fridge, along with the sausage, cheese, and vegetables. Also the bottled water. It’s better cool.”

Perhaps the first time Jason had ever heard a native of the British Isles express a preference for chilling any beverage, including beer or drinks the rest of the civilized world served over ice.

Maria came in, her arms full. She leaned over to stock the small refrigerator. When she straightened up, her gaze went to the single window, a view of the rear yard.

“What is that?”

Both men joined her. Just beyond the shadow of the house, a small mound of fresh earth had been piled up.

“ ’Twasn’t there before,” Adrian mused.

Jason was reaching for the back door.

“Please stay where you are, Mr. Peters.”

The voice came from the kitchen’s entrance to the rest of the house. The doorway was filled by three men, all with shaved heads, two pointing AK-47s. The one in the middle had a patch over one eye and recent scars on his face. Even so, Jason recognized him instantly.

Eglov.

“Please do not make any move I do not request. I would be greatly disappointed if I had to shoot you right here and now.” He leered at Maria. “I have much more, er, interesting plans. An eye for an eye, I believe your Bible says.”

“The dog,” Adrian growled. “You—”

“The filthy mongrel bit one of my men. We could hardly leave him to warn you we were here upon your arrival. For that matter, we would have slaughtered the pigs also, but their absence would have alerted you. Besides, no true lover of the Earth would want to needlessly kill something so nearly feral as those swine. Now, if each of you will assume the position against the wall…”

Adrian leaned against the wall, legs and arms spreadeagled. “It was th’ windows, laddie. Th’ bloody windows. Since na’ person was here, they shoulda been dirty from th’ dust that blows aboot, not clean enough to see through.”

Having the answer was small consolation.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Them cars was no presidential caravan; Shirlee could see that. Two District police cars ’n, a black SUV with blue lights behind the grille. ’Bout the time Shirlee made that determination, the mens in the suits was listenin’ to their earpieces. She couldn’t hear them, of course, but their hands went up to the little devices like touchin’ the things would make them louder.

“Say again?” one of the mens said, his forehead wrinkled like he was hearing some sorta foreign language.

At the same time, the cars sqealed to a stop and men both in uniforms and suits came pourin’ out like they was on fire. Shirlee was pretty sure she had enough doughnuts an’ pastries, but these mans weren’ interested in breakfast. Instead, two or three of ’em were carryin’ guns an’ the rest of ’em shovels.

Shovels?

Like they gonna garden?

Now?

Sho’ ’nuff, while the mens with th’ guns were lookin’ ’round like they ’spected some kinda trouble, the others were digging at them ugly little plants jus’ outside the dinin’ room.

Then things got crazy.

One of them men who’d watched the plantings all week come screamin’ outta the house, waiving this long, curved knife. He not be too smart, tryin’ to cut the man with the gun, who shot him right there.

’Bout that time two more Russians — or whoever they was, ones been in and out the kitchen all mornin’—they pulled guns outta the drawers of the sideboard where Shirlee guessed they done hid ’em sometime in the las’ few days. The two mens with the things in they ears, they got no guns, ’cause nobody ’sposed to have weapons on ’em for this conference. Still, they rush the mens with guns. There be two, three shots, so loud in the room Shirlee’s ears ringin’ and she stone-deaf. An’ one o’ the mens in suits, lyin’ on the floor bleedin’ bad.

The other Russian, he swing his gun around at Shirlee and shot. First she just feel a burn in her shoulder. Muthafucker done put a hole in her clean, starched uniform, one she done spent half the night ironin’!

Then it hurt. Oh, shit, did it hurt!

That same dude, he turn toward the other man in the suit, gonna shoot him, too.

Even months later, Shirlee was unclear exactly what happened next. She thought she remembered reaching with her good arm for the big coffee urn, the one she couldn’t hardly lift with both hands. She definitely remembered the clunking sound of that big pot hitting the Russian’s head. She remembered thinking that she was in the shit now, coffee an’ blood all over the rug along with one very unconscious Russian.

Then it all went black.

Next thing Shirlee knew, she was still in the dining room but she was strapped to a stretcher. A woman in a pale blue uniform with EMS stitched on the pocket was standing over her, holding some kind of bottle attached to Shirlee’s arm. Two men in their light blue uniforms were lifting the stretcher.

Shirlee tried to sit up but couldn’t, either ’cause of the straps or because she jus’ didn’ have the strength.

“Lemme outta here,” she croaked, surprised she could manage no more than a whisper. “Who gonna take care my kids tonight, I ain’t home?”

“I will,” said someone behind her. She thought she recognized the man’s voice from somewhere but couldn’t quite place where.

“Who that?” she asked.

A man in a suit stepped into view. The light from outside was in her eyes, so she saw no more than a silhouette. “Your children will be my personal guests until you’re up and around.”

He moved and Shirlee thought she was seein’ things, sure. She was lookin’ into the smilin’ face of the president hisse’f.

“You’re a very brave woman, Ms. Atkins. Without you, there’d be some children without their fathers tonight.”

It was then that Shirlee realized it hadn’t been the sun blindin’ her; it was lights around a man holdin’ a camera. Shit! Her one time on TV an’ she gotta look like hell.

The president leaned over, taking one of her hands in both of his. “Your children will be well cared for. It’s been since when, Jimmy Carter, that there was a small child in the White House? When you get out of the hospital, You’ll come for dinner?”

At first Shirlee thought he wanted her to serve dinner. Then she realized he meant as a guest.

She’d be goin’ to eat with th’ Man hisse’f! Weren’t that sumthin’? He wasn’t foolin’ her none. She knew he’d have his pitcher taken with her, meybbe get a few more black votes, but she didn’ much care. Her babies were gonna have somethin’ they’d talk ’bout rest of they lives.

And Shirlee?

Well, the folks down to the projects where she used to live would see she really had gone a long way, wouldn’t they?

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Stripped of their weapons, Jason and Adrian had been shoved into chairs, where they were watched by two of the men standing just out of reach. Maria was allowed slightly more freedom, although confined to the room. Jason had the impression they were waiting for something. His only guess was nightfall, when Eglov would kill them and leave in the dark, unseen by any passing neighbors.

“I am hungry,” Maria announced. “Anyone besides me want something to eat?”

If food wasn’t the last thing on Jason’s mind, it was close to it.

Eglov nodded for one of the rifle-carrying men to accompany her to the kitchen. “Enjoy your meal; eat well.” He smiled cruelly. “It will be your last opportunity.”

“Tell me,” Jason asked, “how did you get out of the tunnel at Baia?”

“Do you think there was but one entrance, Mr. Peters?” Eglov pointed to the still-unfinished condensed version of Eno’s book, faceup on the couch where Jason had tossed it minutes ago. “Even your magazine there recounts a final exit out of the Netherworld before the descent into Hades.”

More to start a conversation than out of curiosity, Jason asked, “Why go to the trouble of taking that ethylene rock all the way to the United States to be set off by the selfigniting bushes? Wouldn’t it have been easier just to carry a bomb into the conference?”

The Russian frowned. “This was special. Think of the reaction of your countrymen when your president and his fellow despoilers of the Earth have their throats cut while the true friends of the Earth live. The knives for the job will be dropped into the special hiding places my men have created in the last few weeks, the same places in which they will rest until needed. No one other than a designated pair will even know what happened. No weapons, no one enters or leaves the room. Only the Breath of the Earth. It will be seen to the true lovers of our world as a miracle, the poor Earth striking back on its own.”

It would be a display of insanity, Jason thought, but he said, “Why kill the president, anyway? He was willing to grant you and your radical environmentalist pals some sort of a pardon for the crimes they committed.”

Eglov spit. “Forgiveness is not his to give; it is the Earth’s alone! Pardon by the great rapist of the resources that belong to all?” He spit again. “As long as your country and the other greedy industrialist democracies exist, there will be no peace, no peace until their sins are paid for and the planet allowed to rest without being ravaged.”

A second Dark Ages. Comforting thought.

It was difficult to carry on a conversation with someone who spoke in slogans. Still, it was important to conduct a discourse, anything to take the fanatic’s mind off killing them, if even for a moment. Jason wondered what would happen if Eglov found out the details of the gas plot had already been given to Washington.

“Exactly how will you prevent your own people at the conference from falling asleep?”

Eglov smiled, proud of his ingenuity. “Two will have medicinal oxygen tanks for lung disease. They will do the Earth’s work while the others are unconscious.”

Jason was about to say something else when he heard water running in the kitchen.

“I thought the generator was off,” he said.

“Doesn’t run the water,” Adrian explained. “There’s an artesian well up on the hill, feeds water down a pipe by gravity.”

Maria came in from the kitchen, carrying a platter of sliced bread, sausage, and cheese. She placed it on the table and returned for a pitcher of water.

“Would you like some?” she asked Eglov.

He scowled. “Eat sausage that contains meat, steal nourishment from the death of defenseless animals?” He looked slightly ill at the thought. “No.”

Jason got up slowly and went to the table as Maria continued in the same tone she might have used had their captors been invited houseguests. “You will have some cheese, then? I expect when the police arrive, you will not get a chance to eat again for quite a while.”

What the hell was she doing, trying to get them killed ahead of time? Jason’s eyes met Adrian’s and then looked away.

“Police?” Eglov scoffed. “Do not make yourself look foolish!”

She shrugged. “Your disbelief does not change the facts. We were to meet them here.”

In one step the Russian was beside her. He gave her face a slap that could be heard across the room. She staggered backward and almost fell. Jason lunged forward, only to be prodded in the chest by one of the other men’s AK-47.

“Stupid cow!” Eglov snarled. “You think I would believe such a childish trick? The police will arrive only to find your bodies.”

She wiped a hand across her mouth. “Stupid or not, they are coming.”

She was staring at Jason.

He had no idea what she was talking about, but he had to assume she had done something in the kitchen.

Then it hit him. As a volcanologist, she would be familiar with gases other than the ethylene. He had an idea what was coming.

He nodded imperceptibly at Adrian. “She’s right, Eglov. The place will be swarming with cops anytime now.”

Adrian’s expression turned from bewildered to knowing. He gingerly got out of his chair and, back to the empty fireplace, inspected the food selection. Without looking at Jason, he shrugged, then put a finger to his temple. The two gestures meant something akin to, I’m not sure what you mean but I understand, the silent signs that acknowledged that action of some unknown type was at hand.

There was an explosion in the kitchen, followed by what could have been gunshots.

“In here!” Maria yelled. “We are here!”

The two armed men reacted by swiveling around to point their weapons at the anticipated incursion of gun-wielding police. The distraction lasted only a second at most.

But it was enough.

Leaning backward, Adrian reached behind his head and brought both hands down with the claymore, the huge two-handed sword that hung over the mantel. So swift was the blow, the light gleaming from the hand-forged steel appeared as a single arc. A fraction of a second too late, the closest man swung his AK-47 to bear, only to have the blade sever his shoulder from his body. Arm and weapon clattered to the floor in a geyser of blood.

Jason ducked under the barrel of another rifle whipping back toward him, his shoulder throwing the muzzle upward as a burst of shots plowed into the ceiling. There was a downpour of plaster dust. Jason grabbed for the armed man’s gun as the other hand stretched for the gunman’s throat.

Intentionally or by chance, Jason’s intended victim stumbled or stepped backward out of reach, leaving Jason staring at the leveled mouth of the AK-47 and the gleeful eyes of his victorious opponent.

Jason fully expected to die.

Instead, the man seemed to shift his shoulders slightly as his eyeballs rolled upward as though trying to see into the back of his own head. His knees buckled slowly as he sank to the floor and fell facedown. The knife used to slice the sausage protruded from between his shoulder blades. Behind him stood Maria, her blood-soaked hands clasped over her mouth.

She could not tear her eyes from the man sprawled before her. “Oh, my God, oh, my God,” she whispered.

Then she spun, took a step, and vomited.

She shook off Jason’s consoling arms. “Oh, my God,” she repeated, “I’ve killed a man….”

She bolted for the bedroom. Jason could hear her retching.

“An’ what aboot him?” Adrian asked, his sword pushed against Eglov’s stomach. “It’d be a pleasure to slice him up like so much pickled herring.”

“Do what you will,” Eglov sneered. “It cannot be worse than suffering at the hands of Russian police.”

“Letting him go doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Jason said.

Eglov was looking at him without fear. “There is a deal to be had here. My organization could use men such as yourselves.”

Jason snorted. “Swell. I’d be afraid to sleep, afraid I’d wake up with a knife between my shoulders. No, thanks. It isn’t my thing.”

Eglov’s eyes narrowed, making them appear even more slanted. “You are a fool if you think you can kill me and not pay for it. I command a virtual army of loyal followers.”

Eglov’s megalomania was becoming tiresome.

“I say we put th’ man’s disciples to th’ test,” Adrian said, gesturing to the gore-drenched floor. “Bit of a bother explainin’ all this t’ th’ local constabulary if we turn ’im over to ’em.”

“My cause will survive to see the capitalist-industrial complex crumble.”

Jason literally saw red as a wave of rage surged through his consciousness.

For Laurin.

For Paco.

For three thousand Americans killed on a warm, clear September morning.

For the victims of all zealots who advanced their causes by killing innocents.

He nodded slowly. “For once, Eglov, you are not calling the shots.” He ripped off the Russian’s shirt. “We’ll see how long the viper survives without a head.”

Eglov watched with growing consternation as Jason began tearing the shirt into strips. “So, you will kill me.”

Jason nodded. “Your lieutenants will have an opportunity to struggle on without you.”

Eglov abandoned any pretext of unconcern. “What are you doing?”

Jason gave him a malicious smile. “Things are a little different when you are the one about to die, aren’t they, Eglov? This time you’re not slitting the throat of some unarmed fisherman or lumberjack. Makes you a little uncomfortable, doesn’t it?”

“You are a fool to pass up the money you could make working for me, even more of a fool to bring the wrath of my followers down upon you.”

Jason ignored him. Using the strips to bind the Russian hand and foot, Jason slung him over his shoulder. “Open the door for me, will you?”

Adrian did as he was asked. “But what…?”

“We’ll send our pal Eglov to meet his much-loved natural world in fitting style.”

Jason headed for the back of the house.

Adrian and Eglov guessed what Jason had in mind at about the same time.

“Surely you’re not…?” Eglov said.

What false confidence Eglov had left vanished as he began to howl for mercy in English and Russian.

“Surely you would not kill a fellow human this way!”

“You’d rather I cut your throat?” Jason said, shifting the burden of the man’s weight. “You’re getting about as much of a chance as you gave your victims. Besides, letting nature’s own creatures take care of you seems… well, appropriate.”

The pigs grunted in anticipation.

As Jason returned to the house, the squeals of delight were becoming louder than the anguished screams.

Maria, pale and haggard, was leaning against the bedroom doorway. “I saw what you did.”

“Fitting end, I thought,” Jason commented. “By the way, brilliant move, mixing water with the dry ice.”

“Huh?” Adrian asked.

Jason explained. “Carbon dioxide, when mixed in confinement with water, forms a gas. When the gas has no more room into which to expand, it explodes its confinement — in this case, the water bottles. Like gunshots.”

“Bonny good!” Adrian applauded. “That little prank saved our lives.”

Maria shook her head slowly. “Had I known what would happen, I don’t know if I could have done it.” She examined her hands. “I killed someone.”

“If you hadn’t, we all would have been dead soon,” Jason said.

“And you…” She was pointing an accusing finger. “I saw what you did. That was… was… inhumane!”

“Inhumane? Like gassing unarmed workers so they could peacefully be murdered? Like planning to assassinate the president? And what do you think they would have done to you when they tired of raping you?” Jason asked. “If you hadn’t stabbed that man…”

She was wringing one hand with the other as though washing them. “Whatever they might have done… I cannot live with killing someone.” She glanced at the door. “I want to leave. Now.”

“Maria,” Jason reasoned, “give it a few days. We can—”

“No!” she almost shouted. “There is no more ‘we.’ Because of you, I killed another human being. I watched you literally feed a man to pigs to be eaten alive. No, Jason, I cannot be around someone whose business is violence.”

“But—”

She was unconscious of the washing motions, Lady Macbeth. “I love you, Jason, but I cannot live with what you do. The sooner I start trying to forget you, the sooner I will.”

It was then that Jason realized that, quite possibly, he, too, was in love. The thought surprised him. After Laurin, he hadn’t thought he was capable of it.

“Look, Maria, I don’t have to keep doing this. I can…”

She shook her head. “No, Jason. I can never forget the things you have done, even though I suppose you had to do them. I will find some quiet college-professor type, get married, and have a dozen or so children. I could not live with a man who killed for a living.”

“A college professor like Eno Calligini?” Jason asked bitterly.

“Perhaps similar to him. They seem all similar. It is none of your concern.” She turned to Adrian. “Would you take me to the nearest place I can get a bus to the airport?”

Adrian looked at Jason.

“Go ahead,” Jason said dully. “I can’t make her stay.”

Maria followed Adrian out the door, then reappeared. Crossing the room with quick steps, she threw her arms around Jason and kissed him. “Do you understand, Jason? I cannot live with what you do or what your duty requires. Even if you quit, you would resent me as the cause.”

Then she was gone.