Labyrinth

Chapter 16

“We are now passing into the section where Sanii technology has discovered new ways of taking soil samples from other planets,” the tour guide’s voice droned as Locke’s eyes wandered.

Saturday night he had found an unpretentious mountain inn where a room was available. Chris’s first thought was to pay someone to go out and get him some new clothes, but the sight of the desk clerk gave him another idea. The man was just a little smaller and stouter than he was. His clothes wouldn’t be a great fit yet they’d certainly pass, and he accepted Locke’s cash with no questions. A bit more money gained Chris bandages and antiseptic for the hand chewed by the hag, and a hearty dinner. And, since on Sunday the offices of the Sanii Corporation would be closed, he had an entire day for much-needed rest and healing.

He slept past noon on Sunday. He found out from the desk clerk that regular tours of the Sanii Corporation plant began Monday at ten A.M. Sanii was one of the very few major corporations to have large facilities in Liechtenstein and was thus quite an attraction. It specialized in futuristic high tech, which meant there would surely be an agricultural experimentation section. There he might find a clue to what lay behind the South American land deals Felderberg had been a party to.

“It is now possible,” the tour guide explained as the group peered through glass at miniature displays of bizarre machines working on soil, “to program robot probes to travel millions of miles away and actually land on foreign bodies to collect samples and then return home. Sanii scientists have discovered a means to …”

Locke’s eyes wandered again. He was in the right area, he could feel it. This section dealt with soil. Agricultural experimentation couldn’t be far away.

He had arrived there in plenty of time for the tour and was impressed by the size of the Sanii site. There were four separate buildings: one giant one that ran across almost the entire length of the site, a smaller one near its right flank virtually hidden in the shadows, and a third at least half the big one’s size extending beyond its end to the site’s far left. The fourth was a mirrored building that probably contained offices. The tour began in the giant structure, which announced SANII in huge red letters on its sloping roof. The roof did have one large flat spot, and Locke could hear the exhaust from powerful compressors that would regulate atmospheric conditions for the experiments inside.

The tour guide had completed her description of collecting soil samples from foreign bodies when Chris raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“I am curious about agricultural experiments closer to Earth. Are any conducted here at the plant?”

The tour guide looked puzzled. “We do have a very standard agricultural section but it’s located in the smallest building and contains little of interest. Now, if you’ll all follow me …”

That was it! Locke had his answer, at least a place to start. When the tour group swung around the next corner he slipped away and made his way back to the entrance. The security guard quizzed him and he complained of nausea, saying he needed some fresh air. The uniformed man wished him well, took back his guest pass, and held the door open for him.

Glancing back only briefly, Locke left the building and swung to the right and then quickly to the left. The smaller agricultural wing ran parallel to the mother building, and he moved toward it as quickly as he could, hoping not to attract any attention.

The entrance contained a sign warning AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, and two guards were poised inside to enforce it. That ruled the entrance out. Locke kept walking.

Around the other side of the building, two huge garage bays had been opened and men were unloading hundred-pound bags of something into a large warehouse. Locke remembered the clothes the clerk had provided him with were those of a workman, not a tourist, and he wasted no time. He joined the line of workers lifting bags from the truck and piling them inside the warehouse.

No one seemed to notice him. The Sanii workers probably thought he was part of the trucking crew and the trucking crew must have thought the reverse. Just in case this changed, Locke kept the bags he hoisted up in front of his face and avoided the eyes of those around him. Once the pile of bags inside was high enough, Locke slipped behind it and moved through the rear of the warehouse without hesitation, opening the first door he saw and stepping inside the building.

He was in a long, white, brightly lit corridor.

A moving person may attract attention but a person standing still attracts even more.

Locke heeded another memory from his training and started walking before he had any idea of his bearings. The corridor was deserted, fortunate but probably only temporary. He reached a junction in the corridors and studied what was up ahead in both directions. A locker room was to the right and he steered toward it, hoping to find something inside that might help his charade.

The locker room was typical in design, banks of lockers fronted by benches with the sound of showers and the smell of steam not far off. Two men passed him as he entered without giving him a second look, and Chris found himself thankful for the multitudes of people Sanii employed. There had probably been close to 750 cars in the parking lot. He had gotten another break in that midday was fast approaching, which meant time off for lunch. The locker room was crowded. Locke moved quickly into the bathroom, bolting a stall behind him.

He sat down on the toilet and fought to steady his breathing. Nerves would give him away faster than anything. A calm exterior was the best disguise of all.

Disguise! That was it!

The two men Locke passed in the doorway had been wearing simple white lab coats. If he were walking the corridors in one of those, no one would accost him. Locke’s memory sharpened. The coats had badges pinned to their lapels, picture badges. He would have to take his chances that no one would look closely. He flushed the toilet and moved out of the stall, stopping between two men shaving before the row of sinks, and washed his hands. Moving routinely back among the lockers, he grabbed the first white lab coat from the first open locker he saw. Tossing his arms through the sleeves, he started back toward the corridor.

The coat was a poor fit — much too short in the arms — and the picture on the ID looked nothing like him. Same color hair, though, and that might prove enough to get him through. Locke kept walking and a minute later found himself about to enter a giant greenhouse. Men in similar white coats were everywhere, checking gauges and readouts and making notes concerning plants of virtually all varieties. He was in a section apparently devoted to insuring that no plant species became extinct. He walked through it and on until he came to a pair of double doors, just wide enough to accommodate their warning label: CLOSED SECURITY SECTION, NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT BY RED BADGE.

Locke glanced down. Miraculously, his badge was red. He started moving through the heavy doors but they wouldn’t budge. Then he noticed the steel slot on the wall to his right. A special ID card was required for entry. He started to search his pockets on the wild chance the coat contained one.

“Problems?”

The voice came from behind him. Locke swung to see a mustachioed man about his own age.

“I’ll say. Damn slot won’t accept my card. It must have bent in my wallet.”

“I was going in anyway,” the man said in excellent English, apparently the official language of the corporation. The machine swallowed his card, then spit it back out. There was a buzz and Chris heard the door snap mechanically open. “See.” The mustachioed man smiled, holding the door open for him. “Nothing to it.”

“Thank you,” Chris responded, moving to the right as the man veered to the left.

He had surprised himself with the way he’d handled the situation. Nothing had been planned. It just came to him like an actor’s lines and he didn’t question his actions further.

Locke passed a plate-glass window looking into a room twenty feet square lit up with fluorescents strung over strange-looking green shrubs. An iron clipboard was hanging on the wall, attached to the plaster on a light chain. Chris pretended to be studying it briefly to make sure no one was approaching, then ripped it free, holding it in his right hand as he started walking again. Where, though, was he going? He had made it into the high-security section but there were still dozens of hallways, hundreds of rooms.

Other technicians were moving past him regularly now, none giving him a second look. The labs came one after another, all with different announcements printed on their doors.

Then he saw the door up ahead with no markings at all, just a security guard watching intently. Something fluttered in Chris’s stomach. He had to get inside that room. He bent over a water fountain and took in as much water as he could hold. When he stepped back he saw a group of scientists advancing steadily down the corridor. They drew closer and Locke noticed all wore red badges with black crosses drawn through them. His own lacked a cross, but he joined the group.

“Good morning, Professor,” the security guard said to the bearded man at their lead.

“Good morning.”

The guard held the door, allowing the entire team to pass through, and nodding at each one. Locke turned his shoulders around to hide his badge and held his breath as he passed, but the guard made no move to stop him.

The door closed with an echo. Chris drifted away from the group. He was in a giant terrarium lined with four rows of different crops. He made a quick inventory and found they were labeled corn, oats, wheat and barley. But their sizes! Some looked ready for field harvest. Others were barely sprouting from their soil boxes.

Locke started up one of the rows, studying the white cards placed at floor level. He skimmed their contents, afraid to stay in one place too long with so many people in the room. He knew there was something in the white cards he was gazing at, some pattern, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to pin it down. He had reached the end of the row and was standing before the highest stalks of wheat when it struck him. He reread the notation on the white card six times to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.

Planting date: March 26.

It couldn’t be! These wheat stalks had attained a year’s worth of growth twenty-one days from planting. Mesmerized, Chris walked back up the row.

Each boxed section, approximately ten feet square, represented a different stage of growth divided into seven three-day periods. If the information on the white cards was accurate, the crops’ growth rate had been accelerated at a phenomenal clip. The implications of this would be enormous. He tried to think about the relationship between what he had just seen and what Felderberg had told him at Vaduz. But it was no use. He couldn’t concentrate until he was safely out of this place.

Chris reached the end of the row and turned quickly. The bearded scientist blocked his path.

“Who are you? I don’t know you.” His eyes fell on Locke’s badge. “Wait, you don’t belong …”

Chris was already moving in the other direction, breaking into a trot.

“Stop him! Stop that man!”

Another scientist lunged in his path. Without hesitating, Chris raised the steel clipboard over his head and smashed it down hard into the man’s face. The scientist crumpled to the floor.

Locke dropped the clipboard and darted into part of the miniature wheatfield. In seconds his feet found tile again only long enough to project him forward into the oats, then the corn. The door was just up ahead, but so was the security guard fumbling to yank his gun from its holster.

The pistol had just come free when Locke crashed into him with a shoulder block. The guard dropped the gun as he fell backward.

Chris sped into the corridor. He could hear the feet pounding after him only until the security alarm started wailing. He ran down the hall fighting for his bearings, trying to recall the placement of the nearest exit door. He charted how much ground he had covered by counting glass windows of the lab rooms. At the next larger corridor, he turned.

A parade of guards charged from the opposite direction. Locke squealed to a halt and swung to the right. It must have been nearing lunchtime because a number of white-coated figures were moving leisurely about in this smaller hall. They formed his cover. All he needed was an exit to take him into the parking lot. There he could mingle among the workers long enough to seal his escape.

He spotted a red emergency exit sign over a door at the end of the corridor. His heart lurched against his chest as he continued slithering through bodies, gaining precious ground on the men behind him. He reached the heavy steel door and crashed through it into the bright sunlight. He had to squint and half cover his eyes with his hand but he kept moving. The guards would not be far behind.

Luckily, the timing of his exit had been perfect. The end of one shift and lunch for another had brought a flood of bodies pouring from inside the plant, too many people for the guards effectively to sift through. Chris kept his pace steady, not too fast and not too slow, doing nothing to make himself stand out. He headed toward the main parking lot hoping for a taxi, a bus, even a ride from a fellow worker. He was hurrying now, giving in to impatience, afraid to look back in case the Sanii guards were closing on him.

Suddenly a figure appeared before him, big and thick-haired, with gun drawn.

The man brought his pistol up from his hip in a blur of motion.

“No!” Chris screamed, knowing it was too late.

The man fired.

Locke had started backward, tensing for an impact he knew must come. There was a grunt followed by a thud behind him. Chris turned and saw the prone figure of a security guard grasping his bloodied shoulder, a pistol lying on the cement just out of reach. Then people were yelling, scattering, calling for help.

And the figure with the still-smoking gun was beckoning to Locke.

“Let’s get out of here!” the man screamed. “Now!”

Chapter 17

Saturday night Dogan had arrived at Vaduz Station in search of his quarry but found someone else. At first he didn’t recognize the man with a newspaper in his lap smiling at him from the wooden benches. As he drew closer, though, he found himself smiling too.

“Ah, Grendel, I’ve been expecting you. What brings you to Liechtenstein, comrade?”

Dogan sat down next to the Russian in the all but empty train station. “Business. I’m here to kill a man.”

“Yes,” Vaslov said knowingly. “Christopher Locke.”

Dogan didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “You never cease to amaze me.”

“Our intelligence was quite accurate on the subject,” Vaslov continued. “I came to Liechtenstein to make sure you did not complete your assignment. You’re being used. It’s not your own government that wants Locke dead, it’s someone in the Committee.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Locke is the key, comrade. Remember I told you about San Sebastian? We intercepted a taped transmission sent by one of your side’s agents, a certain Lubeck. We believed he was on the Committee’s trail. When the agent was killed along with the rest of the town, Locke was recruited to take his place and retrace his steps.”

“My God, you know all this from intelligence within my government?”

“The bits and pieces, yes. The rest is conjecture but most accurate in this case, I believe. The exact agenda of Locke’s trip eluded me. I learned he was in London only when a report surfaced accusing him of the murder of a Colombian diplomat.”

“I wasn’t told anything about that.”

“Because it would have raised questions on your part. You were told only that Locke had killed a State Department attaché. In fact, that man was running him. It was the Committee who arranged the attaché’s elimination. They needed Locke isolated so they could control his movements. None of this made sense to me until I learned who Locke was to meet here.”

“Felderberg?”

Vaslov nodded. “Recent intelligence all but confirms that he is the financial middleman for the Committee.”

“Was.”

“That’s right, comrade, you were there. And yet you did not carry out your termination order even when the opportunity presented itself.”

“Something smelled about this from the beginning,” Dogan told him. “I was being used and I didn’t like it. The scene at the Hauser just didn’t play right if Locke had really come there with something to sell. After Felderberg’s bodyguards escorted him out, I made a fast check around. Someone killed him with a poisoned cork and the logistics ruled out Locke….”

“Yes,” interjected Vaslov with a slight smile, “I’ve used that method several times successfully myself. The Americans tried it with Castro, only to find out he drank beer exclusively.”

“Locke was set up,” Dogan continued, “which means I was set up too.”

“And Felderberg’s killing was made to look as if Locke were responsible, once again orchestrated by the Committee. They are using him to reveal the pattern uncovered by your agent in San Sebastian, so they can eradicate it.”

“But why would they want to eliminate their own middleman?”

“One question at a time, comrade. Felderberg became expendable because he had outlived his usefulness to them, in which case their latest plot must be nearing completion.” Vaslov sighed. “I had hoped to turn Felderberg to our side myself.”

“And now he won’t be able to tell us anything.”

“Another man can, however.”

“Locke.”

Vaslov shifted his legs, slid the newspaper to the bench beside him. “So you can see why we must take him alive. We not only have confirmation of the Committee’s existence now, but also proof that they are about to activate an important operation. And Christopher Locke is the only man who may know what it entails.”

“He may just as easily know nothing.”

“How long was he inside with Felderberg, comrade?”

“Thirty minutes, maybe thirty-five.”

“Plenty of time for the financier to pass at least as much as he passed on to your agent in San Sebastian. Yes, Locke has data. What he lacks is any real knowledge of what’s involved.”

“Which we possess.”

Vaslov nodded again. “But I’m afraid there’s a complication, several, in fact. To begin with, the actions of the Committee are not consistent. They killed Locke’s control in London so Locke would be forced to do their bidding. Their next move is to retain you to eliminate Locke.”

“Maybe someone got nervous.”

“My thought exactly. Someone panicked over Locke being allowed to roam free. The Commander received an order from a higher level. It follows.”

“What about the other complications?”

“The second’s a bit more involved, I’m afraid. Earlier this evening, one of my men saw Locke being led away from the train platform by an old woman who’s a known free-lance assassin. He didn’t intercede because he was under strict orders just to observe. By the time he reported back to me, traces of the old woman’s body had been found on the front of a train.”

“Locke killed her?”

“She was obviously trying to do the same to him. And if Felderberg’s people had hired her, she would have led Locke back toward them, not away from the platform.”

“So someone else wants our college professor dead….”

Vaslov’s eyebrows flickered. “A third party, Grendel. And to find out who, we must trace the woman’s contacts. They are well known to me. I used the old hag a few times myself. I’ll initiate the tracing procedures as soon as we part.”

“And the third complication?”

Vaslov hesitated. “Perhaps the most confusing of all. Someone seems to want Locke alive as much as others want him dead.” Vaslov noted Dogan’s questioning stare. “After ridding himself of the hag, Locke left for Schaan. Felderberg’s top security man was found outside the station there with his chest torn in two.”

Dogan nodded. “Schaan’s quite lovely this time of year.”

“Locke must feel the same way.”

Dogan stood up. “I’d better start hunting.”

Vaslov pulled a blue gym bag from under his legs. “When you find Locke, give him these belongings. His passport is among them, and he may have need of it.”

“But how did you—”

“He paid me a hundred francs to open a locker for him.” Vaslov shifted his aching shoulders. “Felderberg’s people made me feel my age, but I was happy to be of service to Mr. Locke.”

The stranger led Locke to an Audi parked halfway up on the grass strip separating one row of cars from the next. They jumped inside and screeched away, Chris studying the stranger’s face trying to recall where he had seen him before.

“The Hauser!” he exclaimed as the Audi tore off the Sanii grounds. “You were at the Hauser! Who are you? Why’d you save my life back there?”

Dogan’s eyes darted between the road and the rearview mirror. “One question at a time. The name’s Dogan, Ross Dogan of the once-proud CIA.”

“Wait a minute, if you were at the Hauser you must have been following me all along.”

“If I was following you, Locke, how in the hell could I have been waiting inside the Hauser before you arrived? Six months at the Academy should have taught you enough to figure that out.”

Locke felt his mouth drop. “You know that much about me?”

“Mostly because I was sent to Liechtenstein to kill you.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry. A careful analysis of the situation back in Vaduz mandated a change in plans.”

The Audi thundered down the two-lane highway. Dogan reached an intersection and screeched into a right-hand turn.

“But why did the CIA send you to kill me?”

“It’s not the CIA specifically, but a subgroup called Division Six. Don’t let it confuse you. The Company’s got more hidden compartments than a rich widow’s mansion. The story was you killed a State Department man named Charney.”

“No! He was the one who pulled me into all this but I didn’t kill him. Somebody else did!”

Dogan nodded. “A friend of mine filled me in on that. Charney must have been getting too close to them. His execution not only eliminated a threat but also served to isolate you.”

“Who was he getting close to?” Locke asked.

“Later,” Dogan replied flatly. “What brought you here to Liechtenstein and Felderberg?”

“Charney’s last words.”

“Was Felderberg Lubeck’s second stop as well?”

“Wait a minute, how did you know about Lubeck?”

“What I know doesn’t matter. It’s what you know that counts, what Felderberg told you.”

Locke breathed deeply. “Brian told me the key was food and Felderberg confirmed it. Someone is buying land in South America, millions and millions of acres, and all of it arable. Billions of dollars were exchanged. Whoever these people are, they’re attempting to gain control of the entire continent. But even Felderberg didn’t know why.”

“He sent you to Sanii,” Dogan concluded.

“He discovered a connection between the plant and his elusive clients. The answer was there all right, in the top-secret agricultural wing.” Locke paused. “They’ve got wheat, corn, oats, and barley crops there that have reached full maturity in only three weeks!”

“Genetic engineering,” Dogan muttered. “Our scientists have been working on it for years with no breakthroughs whatsoever.”

“Apparently the force behind Sanii has made plenty. Who are they, Ross?” Locke asked, surprised at how calm he felt.

“They call themselves the Committee.” Dogan’s hands tightened on the wheel. “We’ve all heard stories about small groups of fanatics plotting to take over the world — usually they’re products of someone’s paranoid delusions. The Committee’s the exception. They’re real and they’ve been out there for God knows how many years looking for a way to gain control of the world economically. But its members don’t operate above the surface. Only shadows emerge. The Committee functions apart from any government. Its members come from many races, nationalities, and countries. They hold high positions, which allow them to gain accurate intelligence as well as affect policy to the Committee’s benefit.”

“You’re talking about a sub-layer of control all across the world.” Locke controlled his shock at the enormity of what he was hearing.

“And governments have no way of knowing to what extent this sub-layer has influenced their policies. The Committee’s manipulations are felt by everyone. Remember the gas lines of seventy-two? There are those who say the Committee, through a complicated series of maneuvers, was behind the whole embargo. Control oil and you control the world was the common belief back then. But America rallied and the emphasis had to be shifted.”

“To food….”

“It’s the one resource that cuts across all barriers. You can’t control the distribution of water and air, but you sure as hell can manage the flow of food.”

“But developing all this land in South America won’t go far toward controlling this flow. It’ll just expand things a bit, widen the circulation and toss a new major supplier into the market.”

“No,” Dogan countered, “that’s not how they work. What I said about the Committee seeking to run the world wasn’t an exaggeration. But it’s pretty difficult to run a world with two superpowers bookending everything in the middle. Their first thought has to be how to neutralize the U.S. and the Soviet Union.”

“What about undercutting us in the market, slicing into our share of the farm exports?”

Dogan shook his head, keeping his eyes steady on the road. “No, that’s too chancy and conservative. Also, I doubt they would be that naive. Our allies aren’t stupid. They know that a major item we export is food. If they buy from someone else, we — our dollar — gets hurt, which means they get hurt.”

Dogan glanced again at the rearview mirror. The view was clear behind them, and they’d been driving long enough now for concern over immediate pursuit to wane. The Swiss border would be coming up shortly. Once across it, he would head straight to Zurich and temporary refuge.

“The Committee craves power,” Dogan continued. “They’ve got something far worse up their sleeve than simple entry into the market, you can bet on that.”

Chris studied the man next to him briefly. His face was determined. When he wasn’t speaking, he clenched his teeth tightly. Locke was astounded by the aura of strength he projected and felt as if he was seated next to a volcano about to erupt.

“How is it that the Committee has never been investigated?” he asked.

“They have. Unofficially. The problem is nobody knows what to investigate, even less where to start. The Committee never leaves a trail.”

“Until now.”

“And a lot of people have died already who were part of it, starting with San Sebastian. Felderberg revealed part of what’s going on and Sanii clarified it. But a part is still all we’ve got.”

Locke recalled more of the financier’s words. “Felderberg sent Lubeck to Florence, to someone called the Dwarf.”

Dogan nodded, a slight smile on his face. “It figures he might be involved in this somehow.”

“Felderberg said he brokered information.”

“Along with weapons, blackmail, extortion — just about anything for a price. I’ve dealt with him before. Sneaky little bastard, and it’s my bet he’ll have gone into hiding by now. There are ways to reach him, though.”

Locke thought quickly. “There was another man, an Englishman named Burgess. He was an old friend of Charney’s and Brian sent me to him. He helped me get to Liechtenstein. Should we contact him?”

“I doubt there’s anything he can do to help us,” Dogan said suspiciously. “You’ll have to fill me in on the details of this later. He could be a Committee plant.”

“Impossible logistics,” Locke said. “He’s clean.”

“Then I wouldn’t want to be his insurance company. The Committee will get him before long.”

“He’s one tough son of a bitch. He takes precautions.”

“Precautions mean nothing to the Committee. They can get to anyone anywhere. It’s how they operate.”

“That doesn’t say much for our chances.”

“Not entirely true. To begin with, we’re on the move. More important, though, they aren’t even aware of my involvement yet and they want very much to keep you alive to continue uncovering Lubeck’s trail for them.” Dogan hesitated. “One of Felderberg’s men was waiting to kill you in Schaan Saturday night. Someone cut him up like candy.”

“But there are other people who want me dead.”

“An old hag in the train station in Vaduz among them?”

“Yes! Yes! But how did you know? How could you know?”

“It doesn’t matter. The old woman was a known assassin, quite proficient in her trade. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I was lucky two other times as well.” And Chris went on to relate the details of his deadly meeting with Alvaradejo and the bloody chase that followed it. “Whoever’s behind these killers must have been the ones who used Alvaradejo to alert Lubeck in the first place,” he concluded, “which means we’re actually on the same side. My — our — problem is that they don’t know it. It looks to them like I’m being controlled by the Committee so they’re going all out to eliminate me.”

Dogan was nodding, a bit shaken by Locke’s conclusions.

“That presupposes that this mysterious third party knows what the Committee was up to in San Sebastian. Then, why did they attack the problem through Lubeck? Why not expose the truth themselves?”

“Fear of retaliation perhaps.”

“No, that doesn’t wash. Otherwise they wouldn’t have exposed themselves so much in trying to take you out. What was it that the old hag in the train station said?”

“She said it didn’t matter if I killed her because another would take her place. She said there were a lot of them and they would see us all burn in hell.”

“‘Us’ meaning the Committee.”

“That’s the implication, yes. But she didn’t have a Spanish accent.”

“Interesting. The reach of this third party obviously extends beyond a few Spanish fanatics. Individual teams are being called up, or just individuals, available for suicide missions.”

“I’ll repeat the question: then why bother using Lubeck at all?”

“You tell me, Locke. What did Lubeck offer them?”

“Legitimacy?” Chris replied.

“I think you’ve hit on it,” Dogan told him. “These allies of ours who don’t realize they’re our allies can’t risk exposure any more than the Committee can.”

“So we’re dealing with another sub-layer here.”

“One that picks and chooses its times to rise above the surface. We’ll know who’s behind it soon enough. That friend of mine is tracing down the old woman’s channels. Find out who hired her and we’ll have our answer.”

“Just one of them, you mean,” Locke corrected. His voice grew distant. “Lubeck saw something in the fields of San Sebastian before he died, something that terrified him. It all comes back to land … and genetic crop growth.”

“Lubeck saw a lot more than just crops in those fields, even if they sprouted right before his eyes, and we’ve got to find out what. It’s the key to this whole mess.”

The car crossed over into Switzerland. Both men breathed easier, though the security they felt in passing the border was fleeting. If the right connections had been made swiftly in Schaan, no border could protect them.

“You never explained how you found me,” Chris said suddenly.

“I put myself in your position,” Dogan explained, “and made a quiet search of all Schaan lodges and inns I’d have chosen if I were you. It wasn’t until early this morning that I found the right one. I followed you to Sanii and shadowed you on the outside, ready to lend my services if it became necessary.”

“Lucky for me….”

Dogan glanced over at Locke. “Charney was a bastard for drawing you into this.”

“He was only doing his job.”

“Bullshit. We don’t involve amateurs. We never involve amateurs.”

“I had six months of training, remember?”

“And most men with a lifetime of it wouldn’t have stuck this out like you have.” The car stopped at an intersection. Dogan’s eyes bore into Locke’s. “Running would have been the normal reaction.”

“No, Ross, I had to see this thing through,” Chris said softly. “I’d love to say it was out of patriotism, but I can’t. These bastards killed the two best friends I ever had and that’s part of it, a great part, but there’s something deeper that’s kept me going: fear. I’ve been scared all my life but the fear was never something I could overcome, because it was never tangible. Now I can see it, feel it. It’s out there and it’s alive and it’s monstrous. And maybe if I can look it in the eyes and not be stared down, all the other fears won’t mean so much and I’ll be able to look myself in the eyes too. Being a failure isn’t so bad; it’s realizing you’re one all of a sudden at forty-two.”

Dogan said nothing. He understood how Locke felt, better than he could admit to anyone. They were both trying to stop running. But to respond to Locke’s words would have been too difficult, so he turned back to the subject immediately at hand.

“When we get to Zurich, I’ll make the necessary arrangements to get you to Florence. The Dwarf will see you; he owes me lots of favors.”

“And what about you?”

“There’s only one place with all the answers, Chris, and that’s where I’m headed.”

“South America?”

“San Sebastian.”

Chapter 18

“Good evening to you, comrade.”

“It won’t be good after you hear what I have to say.”

Dogan made contact with Vaslov after settling in at the Staadhof Hotel in the center of Zurich.

“Your voice sounds tired,” Vaslov noted.

“And scared. I caught up with Locke.”

“I never expected any less….”

“His meeting with Felderberg was even more informative than we had hoped.” And Dogan proceeded to outline the information Locke had passed on, stressing those parts dealing with food, South America, and the experiments underway at the Sanii plant. “Your fears have been substantiated,” he said at the end. “The Committee is after both our countries and the key is food. The only remaining question is precisely how they plan to strike.”

“They couldn’t have picked a better target, though, could they, comrade? Food, the ultimate resource to control. We are dependent on your supplies and you are dependent on your exports. But I agree that far more must be involved here than merely the crop genetics Locke discovered at Sanii. The problem is finding out what.”

“Locke learned the Committee was based in Austria. Will that help us?”

“Austria is a rather large country, comrade, but I’ll start digging tomorrow. KGB computers should be able to obtain information pertaining to repeated trips into the country by certain individuals, perhaps some of whom are notable. This will eventually lead us to a list of potential Committee members.”

“Sounds like a lengthy process.”

“Too much so, I’m afraid,” Vaslov acknowledged grimly. “And time is short, very short. There is one thing your report to me excluded: the World Hunger Conference, which will begin in a week.”

“I didn’t think it was important, just a random coincidence.”

“Unfortunately it’s anything but. Let us say all our speculations about the Committee launching a massive strike against both our nations are true. What would be the worst turn of events for them?”

Dogan thought through the silence. “Some sort of pact between us, I suppose. But that’s inconceivable.”

“Militarily perhaps, but not economically. From the intelligence I’ve recently been able to gather, that’s where the purpose of the hunger conference lies: to announce a trade agreement between our two nations, the likes of which have never been seen before. Your President has determined quite accurately that the way to avoid war is through the stomach. Trade is being opened up for everything except your most advanced computer equipment. The Soviet Union is being granted favored-nation status in exchange for several political concessions, including a gradual pullout from Afghanistan.”

“Food and politics — a potent mix.”

“The best is yet to come. At the conference, delegations from our two nations will deliver a joint memorandum on plans to deal with feeding the world’s starving people. Working together, our leaders believe we can accomplish anything, and in this case they might be correct. New supply lines will be made available, fertile land developed and cultivated where no crop has grown before.”

“Which would totally negate the Committee’s plans for South America.”

“But as we know, comrade, far more is brewing here. The Committee did not choose their moment to strike at random. The hunger conference is the cue for them.”

“And a unified front presented by the U.S. and Soviet Union would prove catastrophic to their ends.”

“We cannot be sure of that until we are aware of all their means.”

“But disruption of the conference might be part of their plan.”

“They have used terrorism before. The daring message of this conference cannot be allowed to gain worldwide publicity. It does not suit their goals.”

“The Committee’s goals, yes, but what about the goals of our mysterious third party? Did you learn anything from the old hag’s contacts?”

Vaslov sighed. “Not enough, unfortunately, and what I did learn is even more perplexing. The channels used to retain the old woman originated in South America.”

“What about names, places?”

“Nothing specific. But the channels were ones used primarily by terrorist groups.”

“You’re saying a terrorist group based in South America is behind the repeated attempts on Locke’s life?”

“I’m saying nothing. But the pattern is there. Everything fits.” Frustration laced the Russian’s voice. “Still, it makes no sense. My people in Moscow are experts in terrorism, originators of several of the groups behind it, and they assure me that no known group is behind this. The checks have been made. Nothing.”

“Checks that would be superfluous if the group wasn’t part of the international terror network.”

“True. But where does that take us?”

“It takes me to the place where all this started: San Sebastian.”

“The town has been obliterated.”

“Someone must have seen or heard something. The answers are down there. I leave for Colombia later tonight.”

“You’re fishing, comrade.”

“I’m desperate.”

“We’re all desperate but you are more so.” Vaslov hesitated. “You are overdue by days with your report. Your superiors who so graciously reinstated you are no doubt aware that you have totally disregarded your orders. And soon they will learn that you are aiding the very man you were supposed to take out. What do you suppose they will do about that, Grendel?”

Dogan didn’t venture an answer.

The emergency meeting of the Committee’s executive board began at ten o’clock at Kreuzenstein Castle.

“You have landed us in a terrible mess, Mr. Van Dam,” Audra St. Clair snapped at the American representative.

Present in the dimly lit room were the same five people who had been at the table on Saturday. In addition, the sixth chair, which had been vacant at the last meeting, was today occupied by the British representative.

Van Dam’s lips trembled. “I had to consider my own security.”

“And now you have violated all of ours,” the chairwoman said. “Mr. Mandala, please give us an appraisal of the damage.”

Mandala leaned forward, eyes consciously avoiding the American’s. “Locke arrived at Sanii as we expected. The plan was to have him captured and then allowed to escape so he might lead us to the Dwarf. But a man later identified as Ross Dogan, known in the field as Grendel, rescued him.”

“He was the one sent out on the sanction, Mr. Van Dam,” St. Clair said.

“How should I know? I merely gave the order. How it was handled, who was sent out, I don’t know.”

“I was not phrasing it as a question. Grendel was the man sent out, and we are all aware of his rather unique reputation. There is only one reason I can see to explain why Dogan would have disobeyed his assassination order, and that is he somehow learned that Locke was part of something greater. This is bad for us, Mr. Van Dam, very bad, and you are to blame. Locke is now allied with a top intelligence man and carrying with him all the knowledge we allowed him to obtain thinking it could only end up back with us. That scenario has been altered considerably. We can no longer control Locke’s movements or even chart them. Grendel has replaced us as his guide.” St. Clair turned to the British representative. “How much would Felderberg have passed on?”

The Englishman shrugged. “Information pertaining to our land deals mostly. Nothing that Locke will be able to string together into any coherent pattern and no hint whatsoever as to the existence of Tantalus.”

“And what of Grendel? Remember, he now possesses every bit of information Locke does. He could be extremely dangerous to us.”

“Only if he were aware of our existence,” the Englishman pointed out. “All he has to go on are rumors and vague conjecture.”

“He will piece the truth together,” St. Clair said. “It’s what men like Grendel specialize in. But it’s not the damage he could personally do to us that concerns me. It is the possibility his suspicions might reach forces high up in the United States government.”

“That can be dealt with,” Van Dam noted. “I can use Dogan’s failure to obey orders as the basis for a quarantine order. He’ll become an untouchable. That should prevent him from doing us any harm.”

“Elimination is the only way to assure that,” said Mandala.

“If I make the quarantine order restricted, it will provide sanction for precisely that. Quite unofficial, you understand.”

“Yes, I understand, and your assurances mean nothing to me.” Mandala’s eyes darted from one Committee member to the next, locking finally with the chairwoman’s. “Grendel’s reputation and prowess will prevent any average agent from taking him out or even daring to try. He’s extremely resourceful and he likes to kill. I suggest we go along with Mr. Van Dam’s restricted quarantine strategy. I will insure the elimination is handled at the earliest possible time.” Then, with a slight smile: “I have the perfect man for the job.”

“Of course, we’ll have to find Dogan first,” St. Clair said. “Any ideas on where to start?”

“Switzerland,” the British representative suggested. “Dogan has many contacts there and its proximity to Liechtenstein makes it a logical refuge. But he won’t stay in one place long. Locke’s information will send him searching for answers.”

“Then perhaps we can get him through Locke,” Mandala noted. “Finding our college professor should prove a far easier matter. I have the means to insure he cooperates with us fully and knowingly. Once his contribution has been made, I can have him eliminated as well.”

“Not a wise move,” St. Clair said firmly, “for we must learn if he has contacted anyone else. We will learn nothing from Grendel, even if we are able to take him alive. Therefore, I want Locke kept alive and brought here. Is that understood, Mr. Mandala?”

Mandala nodded as convincingly as he could manage. He had no intentions of following any of the old bitch’s orders unless they suited his plan. Her reign over the Committee was drawing to a close. His was about to begin. Mandala suppressed a smile.

“All right, then,” St. Clair continued, addressing herself to all the men before her. “Bring all our intelligence forces to bear. Put out the call to all our contacts in the field, especially Switzerland.” She paused. “It’s a small world, gentlemen. Our quarries will not be out there for long.”

Calvin Roy pressed his fingertips into his forehead, as if imprinting ten small permanent marks might relieve the frustrations of the past five days.

“Goddammit, Major Pete, that’s not a whole helluva lot to go on. You’re tellin’ me all we got’s the shit we started out with.”

“Liechtenstein was slow in responding, but we know now that Locke used his credit card number there to make a long-distance call. He dialed a number in England — Falmouth, to be exact. We’ve got the line tapped and the house under watch.”

“Any more calls from our renegade professor?”

“Not a word.”

“What about to his home?”

Kennally shook his head. “I’ve covered Liechtenstein with agents. If Locke’s still in there, we can’t find him.”

“You ever walk across a plowed field at night, Major Pete? You can smell the shit something awful, but the idea is still not to step in it ’cause there’s more places where it ain’t than where it is. But those places where it is, they get ya every time. Same thing with Locke. We just gotta follow his trail.”

“He didn’t leave one, Cal.”

Roy seemed not to hear him. “You find any strange occurrences in Liechtenstein immediately preceding Locke’s phone call to England?”

“There was a murder,” the CIA chief reported, “but the details are sketchy.”

“Sketch ’em for me.”

“A financier named Felderberg was killed. The Liechtenstein authorities aren’t saying much but it’s a safe bet there’s nothing to link Locke with the murder.”

Calvin Roy smiled and scratched his bald dome. “Right now, Major, I got the feeling that Locke and Felderberg are tied tighter together than bull’s balls. What I don’t get is how.”

“Locke started out following Lubeck’s trail,” Louis Auschmann noted. “And we know Lubeck was in Liechtenstein at some point before San Sebastian. What if Locke’s still following the trail? That would explain why he hasn’t come in yet.”

“But without Charney to run him, he would’ve needed help for that, Louie. What about our check of Charney’s contacts in England?”

“A total blank.”

“That ain’t right. Makes no sense I can see. The connection’s gotta be there. Still got the file, Louie?”

“In my office.”

“Bring it over when you get a chance.”

“You think we missed something?”

“Maybe,” Roy replied. “We got any notion of where Lubeck went after Liechtenstein?”

“Florence, if he’s following Lubeck’s trail. But we have no way of knowing who he’s going to meet there.”

Roy nodded. “Throw our primary field forces into Florence, Major Pete. Heavy concentration. That’s where Locke’s headed.”

“If he’s still alive,” from Kennally.

“Least his family still is. You pull them out like I ordered?”

Kennally hesitated. “There was a … complication.”

Roy frowned. “Clean the shit off your shoes, Major, and tell me all about it.”

The woman climbed into the backseat of the idling car and faced the big man with the black eyepatch.

“Our efforts to find Locke have led nowhere,” she reported in Spanish.

“The old hag’s reputation was excellent.”

“The bastard Locke will pay,” the woman spat out. “He’ll pay for her death too.”

“Self-defense,” the one-eyed man offered, “is understandable.”

“Why are you defending him? You of all—”

“Something isn’t right here. It hasn’t been from the beginning. I was never comfortable about London. Alvaradejo got off four shots before Locke took him out. And the cabdriver said that Locke was helped by a car crash more than anything else.”

“Pablo’s throat was cut ear to ear.”

“You didn’t read the autopsy report. The slice was delivered from low to high by a person barely five-and-a-half-feet tall. Locke is six one.”

“A helper?” the woman asked, flustered.

The big man shook his head, fingered his eyepatch. “That doesn’t fit. If Locke was as good as he must be to have been given this mission, others would be superfluous … unless it has all been an illusion.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We were set up. Locke is nothing more than a decoy. We must act fast. It may already be too late.”

“You think they know who we are?” the woman asked fearfully.

“Once they discover our identity, they will destroy us.”

“The corpses, none carried IDs.”

“They have been using other methods to flush us out all along. They have dangled Locke on a string and pulled him back when we got close. They have distracted us enough to buy themselves time. If they learn who we are, time won’t matter. We will become the hunted.”

“God …”

“We aren’t finished yet,” the big man insisted, his one eye narrowed. “Our base in Spain is secure, our remaining soldiers safe. We will turn our attention to the conference and strike at them there.”

“And then?”

“If we fail, there will be no ‘then.’ Not for us,” he told the woman. “And not for South America.”

The Commander laid his newspaper on the table at his regular café on the Champs-Élysées as he addressed the man across from him.

“You have made an admirable recovery.”

Keyes grunted an acknowledgment. Words came hard for him. The ruined cartilage along his voice box smothered them before they could emerge. Syllables gurgled from his lips as if he had a mouth full of water, and each one burned the linings of his throat.

“I would like to give you an assignment,” the Commander told him. “Are you up to it?”

Keyes nodded.

“The hand will not impede you?”

Keyes glanced down at the black glove pulled tight across his ruined hand to hide the twisted damage Dogan had done. Only time could help him now, the doctors told him. Fuck time, Keyes thought.

He shook his head.

“I want you to find Grendel and kill him. He has become an outcast and we wish to be rid of him.” The Commander hesitated, relishing the perfect match of the man to the assignment. Word had been passed that a restricted quarantine had been placed on Dogan. But the Commander knew that was not quite sufficient. “I felt you would appreciate the assignment,” the Commander resumed. “Of course, everything is unofficial, no reports to be filed or anything so trivial. Such things aren’t done every day. Thus you will not have to provide explanations for any actions undertaken during the course of this assignment. Do whatever is necessary but do it fast. Understood?”

Keyes smiled.