The Alpha Deception

Chapter 20

By five P.M. Friday the streets of Pamosa Springs were quiet. The town had been divided into sectors, and residents were allowed to venture out for supplies only in escorted groups. A number of guards patrolled the small commercial district on foot, while others made slow, careful loops in jeeps.

The work on the hillside, meanwhile, continued at a nonstop, frenetic pace. Whatever the invaders were mining was being transferred into the hidden gulley where even more labor was concentrated. At night huge sparks would dance into the air, evidence of massive welding equipment. Cables had been run from various power stations into the work area to provide the vast amounts of electricity needed. Something was being constructed in the gulley, the residents knew, and whatever it was, the fruits of the invaders’ mining labor must have had a great deal to do with it.

Mayor McCluskey and Sheriff Heep, en route to Doc Hatcher’s office, watched the sparks climbing toward the sky. A team of guards was escorting them there under orders from Colonel Quintell, leader of the occupying forces. Quintell met them in the waiting room. He looked harried and tired, eyes drawn, his beret off for the first time in the four days of occupation.

“We have problems,” were his first words.

“I’ll say,” returned Dog-ear.

“Why do you choose to make this so hard on yourselves?”

“It’s a tendency we have when some murdering bastards take over our town and steal what’s ours,” came Sheriff Junk’s reply.

“If we put aside our differences, we can get through this, all of us. I would be willing to go as far as to forget the events of the past two nights.”

“What events?” Dog-ear questioned.

“Please, gentlemen, do not insult my intelligence.”

“What events?” from Heep this time.

Colonel Quintell nodded to himself. “Follow me.”

He opened the door to Doc Hatcher’s examination room, and a pair of soldiers escorted Dog-ear and Sheriff Junk inside after him. There, laid out on three tables, were three sheet-covered corpses.

“Three of my men,” the colonel started with repressed rage. He drew back the first sheet. “This one was knifed in the back.” To the second corpse now. “This one had his throat cut.” And the third. “This one’s neck was snapped. It takes a tremendous amount of strength to break a man’s neck in this manner, strength and training. Do you have any idea who in your town has the training to do such things?”

“Yeah,” replied Dog-ear. “Hal Taggart, but I think we can safely rule him out.”

Quintell ignored the remark. “A victim was claimed Tuesday, a second on Wednesday, the third last night. If you won’t help me find the murderer, at least stop him on your own. I beg you. It would be for your own good.”

“Own good?” Sheriff Junk repeated. “What the fuck? You rode into town, and we came out into the street. A guy with a rifle that couldn’t shoot straight comes along after some rats, and you gun him down without a single word of warning. I’d call you the murderers.”

Quintell surprised them by nodding. “Denials on my part would be pointless at this stage.” The pain in his face seemed honest. “I loathe this sort of work. I loathe losing men even more, though, which is why you must understand that I cannot allow it to go on.”

“You want a list of suspects from us?” asked Dog-ear. “Just go to the town hall and read the rolls.”

“I want a list of men with recent military service or other training in weapons. This killer is an expert. After losing one man on each of our first two nights here, I doubled the patrols but he still managed to kill another. Men like that cannot go unnoticed in a town as small as yours.”

“Apparently they can,” Dog-ear told him.

“Maybe he’s just getting settled and hasn’t met many folks yet,” said Heep.

“This is nothing to joke about,” snapped the colonel. “Believe me when I say it is best for you and your town to cooperate with me. I’m simply an underling, just as frustrated and just as anxious as you are. If I do not produce the results my superiors desire, I will be replaced.” Quintell hesitated. “There is talk of a man being sent for, a man whose approach you will find considerably less cordial than mine. An enforcer, not a soldier.”

“You know this man?”

“I know his type and I hate it as much as I hate this type of work. Cooperate with me, help me find the murderer of my men. My superiors are not patient. There is no telling what steps they are liable to take. Please, I beg you, for both our sakes.”

“Don’t look to us to get your ass out of the fire,” Dog-ear said harshly.

“Your own asses will be charred far blacker than mine if the worst comes to pass.”

“Look, friend,” said the sheriff, “we couldn’t help you even if we wanted to. The killer you’re describing don’t exist in Pamosa Springs.”

Colonel Quintell stood over the third murdered soldier. His eyes were open, and a hideous grimace froze the instant of incredible agony when his neck was snapped.

“Tell that to my men,” the colonel said grimly.

A soldier appeared in the doorway and snapped to attention. “Sir, Post One reports that a man has arrived at the roadblock with clearance papers.”

“Clearance papers?” The dread in Quintell’s voice was obvious.

“Yes, sir.”

“Send him through,” the colonel ordered softly. He steadied himself against the table where the soldier lay.

“What’s it mean?” wondered Dog-ear McCluskey.

“That it just became too late for all of us.”

The President had listened to the General Secretary’s words in shocked silence. The fact that no interpreter had been employed, thanks to the Soviet leader’s fluency in English, made the tale even more startling and ominous.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me, Mr. Chernopolov, how your death-ray found its way onto our satellite.”

“It’s not our weapon. It belongs to General Raskowski, as I explained. Please, this has not been easy for me to admit.”

“Any easier for me to listen to, you think?”

“Mr. President, Raskowski was no longer one of our own. He was an outcast. The Kremlin underestimated his resources and contacts … even within your own military community.”

“I suppose you will want to blame all your aggressions on Raskowski.”

“He has made every effort to create hostility between us because he knew that open communication might prove the best weapon against him.”

“Can ‘open communication’ prevent another Hope Valley?”

“It can if we refrain from thinking in the manner he expects us to. If we are to survive this crisis, if true peace is ever to be achieved, we must rise above the inclination to accept the sentiments of those with a grasp of only part of the picture. The stakes demand it.”

“I can’t disagree with you there.”

“What will you do, Mr. President?”

“You’ll be among the first to know.”

General Secretary Chernopolov held the phone to his ear for a time after the connection had broken off. His eyes fell again on the communiqué received just hours before from Bangkok.

Natalya Tomachenko had saved her country, perhaps even the world. In doing so, however, she had placed herself in a position of power no Soviet citizen could be allowed to hold. A delicate balance was at stake which the slightest weight could throw off. Her knowledge, if used properly, could be as devastating a weapon against the Soviet Union as Raskowski’s plan itself. She had been used for so long against her wishes, and now she had the means to swing that balance in her favor.

Chernopolov replaced the receiver and lifted the communiqué in his hand. He slid an ashtray over and placed the single sheet of paper in it. Then he struck a match and dropped it down. In seconds, the communiqué was gone and with it all record of this operation.

Soon Natalya Tomachenko would follow.

General Raskowski was glad when the phone was picked up after only a single ring.

“I have reached Pamosa Springs,” a familiar voice reported.

“Your assessment?”

“It’s even worse than you were led to believe. The previous leadership was ineffectual. The plan was botched from the beginning and then a single incident escalated into a major complication. There are rebels afoot here, General. I can feel it.”

“But you will flush them out, won’t you, Major?”

“That is my specialty.”

Raskowski nodded. “I’ve always liked you, Major. I’ve followed your career since we met four years ago. I helped gain you the command that was recently stripped from you.”

“I know that, sir. And if I’ve dishonored you, please—”

“You haven’t dishonored anything! Not yourself, not me, and certainly not your adopted motherland, the glorious Soviet Union. Your career was ruined by fools just as mine was. But there’s still a place for you by my side, if you can put this town back on a tight leash. You know the stakes, Major.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Six days ago I pulled your career off the scrap heap because you are much too fine a soldier to be sacrificed for the errors of the inefficient lot that surrounded you in that steaming hot box you were born in.”

“And forced to return to …”

“Not by my orders. But fate has been generous with us. It has given us a chance to work together again, perhaps indefinitely.” Raskowski paused, just long enough for his words to sink in. “But that, of course, depends on your performance in Pamosa Springs. Don’t prove me a poor judge of character.”

The major’s voice stiffened. “I assume I am permitted to use any means at my disposal to return the situation to reasonable order.”

“Anything you choose, Major. Just get it done.”

And on the other end of the line, in Pamosa Springs, Guillermo Paz smiled.

The new commander had issued fresh instructions to the soldiers patrolling the streets of Pamosa Springs after dark: they were to shoot on sight any figure they could not identify. No questions asked and no accounts to be made. The new commander, Major Paz, scared them, seeming to have little more regard for his own men than for their hostages. No man wanted to face him with failure.

The soldier on patrol between the general store and the post office had no aspiration other than to finish his shift. Dark clouds had rolled in hours before, blocking out the bright moon. But there was some light. The new commander had ordered the few streetlights throughout the town to be turned back on.

Antsy as his shift reached its halfway point, the soldier switched his rifle from his left shoulder to his right. He was stretching to shake himself alert when he heard a shuffling sound. He swung quickly.

A shadow darted through the circle cast by one of the streetlights. A dark shadow. Nothing more. A trick of the wind perhaps, or of his own fatigue.

Then came another sound. A door whining stubbornly closed. The soldier ran toward where it came from and emerged at the rear of the town grill. He knew he should report this and wait for reinforcements. But if the murderer was seeking shelter within, he wanted him all for himself. He tried the latch. It hadn’t caught. The door came open with a whining sound. The same whining.

The soldier yanked his rifle from his shoulder and held it in one hand with his flashlight in the other. Before him lay a hallway leading toward the kitchen area. To the right was—

A shuffling sound found his ears from … below. The soldier moved to the door on his right. It opened onto a narrow flight of stairs, dropping down into the basement. Flashlight beam swaying before him, he began to descend. At the bottom he saw crates and boxes stacked everywhere. The shuffling could have been rats, he told himself. Then again, it couldn’t have been rats that opened the back door.

The silence was deafening now. He started walking about, flashlight beam carving holes in the dust-coated darkness. Everything seemed as it should have been. But wait. Directly before him was a … He approached cautiously. Yes, a door, finished in the same color as the walls so as to be virtually indistinguishable from them except for a single brass latch. Wasting no time, the soldier yanked the door open. A musty, rotten scent filled his nostrils, a scent of dirt and rot and death. The flashlight beam poured into the blackness.

“What the hell …”

The soldier stepped through the doorway mesmerized, flashlight sweeping about. He couldn’t have seen the figure come up from behind him, and heard only a whistling sound like a scythe whipped through the air. He was thinking he should scream to draw attention when a tingle crossed his throat and he couldn’t breathe.

For the briefest of instants after his head was severed from his body he could still see, though he felt absolutely nothing. The rest of his frame spasmed before tumbling into the gush of blood that was everywhere, and his head plunked across the floor leaving a trail of red behind it.

Chapter 21

“Do you believe him, Mr. President?” Secretary of State Edmund Mercheson asked after Lyman Scott had completed his report on his conversation with the General Secretary.

“I’m not sure. It’s all a bit too convenient, and it comes down to us believing in a mad general who’s part Napoleon and part Alexander. But Chernopolov’s point about Ulysses doing us no good when it came to the first attack is well taken. Why should we hesitate to deactivate a satellite that is useless against this threat we’re facing?”

“But how do we know this is the only threat?” challenged George Kappel from Defense. “Let’s not forget the Russian penchant for disinformation. Let’s not forget the very real possibility that everything we have witnessed was part of a plan leading precisely to this end.”

“Disinformation didn’t destroy Hope Valley,” Lyman Scott reminded him.

“No, a renegade Ivan general did, if we’re to believe Chernopolov. One town — no more — because maybe that’s all their superweapon was ever capable of destroying. A single demonstration to make us think they’ve got more than they really do.”

“That’s stretching things, George.”

“Is it? We all know the purpose of Ulysses. We put it up there to provide immediate verifiable warning of a missile launch from anywhere in the world. Effectively, the message to our enemies was that the best they could hope for was a simultaneous launch on warning. Stalemate. Suicide. But then the Soviets come up with a one-shot demonstration and we deactivate it, thereby exposing ourselves to the full brunt of their nuclear arsenal.”

The President tamed to Sundowner. “Have you checked out Ulysses?”

Sundowner nodded. “All systems functional.”

“What about the beam weapon?”

“Without a detailed, in-person inspection, I couldn’t tell if it had been placed on board or not. It’s possible. Size is the greatest restriction, but the death beam wouldn’t have to be terribly big.”

The President turned to Stamp. “What about security surrounding construction and deployment?”

“There are inconsistencies present in the logs,” the CIA chief reported, “and I can’t swear to the proficiency of the security employed. All scientists directly involved have been interrogated and they all admitted that Ulysses could have been under light guard when the various snafus arose.”

Sundowner remembered something. “Snafus set the project back nearly a year at the outset. Some of this was before my time, but as I recall, the first prototype of Ulysses didn’t fit all the specs and was replaced with the model now in orbit. But we’ve still got the prototype. Since the modifications required are mostly cosmetic, we could have it ready to launch within ninety-six hours, seventy-two if we’re lucky and if the records are up to date.”

Lyman Scott nodded. “Then we could delay deactivation of Ulysses until we can get a temporary replacement up.”

“And we can make sure the Russians know it,” suggested Kappel, “so if I’m right about their intentions, they’ll know we’ve managed to stay one step ahead of them. Beat the bastards at their own game.”

“Mr. President,” began Mercheson, “if we are agreed on this subject, there is another that should be raised. We now have a rogue agent operating in the field, not formally working for us, pursuing a substance that has become superfluous to our needs, and possessing more information than we can afford to have released.”

“Yes,” the President sighed, “I’m aware of that, along with McCracken’s means for dispensing that sort of information. We needed him before. We don’t anymore.”

“Sir?” Ryan Sundowner spoke tentatively.

“Nothing melodramatic, Ryan. I just want him brought in and isolated until we can explain everything to him. The longer he’s out there, operating on his own, the greater the threat he poses, not just because of what he might say but because of what, under the wrong circumstances, he might be forced to say. We can’t survive the truth of this coming out any more man we can survive the death beam itself. McCracken’s reputation as a rogue is well earned. We can’t trust him out there. He’ll understand our reasoning.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“You’re forgetting the woman who was killed, Mr. President. That’s what drew him into this in the first place, and it’s my guess he won’t be able to pull out so easily until he’s settled that score.”

The President’s eyes went cold. “Then we’ll have to find some way to persuade him.”

“So when he calls in, I should—”

“For the reasons you just alluded to,” broke in CIA chief Stamp, “it should be someone else whom he reaches, someone well versed in such matters.”

“McCracken trusts me.”

“The stakes have changed,” said the President. “It’s a matter of convincing him, and if that falls short, knowing instantly what other steps to resort to.”

“Other steps,” Sundowner echoed, but his mind had strayed to a fact he didn’t dare raise now: one of the men in this room was a Soviet mole. How would that affect Blaine’s response to being called in?

Natalya came awake, groggily aware of being in motion. Her eyes cleared slowly to the sight of the straps which bound her to the seat of an eight-passenger private jet. A few seats ahead sat a pair of guards, absently watching her. Her head ached horribly from serums and sedatives. But the rest of her seemed whole, though slowed significantly.

She closed her eyes tight again before the guards noticed she was conscious.

Think! Put it together piece by piece in your head. Retrace the passage of time ….

Her last lucid sequence of thoughts had come at Bangkok’s Post and Telegraph Department. She had seen General Raskowski first and then Katlov, a man she had seen killed in the Chapel of the Emerald Buddha. But obviously he hadn’t died at all. Obviously everything that had occurred, starting with the initial contact in Moscow, had been by the general’s direction. So Katlov was alive and had passed information to her which she in turn passed to General Secretary Chernopolov, again by Raskowski’s design. Deception on top of deception.

But why? Where was the sense?

After her capture, the fuzziness began. She was taken to a warehouse on the outskirts of Bangkok where truth serum was administered. She had been trained to resist it, but she could only hold back so much, letting go when the strain shook her insides. General Raskowski had questioned her personally. When he was satisfied with her responses he began to feed her a constant diet of sedatives, with the most recent one administered just prior to takeoff.

She was fully awake now, though her reasoning process continued to function lazily.

“Paz will straighten things out. I have faith in him.” It was the general’s voice. He was emerging from the front cabin, with another man by his side: Katlov.

“I’m still worried,” Katlov said. “I haven’t been comfortable with our troop deployment in Pamosa Springs from—”

Raskowski silenced him as they drew closer to Natalya. He leaned over and shook her shoulder. Natalya opened her eyes, forcing herself to look even more dazed than she was.

“And how are you doing, my dear?”

Natalya tested the straps and felt the uncomfortable dryness in her mouth as she spoke. “Your concern for my comfort is refreshing.”

“I couldn’t allow you the temptation of starting an incident which could only result in further harm to yourself.”

“You wanted me to make my report to the General Secretary,” she offered lamely.

“Of course I did, my dear,” he said in a gentlemanly tone. “And you were most obliging, relayed to him everything I wanted you to.”

“Which you relayed to me through the walking corpse Katlov over there.”

“Shot with blanks.”

“I killed a man who had blanks in his gun. My God….”

“I’m impressed by your show of guilt,” Raskowski said. “But you perceived exactly what was expected of you.”

“Would you like to know what I perceive now, General? I perceive a man who has betrayed his country.”

Raskowski’s features reddened, nostrils flaring back like a bull about to charge. “Me a traitor?” he said, incredulously, almost shouting. “You are the traitor, you and all the spineless dreamers whose visions will drive our country into the ground. There is a cancer in the body of the Soviet Union, a cancer that must be cut out if our people are to survive and prosper.”

“With you as the surgeon, I’ll take the sickness over the cure. It’s your vision that will destroy us and the rest of the world. History has already judged your kind, the power-crazed madmen convinced they alone have the answers. Like you they’re all small men with small plans because all they can see is what lies immediately before them.”

“Small?” blared Raskowski. “Is that what you think? Is what you saw yesterday the work of a ‘small’ mind?”

Natalya seized the opening. “You wanted the General Secretary to know your death beam was deployed aboard Ulysses. Why?”

“Because it isn’t.”

“What?”

“Listen to the progression of a small mind’s thoughts,” Raskowski ranted. “Through great pains I managed to launch my own satellite several months ago. That satellite destroyed Hope Valley, but a power surge overloaded its circuits and it self-destructed. I would need something, wouldn’t I, small man that I am?”

“A new means of deploying your weapon.”

“Impossible, though, for me to launch another satellite of my own. A message had already been sent. The Americans were on notice. So I sought out help. From you. I used you, so I suppose you must be even smaller.”

Natalya made herself look angry so he would continue.

“Through you Chernopolov was deceived into believing that my weapon was on board the American early detection satellite. Then what?”

“He would contact the Americans and urge them to deactivate it.”

“And would they?”

Natalya thought briefly. “Under the present state of tension, only if they had a replacement.”

Raskowski’s taut grimace spread into a smile. He nodded and kept nodding, suddenly subdued.

Natalya’s breath left her as quickly as from a punctured balloon. “No! The replacement … The replacement!”

The general’s grin grew still wider. “Does such a deception sound like the work of a small mind? All of Alpha has become a deception since the loss of my first satellite. Believe me, it wasn’t easy fitting all the pieces together, but I had come too far to be denied.”

“But you couldn’t possibly get another beam weapon on board the replacement satellite!”

Raskowski rose and pulled a syringe from his jacket pocket. “There is an explanation for everything, my dear, including giving you this sedative as we begin our descent. I understand the risks involved to your life but they would be far greater if we left you to your wits. Rest assured,” he said as if offering comfort, “that this will be the last shot you need ever receive. I promise.”

Natalya was groggy when the plane landed. She had no idea where she was, but she guessed it was the place Raskowski was moving his headquarters from Bangkok.

She kept her eyes closed as the plane’s wheels met the runway, bounced, then settled again. Surprise was her only hope now. The general’s men had to be induced to underestimate her, or better yet, not estimate her at all. Escape, if it was going to happen, would have to take place before she reached Raskowski’s new stronghold. In transit maybe, or …

A pair of guards approached her. She could hear their heavy shoes pounding closer and she concentrated on convincing them that the sedative was still enjoying its full effect. Like many drugs, the effect of too many doses often lessened the net effect. Furthermore, a veteran Soviet operative had taught her about such drugs, advising her to cause herself pain at the moment of injection, to induce her body to release powerful antineurons which would, in turn, block at least some of the drug’s effects. The theory had never been proven, but the old spy was unyielding in his conviction. She had not had the opportunity to test the theory until now.

The guards unfastened the seat straps and eased her to her feet. Natalya stirred slightly, as would a sedated person. She made sure her breathing was shallow, almost mechanical, eyes open now as narrow slits. She felt that her mind was at full capacity, but what of her body?

The guards gripped her tightly as they led her down the aisle toward the exit door. They would be the last ones out. Not good. Too much would already have transpired outside the plane. Not enough time to make something out of nothing.

Natalya found herself well in control of her motor capabilities as she and her guards reached the steps leading down to the tarmac. It was dusk, the grayness suiting her chances. She walked unsurely, waiting for the men to lead her. Twenty feet from the portable steps a trio of limousines waited on the tarmac. Natalya felt her heart quicken with hope. One of the cars, meant surely to take her to her death, could similarly provide her with a means of escape. She would have to act in the shadow of an instant, and the circumstances would have to be just right. At least there was a chance.

This was Algiers! She recognized the airport clearly!

More of Raskowski’s guards surrounded the cars. The general himself was not to be seen. Three guards stood near the limousine to which she was being led. Her mind sharpened all the way. She fought to push blood into her lagging muscles. Speed would determine survival.

A plan, a hope, she had it! One of the guards by the limo held a small machine gun at the ready. The others were wary but not yet handling their weapons. What of the driver? Was he inside or was he outside the car? If he was inside, her plan would be in jeopardy. In the half-darkness she could see nothing through the darkened limousine windows.

Almost there …

Natalya stilled her thoughts. The rest she would have to leave to reflex.

Ten feet from the limo she could see one of the guards reach for the back door latch. The big car’s engine was idling. Perfect.

The man was holding the door open when Natalya drew within a yard. She acted in an instant. A quick lunge both separated her from her escorts’ grip and closed the gap to the limo.

The force of her body weight crashed the back door inward, pinning the man’s hand against steel. He was screaming horribly when Natalya went for the machine-gun-toting guard who was starting to aim the weapon at her. She didn’t stop him from firing. Instead she grabbed the barrel and aimed the bullets where she wanted them.

The escorts and final guard went quickly, and she aimed next at the guards outside the other limos to keep their fire erratic. The guard was trying to pull his machine gun free now, and Natalya let him while she pounded his back hard against the frame of the limo, grasping his hair and yanking his head viciously backward. His skull rammed hard into steel and he stiffened. Natalya went for the front door and threw it open.

The side window shattered and glass rained over her. More bullets peppered the windshield, carving jagged holes which quickly spread into spiderweb patterns. Natalya didn’t care. She jammed the idling limo into gear and lurched forward with her head beneath the dashboard.

She didn’t think of fleeing yet. She couldn’t with two fully able cars intact and plenty of men in them. The first thing was to make sure they were reasonably disabled before proceeding.

Windows were lowering. Gunshots blazed at her from both the other cars. One of the drivers had the sense to move. The other stayed as he was, so when Natalya drove into his rear passenger-side fender, the sudden impact stripped his transmission and left him with an engine-racing shell. Tires screeching, Natalya threw her limo into reverse as the last car came for her with bullets flashing from within. Her back window exploded and more glass showered the rear seats, a few shards nipping at the back of her neck. Screaming down the pain, she backed her car hard into the front of the last limo. Steam burst from its radiator.

Gunshots followed her as she floored her car. Despite an incessant screech and a strong smell of gasoline mixed with friction-burned rubber, Natalya concentrated on the tarmac. Airport security would be responding, but that was hardly a bother. She sped along the cement, swerved to avoid one parked jet, and headed for an open gate that would take her to freedom.

The Toy Factory never slept; there were not enough hours in the day to accomplish all of its tasks. The past week had seen the normally hectic activity turn frantic. With little chance that stores of Atragon sufficient to power Bugzapper could be found in time, the search was on for an element to take its place. So far that search had yielded nothing.

The man in charge of these labors was Robert Tibbs, who had been with the Bureau of Scientific Intelligence for seven years. His devotion to his work was total, and many days came and went without his leaving the grounds. Because he often worked well past normal hours, the Toy Factory staff had christened Tibbs “Captain Midnight.” He was known to become so obsessed with a particular assignment that for days on end he wouldn’t sleep, eat, or change his clothes.

The last week had seen him whipped into the most unyielding frenzy of his career. He had not left the lab once in two full days, other than to refill his canteen from a cooler of water down the hall. He had assigned himself the task of sifting through those few substances deemed by his subordinates to have any chance at all of serving as a surrogate power source. Thus far all those that had passed into his lab had passed into the waste basket.

But the latest substance intrigued him, resisting his attempts to dismiss it. True, there were dozens more tests to be performed. At least, though, there was hope, and Captain Midnight was ready to grasp at anything.

He returned to his lab with freshly filled canteen in hand and flipped a single switch which illuminated a trio of pinkish crystals on his work table.

“Okay, fellas,” he told them, “let’s get back to work….”

Chapter 22

The plane bound for Madrid from Athens started into its descent and McCracken shifted uneasily in his seat. Whatever over twenty-four hours of rest had done to soothe the wounds he’d suffered at Fass’s villa had been offset by the cramped, uncomfortable flight. It had been early Saturday morning before Blaine felt well enough to travel and to discover that the quickest way to reach Marrakesh was actually to fly first to Madrid and then switch planes.

Escaping from Fass’s villa on Thursday night had not proven difficult. Still wearing the uniform of one of the mad Greek’s guards, he moved from one group to another until the simplest opportunity to walk out presented itself. Returning to Athens had yet to be considered and with the wounds inflicted by Fass’s Minotaur, the trek promised to be rough. He stayed off the roads but near them, since he would need to appropriate a car.

He found one on a hill overlooking the Sfakia River. Two young lovers were busy in the backseat and Blaine, with the help of his gun, had little trouble talking them into a loan. The next few hours were spent driving to a port. He was back in the Athens hotel room he had shared with Natalya by early morning on Friday.

Taking care of his wounds was the next order of business and inspection of them revealed a doctor would not be required. For the most part they were puncture wounds, already closed but still extremely painful. Blaine paid the hotel clerk to fetch antiseptic, bandages, and other implements and then spent the next hour cleaning, stitching, and dressing the wounds, after which he collapsed at last on the bed.

He awoke nearly an entire day later with the realization that his first task was to call Sundowner with an update on his progress. Some more bills pressed into the clerk’s hand gained him use of the hotel’s only phone. He waited an hour after requesting an overseas line and another twenty minutes before the operator called back with the connection to Sundowner’s contact exchange.

“This is a Deep Seven Cover reroute,” a mechanical voice greeted him, a tape recording obviously. “Reinitiate at the following exchange. …”

McCracken memorized the exchange as he’d been trained to, forming immediate patterns in the numbers to keep them from sliding from memory. Something was wrong. This wasn’t the procedure, wasn’t what he had set up with Sundowner. But the scientist was calling the shots.

“You have reached Deep Seven Cover station,” a real male voice greeted this time.

“I want Sundowner. Get me Sundowner.”

“Negative. His line is down. I have alternative—”

McCracken hung up the phone, face flushed with anger. Something had happened in Washington and whatever it was it had isolated him from Sundowner. They wanted him to talk to someone else. Why? He thought of the Farmer Boy. Was he getting so close to the Atragon that Raskowski’s mole had maneuvered the crisis committee into a change of strategy? He didn’t know.

But he knew that matters had taken a turn for the worse. He was being cut off. It was a truth he constantly had to face. There was no one he could trust.

No one except …

He picked up the phone and repeated the whole lengthy procedure, an hour this time, of putting through a call. He reached the contact number for Johnny Wareagle. A message would be sent to the big Indian, and Blaine could only hope his friend would be in a position to receive it.

All this accomplished, he set out for the airport and the first flight he could catch for Madrid.

Victor Ivanovitch gathered up the morning papers to read with his coffee, as he customarily did at the start of each day. The Soviet chargé d’affaires at the Syrian embassy in Algiers was actually a career intelligence officer with twenty years’ experience in the KGB. The increasingly strategic importance of Algeria over the last few years had called for a man of Ivanovitch’s seasoning to be stationed here. Though the Soviets carried on few “wet” missions in the port city, they needed to keep an eye toward future manipulation. Ivanovitch was an expert in such matters and he infinitely preferred the Algerian desert climate to that of Moscow. A Soviet who hated snow might be unpatriotic, but for Ivanovitch the warm sun was as natural as his morning ritual with papers and coffee.

The phone on his desk buzzed twice.

“Yes?” he said in Arabic, a language he had come to speak as well as his own over the years.

“You have a call, sir. Line ten.”

Ivanovitch stiffened. The Syrian embassy had only nine official lines. The tenth existed only for direct, and unusual, contact by a mission operating within his sector. Strange, he had not been informed of any….

“I’ll take it,” he told the operator as he reached for a second phone and lifted the receiver to his ear. “How may I help you?”

“All happy families resemble each other,” said a female voice, “but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

Ivanovitch stiffened even more. The first line of Anna Karenina! How could it be? Alerts were signaled by reciting the agreed-upon first line of a Russian book. Anna Karenina was the current code.

“I’m afraid you have the wrong number,” the KGB man told the caller. “Try the party at …” He proceeded to provide a drop point address. As soon as the call was terminated a messenger would be sent to the drop with a note telling the caller when and where in Algiers to meet him. Something must be up, something very big. Ivanovitch’s flesh tingled with excitement. Only the deepest Soviet agents were furnished with the regular alert code. He was finally about to see action again.

“Thank you very much,” said Natalya Tomachenko, and she left the phone booth.

The drop point to which Ivanovitch had sent her was an ancient hotel struggling for its existence against far more luxurious competition. Natalya’s instructions for the meet were contained in the room box belonging to a nonexistent guest whose name the KGB man had passed on during the course of their conversation.

The instructions stated that she should proceed immediately to the National Museum of Fine Arts, specifically the African exhibit on the second floor, where Ivanovitch would meet her. Natalya hoped to arrive before him, to give her an opportunity to make sure all was clean on the premises. But as soon as she stepped into the second-floor hall she found the KGB man standing before a tapestry of an ancient warrior.

“Long time no see, Victor,” she said softly.

He stared at her in shock. “Natalya …”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she told him, aware it was difficult not to, given the numerous small cuts on her face from shattered car glass.

“No, no. It’s just—”

“You’re surprised to see me.”

He calmed a bit. “It’s just that I was expecting it to be someone else.”

“Who?”

“Anyone.” He paused, settled down even more. “An agent of your clearance is a rare find in Algiers. Small pickings, as the Americans say.”

But Natalya was not convinced. The KGB man still seemed nervous, as if his thoughts were not his own.

“What is it I can do for you?” he asked.

“I need a direct line to the General Secretary. You know the codes and clearances.”

“The … General Secretary?”

“The explanations don’t concern you. Suffice it to say I had a private channel but it’s been disconnected.”

“No, it’s not that. This sort of thing is new even to me. You’re asking a lot.”

“But you can deliver. I know that. The problem is procedure. It must be a direct link, no middleman involved.”

“My channel will have to be red flagged. There’ll be questions.”

“Which you won’t be able to answer. All you’ll have is my name, but that will be enough. The General Secretary will understand the importance of contact, rest assured.”

“If not, my career, my reputation …”

“Neither is in jeopardy. My latest assignment,” she said, almost whispering, “was uncoded. My channels were closed upon completion, but completion was not achieved. Am I making myself clear?”

He smiled. “Of course not. But I’ll do what you ask.” He thought briefly. “We are set up for this here. The hardware is in place. You know the Sidi Fredj holiday resort?”

“At the far end of the Bay of Algiers, yes.”

“The complex contains a marina. Many boats are docked there this time of year. One is called the Red Tide.”

“How fitting.”

“In terms of color as well. A thirty-six-foot cabin cruiser. You can’t miss it. The equipment is on board. We had to move it out of the embassy when the CIA set up shop around the corner.” Ivanovitch checked his watch. “I’ll meet you there in three hours. Go below as soon as you arrive.”

“The call came from Greece,” CIA chief Stamp reported to the President. “Athens specifically. We’ve flooded the city with agents, focusing on all avenues of potential transit.”

“But you don’t expect to catch him, do you?”

Stamp paused. “Honestly, sir, no.”

“This cloak-and-dagger business was uncalled for,” Lyman Scott said. “You should have simply got on the line and laid out the situation for McCracken to see.”

“If he’d refused, we would have had nothing.”

“And what do we have now?”

Natalya arrived at the Sidi Fredj marina ten minutes before the three hours had elapsed. She had taken a route which provided her the opportunity to view the marina from the other side of the bay. She saw the red cabin cruiser. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t figure out what. Ivanovitch’s tone had been off. There was too much shifting in his voice. Why?

It didn’t matter. The Red Tide held a direct line to Chernopolov, and the General Secretary would be waiting for her call. But something still felt wrong.

Eight minutes remained to her rendezvous with Ivanovitch when she started down the dock for the Red Tide. Several men were at work on their boats, and they eyed her as she passed. Any of them or none could have belonged to the KGB man.

She stepped lightly from the wharf down a set of steps leading from the gunwale to the deck. The entire boat was spotless. She gazed around her for signs of something wrong but found nothing. The Red Tide was just as it should have been.

She opened the door to the cabin and descended the three steps into it. Somewhere in the exquisitely furnished interior was the communications equipment to effect a patch-through to Moscow. Technologically, that road would be long and complicated, the transfers made in milliseconds from channel to channel and all originating here.

Like the exterior, the cabin was spotlessly clean. Except….

The thin carpet covering the cabin floor was damp in patches, with the outlines of footprints visible. Not sneakers or boat shoes. Loafers, with thin, slippery heels. And the wet footprints had to be recent, left by men who had departed only minutes before her arrival.

Yes! She should have seen it earlier. Ivanovitch had so much as told her, not with words but gestures, tones — subtle indications she should have picked up then. But there was still time; there had to be!

The explosion came seconds later. It obliterated not just the Red Tide but a good portion of the dock and boats two deep on either side of it. Showers of flaming wood and steel covered the area, falling up to two hundred yards away, out to sea, onto the parking lot, and into the nearby Sidi Fredj recreational area. The nearby hospitals took in seven emergency patients suffering from lacerations and contusions.

Fire officials were reasonably quick to appear on the scene, but they could do nothing more than watch as the last remains of several ships sank into the bay dragging the dying flames with them.

Chapter 23

After learning that the bastards occupying the town had turned his jailhouse into their armory, Sheriff Junk knew there was only one option available to him for spiriting some of the weapons out.

Much of Pamosa Springs was built over mining veins whose hidden entrances had been sealed for generations. Heep had located several as a boy, including one which lay directly beneath the jailhouse. Years later he had covered up the entrance himself so this latest generation of kids wouldn’t be tempted by it. Since the front of the jailhouse was well guarded, his sole chance for gaining access to the weapons stored in the rear was to approach the building from the abandoned mines beneath it. Once inside, he would grab as much as he could carry and then retrace his path out.

The soldiers’ new commander, like the old, agreed to let town council members move freely through Pamosa Springs during the day, mostly to keep people at ease as to what was going on. Such permission not only served to keep the leaders separated, but it also cast them in the role of being unwitting accomplices to the takeover. The other residents would resent their freedom of movement and inwardly hold it against them. Thus, subtly, their authority was undermined. If it came down to depending on their orders, the people would resist. The strategy was one of factionalization, a classic of occupational forces.

Sheriff Junk didn’t give much thought to that as he meandered through his appointed rounds. His plan was to sneak out the back of Nellie Motta’s house, which was a scant twenty yards from the covered entrance to the tunnel leading to the jailhouse. If everything went as planned, he would enter the house, exit unseen through the back, and make his way into the tunnel. After finishing in the jailhouse, he would store all pilfered weapons back at the start of the tunnel for easy access later. Junk figured if things went well he could repeat the process on almost a daily basis.

He entered Nellie Motta’s house, explained briefly what he was up to, and then moved quickly to her back door. The entrance to the tunnel was clearly in sight, and no soldiers were anywhere in view. This didn’t put Heep particularly at ease because he knew that plenty of bad things could happen in the time it would take him to cover the ground. Nonetheless, he steadied himself with a deep breath and bolted out Nellie Motta’s back door.

The short dash seemed to take forever, and his war-ravaged joints and bones creaked and cracked in protest. He plunged the final yard into the brush that camouflaged the tunnel entrance and chewed down the pain long enough to begin stripping the brush away. A few minutes later the passage into the depths of the earth was revealed. A twelve-foot descent by ladder would take him into the tunnel and then he would follow the serpentine route to its end beneath the jailhouse where there was another ladder.

Holding the flashlight in his right hand, Sheriff Junk lowered himself down the first rungs after testing the strength of the old wood. It creaked but held his spiny frame and, trembling a bit, he gave it all his weight and started down.

He was halfway to the bottom when the ladder seemed to crumble, wood snapping and the whole apparatus tearing itself from its delicate perch. The rung he was standing on gave way and his fall tore the others beneath him out as well. He took most of the impact on his lower back, but one leg twisted beneath him and a fiery pain erupted in his ankle. He located his flashlight and pulled himself to his feet to check for other injuries, cursing the ladder silently. The rest of him was whole, which was more than he could say for the ladder. He could forget all about climbing back out this same way, a reality that shot his entire plan to hell.

Heep brushed the dried dirt from his clothes and, limping slightly, pressed on down the dank corridor. The tunnel was barely high enough to accommodate his height, as if it had been constructed for the herd of children that had played here years before. In a few spots, the ceiling was so low he was forced into a crouch which placed more pressure on his twisted ankle and made the pain even hotter. The walk seemed endless, but at last his flashlight caught a dirt wall and a second ladder that would take him up into the rear of the jail. He inched his way up the rungs deliberately, distributing his weight as evenly as he could manage. He hadn’t stopped to consider just how he was going to get out yet, nor what he might do with the pilfered weapons. One step at a time, just one step at a time….

At the top of the ladder, the floorboards forming the bottom of the century-old jailhouse rose before him, the original hatch long since covered over. They had been loose and rotting for years and he had little trouble working them free with a tire iron lifted from the back of a car with a midget spare tire. The hardest chore was balancing himself on the ladder while he worked. He had survived one fall already. Another from a full fifteen feet would be disastrous.

When the first board started to come free in his hand, Heep stilled his own breathing to listen for boards creaking nearby. The absence of that sound told him no soldiers were walking above. That didn’t mean they weren’t close enough to hear him but he had to chance it. He pushed the loosened floorboards aside and hoisted himself up through the portal.

Since he would not be returning by the same route, he covered the hole again as neatly as he could. The lighting was dim as always but there was enough to pick out just what he had come for: rows of large crates containing plenty of ammo and weapons. A quick inspection revealed grenades, Laws rockets, and automatic rifles. But what good would they do now with no place to hide them? He had to come up with a fresh plan.

Ahead, in the jail’s front section separated by a short corridor and a heavy wood door, there was stirring, and Heep pressed himself behind some crates. If they came back here and found him now…. Well, there was no sense in even considering that; he was better off not thinking about it. Sheriff Junk padded forward as lightly as he could. He had the rudiments of a plan, his eyes falling on the pair of never-used jail cells, each with moth-eaten wool blankets tossed over a pair of rusted cots. Yes, yes! It wasn’t much, but it was something. The next best thing to storing some of the weapons in the tunnel would be to store them where they might be removed at some later point.

Heep felt his back muscles spasm as he hoisted upward a box marked GRENADES. Careful not to drop the crate, he took it to the never-locked cell and opened the door, which squealed so loudly that Heep felt certain at that moment he was done for. But no soldiers appeared, so he proceeded to slide the crate under one of the cots and then replace the blanket to cover it. The soldiers had enough supplies stacked back here so they certainly wouldn’t miss four crates, and one beneath each of the cots was all he could safely fit. How they might be retrieved later was open to further consideration. But at least he had separated these from the main supply, and if it hadn’t been for that damn ladder….

Sheriff Junk was ready to lift the fourth crate upward when he heard a key being turned in the door. He froze for an eternal second, was about to duck again behind the slightly shorter stack of crates when something else occurred to him. He hurried across the dusty floor and pinned his shoulders against the wall behind where the door would open, thus shielding him and perhaps offering him a way out if he moved fast enough.

The locks came free, and the door swung open. Heep saw the backs of a pair of soldiers as they started toward the stack of supply crates. That was all the time he wasted. Not looking back, he slithered around the door and into the short corridor. Almost to the front room, he heard a loud congestion of voices, four at least, and swung back toward the cells, striding down the corridor again as if he belonged.

A pair of men with one box each appeared before him.

“Hey, what are you doing here?”

“Looking for your commander,” Sheriff Junk said without missing a beat. “You know, the Latin guy who’s always playing with his mustache.”

“He’s not here.” The soldier grabbed hold of his arm with his free hand. “Come on, get out. How’d you get in here anyway?”

“Walked. How ’bout you?”

“I could report you.”

“Gaw ’head. Might be the best way I got of finding that miniature shit of yours.”

A pair of them escorted Heep rudely from his own jailhouse and Sheriff Junk waited until he was well away before letting his smile break.

The smile was gone a few hours later when Guillermo Paz summoned him and Dog-ear to the command post he had set up in the fire station.

“Gentlemen,” Paz said with a pair of fingers working his mustache, “how rude it has been of me not to get formally acquainted with you since my arrival two days ago. Contrary to what you have heard, I am a reasonable man.”

“Where’s the other guy?” Dog-ear wanted to know.

“That would be Colonel Quintell,” Guillermo Paz reported with a thick Spanish accent. “He met with an accident and had to leave.” The major rose from behind a desk and paced before McCluskey and Heep. “I would have hoped the precautions enacted upon my arrival would have rid this town of the misinformed faction that had taken to killing my men. Unfortunately this has not been the case. Two more nights have passed and three more have died. Six in all, gentlemen.”

“You’re a regular whiz with math,” observed Mayor McCluskey dryly.

Paz ignored him. “My predecessor failed to make his point with you. The leaders of any group are responsible for that group’s actions.”

“We ain’t a group, friend. We’re a town you got no business bein’ in.”

“Your point is academic. Mine is not. My predecessor was lax in his response to problems, and the problems festered. I had hoped the kind of response I had planned could be prevented in view of increased vigilance on your own parts. Obviously I was mistaken. Unless you produce for me now the man who has been killing my men, I will have no choice but to act.”

“We don’t know anything,” said Dog-ear.

“And if we did, we’d piss in our soup ‘fore telling you,” added Sheriff Heep. “Whoever it is got the only sense in this town. At this rate, a few more weeks and there won’t be no more of you bastards left.”

“Now it’s I who must compliment your math, Sheriff,” said Guillermo Paz, lifting his hand from his mustache to pat the taller man on the shoulder. “But since we are on the subject of subtraction, perhaps you gentlemen should follow me outside.”

Heep and Dog-ear gazed at each other as they exited, with a half-dozen soldiers following close behind. What they saw stole their breath away and set them trembling. Across the street, lined up against the front of the boarded-up K Mart, were six citizens of Pamosa Springs with their hands tied behind their backs. Fifteen feet before them stood three soldiers armed with automatic rifles.

“Six of your people,” Pax explained. “One for each of mine lost so far. But I am willing to forego this equalization if you give me the killer; at least tell me who you think he might be.”

“Damnit, we don’t know!” pleaded Dog-ear. “Can’t you see that?”

“What I see is that someone in this town is an expert at what he does. He has penetrated our security and killed without ever being seen or leaving a trace, only bodies. Such a man could not go unnoticed by men in your position.”

“But there isn’t anybody like that in the Springs,” ranted McCluskey. “Hasn’t been for years. Maybe after Korea but we all got old. Look at us. See for yourself.”

Paz cocked his head toward the six figures lined up before the building. “I’m looking at them. They are about to die.”

“You can’t do this!” screeched Dog-ear, starting forward until he was restrained by two soldiers.

“Tell me who is killing my men.”

“We don’t know! I swear it!”

Paz turned to the rifle bearers. “Ready!”

“Please,” begged Dog-ear, “take us instead!”

“Aim!”

“We don’t know! We don’t know!”

“Fire!”

The bursts from the rifles lasted barely five seconds, slamming three of the victims up against the store front and dropping three as they stood. Blood spread and pooled, seeming to form one splotch across Main Street. A jean-clad leg and sneakered foot kicked once more. A red-smeared dress fluttered in the breeze.

“Oh God,” sobbed Dog-ear. “Oh God, oh God, oh God….”

“Others will die,” Paz promised. “Ten for every one of my soldiers who meets the same fate as the other six. And I think, gentlemen, I will accept your offer as well. Take them,” he ordered the men behind Dog-ear and Sheriff Heep. “And lock them in the jail.”

Chapter 24

The trawler rode the waves listlessly, protesting each bit of speed McCracken requested of it with a rumble that led him to ease back on the throttle. He stood on the exposed bridge in the morning winds, steering for the Moroccan port of Tangier en route to Marrakesh and the shadowy El Tan.

With Washington no longer supporting his quest, and in fact probably pursuing him, he decided it would be safer not to make a continuous journey by air from country to country. Customs details would accumulate on a man of McCracken’s description traveling from Athens, where his enemies in Washington now knew he had been. A rental car and then a boat were the safest and fastest means to flee Spain and reach Morocco. He almost fell asleep at the wheel several times before reaching a port in Tarifa on the Strait of Gibraltar. Arriving there at the peak of darkness in the early morning hours of Sunday, he was able to steal the trawler and set out to sea.

Through the long hours he had only his thoughts for company, and the company wasn’t pleasant. Fatigue, and lingering injuries courtesy of the Minotaur, added to his anguish. He felt confused, no longer sure what exactly he was after. He had started out on the trail of Atragon, hoping it would bring him to T.C.’s murderer. Natalya brought Raskowski into the picture and the trails separated. And yet he had continued on his probably hopeless quest. Why?

The question had plagued him throughout the long voyage and in the end he supposed the answer was that there were millions of people, innocent people like T.C., who might die if he failed. He knew he could just walk away and let the world take its chances. His arrangements were made: There was plenty of money in discreet Caribbean banks. But then the buffer he formed between the masses and the fools who ruled them would be gone and, no matter how hard he tried not to, he could not help but feel for the people who were as much victims of the fools’ decisions as he was. He was still fueled by T.C.’s senseless murder. But he realized that she could be best avenged by stopping Raskowski from killing millions of others like her.

He docked at Tangier just past noon, abandoned the trawler, and made his way to the airport where flights for Marrakesh left regularly. The terminal was jammed, though, and it was nearly two hours later before he squeezed on to an eighteen-passenger turboprop plane.

Upon arriving in Marrakesh, McCracken took a cab from the airport to Djema El Fna Square, center of activity in the city’s ancient sector. Since it closed at nightfall, his major concern all day had been that he wouldn’t make it in time and would waste the entire night as a result. But he arrived with an hour to spare and set about locating Abidir the snake charmer.

The square was a haunt for both tourists and locals. The merchants screamed prices that were four times too high, screamed as if to drown each other out. Bargaining had become an art here at Djema El Fna, the merchants enjoying it as much as the tourists. They sold their wares from the backs of horse-drawn carriages or beneath canopied shops set up in the morning and occasionally toppled by the wind. They knew only as much of a given language as served them, always the conversion tables for francs and dollars. To listen to their claims, they made up a uniformly generous lot whose children frequently went to bed hungry due to the generosity of their fathers’ merchant souls.

Blaine walked among the shops and stands. Distinct sections of the square were reserved for storytellers, acrobats, fire-eaters and sidewalk musicians who left large tins about in which passersby might deposit money for the “free” entertainment.

Abidir’s spot turned out to be separate from the other snake charmers, down a small side street lined with shops already closed for the day. The charmer sat stubbornly on, as if to arouse the pathos of those passing by to gaze at a blind man who could not tell the time of day. A cobra dangled around his neck and an empty silver cup sat before him.

Blaine approached and saw that both Abidir’s eyes were covered by black patches. Those parts of his face left exposed by his cap showed ancient skin, dried and wrinkled, scarred by both age and the elements. The eyes of his cobra twitched as Blaine stepped before him and blocked out the sun.

“Test your courage, my good man,” the blind man offered. “Pet the snake for a few pennies. For a few more, I’ll play a tune and have him do a dance.”

“You knew I was a man.”

“The blind see much when they’re careful about it. I can sense much about you from this wretched frame I’m stuck in. A brave one you are, you might pet the snake near its fangs.”

McCracken dropped a pair of coins into the cup. “I would have dropped bills but the sound might not have caught your attention.”

“You’d be surprised, my friend. Enough of your American bills and I’ll change the snake into a woman for your pleasure.”

“It’s information I’m after. I’m looking for a man who calls himself El Tan.”

Abidir’s expression remained the same. The cobra stirred briefly on his shoulder. “I know no such man.”

“I heard different.”

“You heard wrong.”

“I’m prepared to pay.”

“Only if you don’t mind receiving nothing in return.”

“What a pity….”

McCracken was in motion very fast, lunging behind Abidir and grabbing for the snake. He used the beast to drag the charmer backwards behind the cover of his wagon. Then he pulled the snake tighter, using it the way he would a rope.

“Don’t worry,” Blaine soothed, “I won’t hurt him any more than whatever drug you’ve got him on.”

“I can’t … breathe!”

“You can talk. That’s good enough.”

“Please, you can’t rob me. I’m just a poor blind man. Have compassion!”

McCracken felt the tranquilized snake make a futile effort to free itself. “You’re no more blind than I am. But you will be, unless you talk. Where can I find El Tan?”

The snake charmer gagged for air. “I can’t direct you without the proper signal. It would mean my—”

McCracken shut off more of his wind. “This should do….” Finally he let the pressure up and Abidir slumped over, gasping.

The snake charmer caught the breath Blaine allowed him and gave up his resistance. “Le Club Miramar. Pass a note to the dancer Tara with El Tan’s name written on it. She will take care of the rest.”

Le Club Miramar, Blaine learned upon entering, featured exotic dancing all day long. Exotic in Marrakesh might have been referred to as topless back in America. Add to that a bit of sexually explicit posturing thrown in for good measure and you have the definition of “exotic.”

The club was located in the modern section of the city, but the streets nonetheless maintained a flavor similar to that of the market square. The bargaining proved just as intense and the crowds almost as numerous even at night.

He arrived at Le Club Miramar in time to snare a front-row seat for Tara’s performance. She stepped onstage to the applause of the audience, dressed in a green bodysuit that looked like the skin of a snake. Blaine recalled Abidir and his drugged cobra and wondered if the connection might have been intentional. Intentional or not, it lasted only as long as Tara’s snake suit stayed wrapped round her body, which was not long at all. She peeled it off in great reptilean strips, much to the delight of the audience, which was composed half of locals and half of tourists, all of whom were eager for a chance to slide currency into Tara’s G-string, which before long was the last bit of clothing she wore. The more money, the longer Tara would stay before the customer. One customer paid enough to have his entire head swallowed in the radiant beauty’s giant breasts.

At last Tara made it over to McCracken and gazed at him as if genuinely interested. He leaned a bit forward over the stage to slide an American bill into place, making sure Tara saw the note sandwiched within it. The dancer nodded slightly, eyes telling him to stay where he was.

Blaine waited through her set and that of another dancer. The next approached him early in her routine and eyed McCracken seductively. He took the hint and came forward to slip her the standard gratuity. She. grasped his hand tenderly, and drew his face to hers. While kissing him, she passed a note into his left hand. He completed the kiss without even acknowledging the presence of the paper. He gazed at it only when the dancer had parted from him and he was certain all other eyes were fixed upon her. It was a cocktail napkin with an address printed upon it:

And beneath that, in English:

McCracken rose from his seat, and another eager patron took his place before he even had a chance to slide the chair back under the counter.

Three hours later to the minute, Blaine entered the Dar es Salaam restaurant, which featured authentic Moroccan cuisine such as couscous and pastilla. The dinner rush had long wound down and the maître d’, dressed in formal robes, approached him straightaway.

Blaine interpreted the bulge of his eyes as disdain for the ruffled appearance the long day had given him, but those same eyes froze when Blaine produced the note directing him to table five. Without further hesitation, the maître d’ led him to a private booth in the rear of the restaurant. He pulled back a curtain and beckoned Blaine to enter. This done, the curtain was drawn closed again. Behind it was a semicircular booth designed to accommodate four or five people and Blaine slid into it.

Minutes later he caught the sound of footsteps approaching before a shadow reached up for the curtain.

“Mind if I sit down?” asked an older, graying man with a British accent.

“Sorry. This booth’s reserved.”

“So I was told,” the Brit came back, pushing his disheveled hair from his forehead. He stepped into the private booth and drew the curtain behind him.

Blaine tensed. “I have a meeting here.”

“Yes, with the infamous El Tan. Well, ease up, old boy. You’re looking at him.”

The Brit sat down across from McCracken in the booth. He was wearing a loose-fitting, crinkled beige suit stained by sweat at the underarms. His shirt was yellowed white and his beard as much from yesterday as today. His eyes were dull and listless. He breathed heavily.

“The name’s Professor Gavin Clive,” the older man told Blaine. “The El Tan business is just a cover. Keeps people off my back when I don’t want them there, eh?” He pulled a pocket flask from his suit jacket and poured part of its contents into the empty water glass before him. “Never been one to trast what someone else pours for me. You read me, sport?” A sip and a pause. “You buying or selling?”

“Depends on how you answer a few questions.”

Professor Clive stopped the water glass halfway to his mouth and gazed at him knowingly. “One of those, eh? Yes, I suspected this latest business would bring your kind out of the woodwork.”

“And just what is my kind?”

“Fixer, repairman; what’s in a name anyway?” Clive finished and sipped from the glass. “Don’t care much, either.” He started coughing and kept at it until his face purpled. The spasm over, he lifted the glass back to his mouth in a trembling hand and drained whatever contents hadn’t slid over the sides. “The liver’s gone, lungs too. Cancer and plenty more eating them away. I’ve got six months. The last two won’t be pleasant.”

“I haven’t come here to kill you.”

Professor Clive looked almost disappointed. He sighed loudly. “I guess Sadim probably knows letting me live is a greater punishment for my sins.”

“Sadim?”

“The man behind what I suspect you’re after. The man I’ve been fronting for. It’s what I do, old chap. Front for other people. Got no identity of my own I care to talk about much. Used to, though.” Clive refilled his glass and held it up to the booth’s dim light in order to stare at the brownish liquid reflectively. “A college professor, would you believe it? Specializing in artifacts and gems. Did favors for people, appraisals. Lost my job teaching and went into it full-time. Began fronting for people who didn’t want their identities made public. Lost my identity in theirs. It worked for a while.”

“But not anymore.”

“Maybe the cancer started it, I’m not sure. I tell you, you look back on your life at my age it’d be nice to be able to take something out. Me, well, all the withdrawals been made already.” He started on his second glass and gazed warmly across the table. “You’re an easy man to talk to. Hell of a tiling, since I gotta figure you got your own problems.” Clive took three more hefty sips. “Along with a pretty good notion of what brought you here. It’s in your eyes, old boy, the uncertainty. And the fear.”

“Atragon,” Blaine muttered.

“Sorry, didn’t get that.”

“Atragon. The name given to certain crystals with inexplicable powers and properties.”

Clive nodded. “You reached me through the same channels as the others. They’ve been inactive for months now. But this is my ‘post’ as they say and I decided to see you for curiosity’s sake, knowing the kind of man you’d be. These crystals have changed you, that much I can tell.”

Blaine started to speak, then stopped.

Clive’s whiskey-stained voice turned distant. “Can’t deny it, can you? Everyone who comes into contact with the crystals says the same thing. There’s death in them, has been ever since they were discovered. Everyone who’s ever gotten close has died.”

McCracken thought of T.C., and his stare was telling.

“Been that way for thousands of years, old chap.”

“I didn’t come here to learn about curses, Professor, and if you really want to help me, you’d—”

“I didn’t come here to teach you about them. But I’d be selling you short if I didn’t try to persuade you to abandon whatever quest you’re on.”

“It’s too late for that,” Blaine said almost bitterly. “There’s a madman out there, and these crystals might be the only way to stop him.”

Clive nodded knowingly, the glass an extension of his hand now. “It always seems to come down to that. History runs in circles, and the circles keep repeating.” His eyes sharpened. “The crystals aren’t your answer. Stay away from them.”

“I’ve already seen what they are. I had a sample in my possession until a few days ago. They’re just stones.”

“You don’t believe that. I can tell by your voice. You’re too damned sensitive to be so naive. You looked at those crystals and felt something. I can bloody well tell.”

“Where can I find the reserves, Professor? Tell me that, and I’ll leave you to your misery.”

“It’s not that simple!” Clive blared, nearly spilling his whiskey. “For thousands of years they lay hidden until seismic changes brought them closer to the surface where once again they promised destruction. An entire civilization has already perished from the abuse of the power they hold. Don’t you know that?”

“If you’re talking about Atlantis, I don’t buy it. Myths have nothing to do with what I’m after.”

“They have everything to do with it, old boy.”

“Professor—”

“Just listen,” Clive said rapidly. “Hear me out. What harm can it do you?” He leaned forward and let the glass of whiskey go. “The people of Atlantis harnessed the power of what they referred to as a ‘firestone’. They found that when angled properly in relation to the sun, the stone could harness the sun’s rays and redirect them as a source of incredible energy. The closest thing we have to this process is the laser beam, but in Atlantis they harnessed the power totally. You called the crystal Atragon.”

“Yes, dark red crystals with many ridges — no one section totally symmetrical with another.”

“Yes! And each individual section, dozens on each crystal, is its own reflector. Sunlight channeled through the various chambers of these crystals created an energy source which powered the civilization of Atlantis through domed buildings which served as massive solar receptors. The amount of energy created, stored, was immeasurable.”

“I said I don’t believe in all this—”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe. Just listen; you’ve got to,” Clive pleaded. “The people of Atlantis attained technological heights even we have yet to achieve. But something went wrong. The power of the great crystals you call Atragon was abused. Whether this was intentional or not is not definitely known. It was probably unintentional at first, the reserves overloaded which led to a tragedy. But then the potential of Atragon as a weapon was revealed. Factionalization resulted. Various parties in Atlantis struggled desperately for control of the crystals which alone could assure their unhindered rise to power. The fanatics got hold of them first. Fanatics got hold of the crystals and brought about the destruction of the entire society.”

“And sank the continent into the Atlantic, right?”

“It would not be beyond the power of the crystals. You’ve seen them. You know it as well as I do.”

“What I know has nothing to do with imaginary continents sinking into the ocean. And nothing to do with miraculous reappearances.”

“There was nothing miraculous about it, as I said. Seismic changes occurred. Atlantis, parts of it anyway, became accessible once more. The crystals emerged unhindered by the passage of time, prepared to cause destruction yet again.”

“Or prevent it in this case.” McCracken leaned over the table. “Those crystals, Professor, may be the only thing that can prevent a cataclysm just as bad and maybe worse than Atlantis sinking into the sea. They’ve already cost the life of a woman I loved, and unless I find them she’ll have died for nothing. So I really don’t care if they came from the black depths or some kid’s marble collection, I’ve got to find them and you’re the only one who can help me.”

“I’m not a fool, old boy,” Clive said softly as he poured the rest of his flask into his glass. “Listening to my ravings might lead you to believe I am, but the title of professor is real. I studied gems and their origins for years. My theories about Atlantis are based in fact.”

“The reserves of the crystal, Professor, where can I find them?”

Clive sipped his whiskey and then squeezed both hands around the rim. “I only know the general area: an island in the Bimini chain off the coast of Florida.”

“Which one?”

“None you’ve ever heard of.”

“You just said that—”

“I know what I said, but it isn’t quite that simple. There’s an island in the Biminis with no name. None of the natives ever talk about it, and tourists are steered cleverly away. There’s a graveyard of ships off its coast. Plenty of vacationers and treasure hunters have disappeared after venturing too close.”

“First Atlantis and now the Bermuda Triangle …”

“No, old boy, this time it’s a sea monster.”

“A what?” McCracken asked incredulously.

“The natives who talk at all call it Dragon Fish. Legend has it that the Dragon Fish protected the island’s shores from pirates centuries ago and apparently hasn’t lost its appetite yet. True or not, the legend’s done wonders at keeping all curious parties away.”

“And this unnamed island contains the Atragon?”

“More specifically, its coastal waters do. The crystals were discovered relatively recently in the wake of those seismic changes I mentioned. They were forced up from the ocean floor, them and some sort of structure housing them.”

“Where’s this island, Professor?”

“That I can’t tell you. Would if I knew, old chap, but the specific coordinates were never made known to me, nor did I especially care to learn them if the truth be known. It would take you days at the very least to find the island on your own. The Biminis stretch further out than you may think.”

“But somebody must have the precise coordinates. Maybe this Sadim you spoke of earlier.”

Clive nodded reluctantly. “Abib El Sadim, the most mysterious man in all of Morocco. Nobody knows much about him, and I know more than most. From what I can gather Sadim not only discovered the reserves of the crystal but was the only man brave enough to challenge the Dragon Fish in its home waters.”

“You don’t really believe there’s a sea monster, Professor, do you?”

“Don’t be confused by my bloody title, old boy. I had an open mind for these things long before the booze turned my brain to mush.”

“Let’s stick to reality,” Blaine told him. “Where can I find this Sadim?”

“You’ll never get close to him. No one does.”

“But there’s got to be a place, a means of contact.”

“Indeed. His bar in Casablanca: the Cafe American.”

McCracken stared across the booth in disbelief. “If the piano player’s name is Sam, I won’t be able to take any more of this.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Sadim has recreated the bar almost entirely from the classic film. It’s become one of Casablanca’s hottest spots, especially this week with all the festivals taking place. He has quite a sense of humor, I’m told.”

“You’ve never met him?”

“No, never. I’m sure you’ve learned that after discovering the potential of his find he sought to sell it to the highest bidder. I fielded offers for him from terrorists and cutthroats alike. Sadim wanted to remain out of the picture. I received bids and simply passed them on to him.”

“Were any ever accepted?”

“Not to my knowledge but, then, I would have no way of knowing what happened after I passed the bids along or how far along the process had gone before I came on the scene. Nor did I want to know.”

“Spoken like a man not exactly happy with his work.”

“I wasn’t a fool, old boy. I knew that the groups represented by men like Fass were bidding purely because of the crystal’s potential as a weapon. It made me realize how low I’d sunk. Didn’t care much about the cancer after that. I just stayed here and waited for Sadim to send someone out to kill me.”

“Which you thought was my role.”

Clive nodded. “Better this way, eh? You’ve given me my chance at redemption. Sadim’s the only man who knows exactly where the crystals can be found. You’ll know what to do with them. You’ll do what’s best. It’s the kind of man you are. It almost makes me hope I’ll live long enough to see the results.”

“I appreciate the support.”

“You’ll need a bloody hell of a lot more than that to succeed, old boy. Getting in to see Sadim in Casablanca isn’t going to be easy, convincing him to cooperate even less so.”

“In which case,” Blaine winked, “I’ll just have to round up the usual suspects.”

“Then you’d better know something else about the man you’re after,” Clive told him. “Sadim wasn’t always known as Sadim. He had another name for the better part of his life: Vasquez.”

Chapter 25

It was too late to leave for Casablanca by the time he finished with Professor Clive, so McCracken submitted to his exhaustion and spent the night in Marrakesh. He overslept slightly Monday morning but was unbothered by it; he needed to be at his best if he planned to face Vasquez.

Blaine had been to Casablanca only once before in his career, and his impressions of the vast Moroccan city had been formed mostly by the classic Bogart film. Arriving at the airport after flying in from Marrakesh, he still half expected to see characters with resemblances to Peter Lorre and Sidney Greenstreet, but he would be more than happy to settle at this point for sight of a different fat man.

To think that somehow Vasquez was behind all this. McCracken wasn’t surprised. There was plenty of money to be made from the crystals, a fortune, and money had always been the fat man’s first love. The problem at this point was how to gain access to him, and Blaine could cover that only after inspecting the layout of his headquarters.

The Cafe American was located in a quarter of the city reserved for hotels, shops, and exclusive clubs. Almost there, the taxi became snarled in traffic.

“The festivals,” the driver shrugged.

“I’ll walk from here,” Blaine told him, adding a generous tip to the amount tallied on the old-fashioned meter.

He climbed out and started down the street. Vasquez’s establishment was just three blocks away, but those blocks were jammed with people watching the festivities. The streets had been closed off to traffic and were now filled with various displays of Moroccan culture, from Arab acrobats to Berber horsemen riding with both hands on their long rifles, firing occasionally into the air in demonstration of their famed fantasia rituals.

From the outside the Cafe American was a perfect reproduction, right down to several exclusive canopied tables on the sidewalk. All that was missing were the Nazi spotlights combing the area with their crisscrossing beams. It was mid-afternoon, and Blaine had no problems in gaining entry.

The building’s interior was even more detailed. There were several rooms, separated by majestic archways. Private tables, undoubtedly available only at a premium rate, sat apart in the many alcoves, and the soft light of regularly spaced imitation candelabras cast the rooms in the kind of murky haze that might have been called atmosphere. The tapestries and artwork were detailed replicas, the squat white piano a twin of Sam’s with a young black man sitting behind it playing his hourly rendition of “As Time Goes By” minus the lyrics. McCracken half expected Ingrid Bergman to come sauntering in at any moment.

He took a seat at the bar and continued to gaze around him. The backmost room lay beneath a balcony accessible by a small flight of steps which undoubtedly led to what had been Rick’s office in the film and what was Vasquez’s now. The only things missing were the gaming tables so crucial to the movie’s flavor. Gambling had been permitted by Captain Renaux, but obviously his real-life counterparts had more scruples.

Blaine ordered a club soda and sipped it while considering what his next step should be. The staircase held his best chance for reaching Vasquez, but how could he know the fat man was even here? His eyes fell upon it once again. How to get up the steps without being seen? McCracken knew a number of the patrons seated at the tables were actually the fat man’s soldiers. Vasquez left nothing to chance, and under the circumstances, he would be prepared for McCracken’s expected intrusion. Accordingly, Blaine kept his face turned toward the bar, concealing it as much as possible.

He turned again only when the impossible appeared in the mirror in the form of a woman being escorted across the floor toward the staircase by two beefy guards. It wasn’t Ingrid Bergman.

It was Natalya!

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she had to walk into this one ….

McCracken’s feelings were mixed. He was overjoyed to see Natalya. Clearly, though, she was here as a prisoner, and that was a dangerous situation for both of them.

A change of strategy was called for, and to pursue it Blaine headed for the door.

Two hours had passed with Natalya’s handcuffed form seated before the huge desk of the equally huge Vasquez.

“He won’t come,” she told him again. “He’ll know it’s a trap.”

“Ah, dear lady,” began the fat man, patting his cheeks with a handkerchief that was already grimy with sweat, “my sources place him in Casablanca, and he will come because I represent the end of the trail he’s been following.”

“The crystals …”

“Remarkable, aren’t they?”

“You don’t know—”

“I know when McCracken arrives I will have you to use against him to provide me the advantage I need.” He sighed mightily, his bulbous stomach stirring beneath his suit jacket. The fat man’s receding hairline made even more prominent the excess flesh which seemed to stretch out his jowls. He breathed noisily. “I’m starting to feel, though, that this is not the best of places to bait a trap for my old friend McCrackenballs.” He nodded to the four guards gathered around her. “I will have these men escort you to another of my establishments, eminently less cultured than this but better for our purposes.” He nodded to himself. “We’ll wait a few more hours. After that, I promise you a quick death since I remain a gentleman.”

The guards led her from the room and Vasquez followed them down the hallway to the top of the landing that overlooked the back section of the Cafe American. Natalya knew her move would have to come quick, but she also knew that Vasquez’s guards would be scattered among the cafe’s customers. And who knew how many there might be in addition to the four she could identify?

They started to lead her down the steps, handcuffs carefully concealed, and Natalya was ready to feign a trip and take her chances with one of the guards’ purloined guns, when a sound very much like thunder shook the smooth walls of the Cafe American. The chandeliers trembled and patrons grasped hold of glasses atop their tables to prevent them from toppling.

A pair of door guards had just reached the main entrance when the double doors crashed open in one savage thrust to allow a troop of Berber horsemen to charge through. They negotiated the various alcoves quickly, passing under the arches into the back section in just seconds. And Natalya caught a good look at the man garbed in robes at their lead, horse braying, rifle in hand.

The only Berber sporting a beard.

McCracken had gone straight up to the horseman he had identified as the Berber leader and uttered the three words taught him long ago when he had done a favor for the Berbers, a people he had always respected. The man looked down at him in shock. The words formed a bond, a pact, signifying a debt owed to any man who spoke them, words never passed to any but the bearer. Honor for the Berbers rose above all else.

The Berber leader climbed down from his horse, walked with McCracken off to the side of the road, and asked him there what his bidding might be.

Blaine told him.

Natalya threw herself into motion as soon as her eyes locked with Blaine’s. She tore free of the guards’ grasp when the commotion distracted them and hurled herself down the steps, just as the Berbers, expert marksmen without peer, began firing away with both hands clutching their rifles. They bellowed above the blasts, playing out the fantasia ritual for real.

McCracken leaped from his horse and used it for cover as he made for Natalya. He shielded her with his body and fired his rifle toward the soldiers left standing near the steps. More of Vasquez’s guards appeared about them, from behind every alcove and wall it seemed, but the Berbers were more than equal to the task. Incredible as it may have seemed, several of the fifteen horsemen who had rushed into the Cafe American handled single-shot rifles which had to be reloaded after each pull of the trigger even as they continued in motion on horseback in the narrow confines. Tables toppled over and crashed to the floor. Glass shattered. Through all the chaos, the cafe’s patrons did their best to make for the door or find areas of cover. The chaos allowed some of Vasquez’s men to make good on their targets, but most of these shots required exposing their positions, and inevitably there were Berbers ready to fire at them.

Blaine threw off his robes and led the handcuffed Natalya across the floor, dodging behind a series of horses en route to the exit. The Berbers realized his plan when he was almost to the first archway and pulled their horses into a new formation. A few of the animals rose on their hind legs and kicked at the air, their heads just missing the ceding.

On the main floor, Sam’s counterpart was long gone but the melody of “As Time Goes By” continued, revealing a player piano.

Blaine reached the second archway and hoisted Natalya atop a white Berber horse behind one of the group’s leaders. The horse was off instantly, knocking over a pair of tables and lunging through the ruined entrance doors. McCracken pulled himself on board while the animal was running, still searching for purchase while the horseman urged the animal on, holding on to Natalya for dear life when they leaped onto the street.

But a bullet found their horseman. He was hurled off and the animal rose in fright, tossing Blaine and Natalya to the street as well. At first McCracken thought the bullet was a stray but more shots started up immediately from positions of cover across the street. Damn, Vasquez must have had men already in position, leaving nothing to chance.

Blaine shielded Natalya on the street, bullets flying everywhere as the festival erupted in chaos. Participants in elaborate sets and displays, many costumed, all fled. Tables full of souvenirs and foods were upturned, contents dumped to the ground. Amidst it all the Berbers continued to rise tall on horseback, negotiating through the crowd while firing as best they could at the gunmen across the street.

Blaine realized that with more of Vasquez’s men starting to emerge from the Cafe American, the Berbers were about to be caught in a crossfire. Their only option was to regroup and rush en masse across the street to tum the tide of the battle. The Berbers’ incredible organization amazed McCracken. The best shooters among them continued to return enemy fire while the rest made it across the street as best they could, discarding their rifles and drawing long, curved swords instead.

As the first of Vasquez’s men appeared from within the cafe, Blaine and Natalya lunged back to their feet, each grasping a rifle belonging to a felled Berber, M-l carbines dating back forty years at least, and took cover behind a toppled fruit stand in order to buy the Berbers the time they needed across the street. The old-fashioned bolt-assembly rifles required that they make each bullet count, which they did at the outset by dropping the first four of Vasquez’s men to emerge from the door.

“Like to get back in there and find the fat man himself,” Blaine yelled to Natalya between rounds. “He’s the only one who knows for sure where the crystals are.”

Natalya was aiming again, with great difficulty, since handcuffs still bound her wrists. Vasquez’s men had stopped emerging but plenty had taken cover behind the iron cocktail tables outside the front of the cafe.

Across the street, the Berbers had used their razor-sharp swords on the supports holding up the awnings over the shops where Vasquez’s gunmen were stationed. The strategy forced the enemy to show themselves, and the battle turned hand-to-hand where the Berbers’ swords were infinitely superior to automatic rifles. Their horses charged through debris as the riders’ blades whistled in deadly arcs that sent ribbons of blood through the air.

Blaine pulled the trigger on an empty chamber. Natalya was already starting to scurry for a replacement rifle ten yards away in the open. Blaine reached to the side and grabbed her, something else in mind. The chaos had spread through the festival well beyond the scene of the battle, and people rushed in panic everywhere, an occasional horse-drawn float or moving market cart charging wildly by.

It was one of these, pulled by a team of horses and packed with breads, that Blaine focused on. He called to Natalya and, with bullets tracing them, they leaped for it as it passed. Blaine’s purchase was better than Natalya’s and he crawled for the reins. She, slowed again by her handcuffs, barely pulled herself onto a stack of bread loaves.

McCracken saw the reins fluttering near the ground and found he could reach them only by lying prone and lowering his arms and upper body between the hurtling beasts.

“Grab my legs!” he screamed back to Natalya.

She did as best she could and he lowered himself between the charging hindquarters of the horses. The reins were a blur beneath him but he managed to grab hold and precariously right himself in the same motion. He was still lying flat on his stomach, though, and from this position he attempted to gain control as the cart continued to rush madly.

“Hahhhhhhhh!” he screamed at the horses, tugging at the leather reins. “Hahhhhhhhhh!”

But the horses kept thundering on, heedless of his commands. John Wayne himself would surely have been at a loss by this point. All Blaine could do was keep pulling on the reins, until the horses slowed and finally came to a halt directly before the Sijilmassa, one of Casablanca’s most elegant restaurants.

“Table for two please,” Blaine said to the dumbstruck doorman.

Chapter 26

Blaine picked the lock on Natalya’s handcuffs in the basement of a smaller restaurant further down the street.

“Mind telling me where those Berber horsemen came from?” she asked him.

“I did a favor for them years ago when a radical group was infringing on their cherished privacy. When I saw you rudely escorted through Vasquez’s establishment, I figured the time had come to call in my marker.”

“And they remembered? They were the same ones you helped?”

“A few were. And Berbers never forget. As a matter of fact, the ones who volunteered were happy to be of assistance. They’ve been warriors for generations. This kind of stuff is in their blood.”

“They spilled plenty back there.”

“But ours was left intact.” Blaine licked at one of his fingers. “Unless you count getting bit by a horse.”

“My government is to blame for much of this,” Natalya told him. “I managed to escape Raskowski and telegraph Chernopolov again but apparently I am no longer wanted.”

“Escape Raskowski? Would you mind telling me what’s happened since I saw you last?”

“It’s a long story and not a very pleasant one,” she began, and by the time she reached the climax Blaine was completely stunned.

“Just seconds before the Red Tide exploded,” Natalya explained, “I dropped into the water through a porthole. I still have a ringing in my ear but the water cushioned me from the blast. I stayed under as long as I could and swam away. When I finally came up, I had to rest. I needed help and decided to call in an old favor to get it.” She paused. “It was Vasquez’s men who showed up.”

“Fat man’s got them everywhere. Must have put the word out on you after he found out you were palling around with me. Vasquez likes to think ahead. Figured you’d come in handy and he was almost right. Okay,” he continued, “let’s take it by the numbers. Raskowski wipes out Hope Valley to illustrate the existence and potency of this Alpha weapon he devised and has managed to deploy within a satellite.”

“Only something went wrong and the satellite self-destructed.”

“So he has to get another beam weapon deployed fast, and with no chance of arranging another launch on his own, he deceives the U.S. government into launching his death ray for him.”

Natalya nodded. “The general is undeniably a genius. Coming up with this contingency plan so quickly proves that but there’s even more. All the manipulations of our two governments were his work as well.”

Blaine nodded. “He had to control and use differing degrees of trust. All his machinations depended on that.”

“And he’s got both our nations perceiving what he wants.”

“There’s one man left I trust in my government,” Blaine told her, “who could blow the lid off this whole thing. Trouble is they’ve cut me off from him. Might just have a friend, though, who can cut me back in.”

They checked into the El Mansour Hotel as a married couple. Blaine chose it because it offered long-distance service from each room.

The contact procedure he had initiated with Wareagle would necessitate the big Indian’s waiting by the same phone in Maine for thirty-minute periods five times a day. The next began in a half hour and it took almost that long for the operator to find an open line over which to place the call. Blaine held his breath as it went through, one ring sounding, then a second.

“Hello, Blainey,” Wareagle greeted.

“You’re in Maine!” Blaine wailed happily. “Goddamnit, you got the message!”

“The spirits warned of another disturbance and told me in my sleep you would be sending word.”

“What about the convention?”

“I stayed long enough to learn that a man’s manitou is as much forged by the impressions of others as his own. We cannot change what we are because others will not let us.”

“It’s bad this time, Indian.”

“When was it not? Our existence has always been scorched by the flames of others’ greed and lust. We escaped the hell-fire only to learn that it wasn’t a place, it was a condition.”

“You avoided it. For years.”

“A temporary reprieve in which the spirits revealed to me my true shape. We get what we want, as well as what we need.”

“The world doesn’t need what’s about to happen to it, Indian. I’d love to deliver that message myself but I’ve got sort of a problem over here. You up to traveling?”

“The travels of the spirit are endless.”

“What I need is for your spirit to lead you onto a plane bound for Washington. Your destination is Virginia, the Toy Factory.”

“I know it, Blainey.”

“The director’s name is Sundowner, and if he’s still alive you’ve got to reach him. Tell him Washington’s been duped, that this whole shitty business isn’t over yet, not by a longshot. Get him to call me at this number. I’ll be waiting.”

“A direct line, Blainey?”

“It’ll be the last thing the bastards are looking for. Besides, I haven’t got much of a choice. This is the only way. But speaking of ways, finding one into the Toy Factory isn’t going to be easy.”

“The spirits say that the invisible man is he whom no one bothers to see.”

“I could use a dose of that magic myself, Johnny.”

“Your manitou is restless.”

“It will continue to be as long as I’m on the trail of the only substance that might be able to save the world. The spirits ever mention anything about the continent of Atlantis, Indian?”

“Only through my ancestors, Blainey. They spoke of a paradise and an awesome power which eventually destroyed it.”

“It figures.”

“How can we go somewhere that doesn’t exist?” Natalya asked when Blaine had finished the tale of where he was headed next.

“It’s not that the island doesn’t exist; it’s just that we don’t know exactly where to find it.”

“Sounds like the same thing.”

“Not at all.”

“Even so, I don’t see how its existence could have remained secret for so long.”

“Not secret, just that you won’t find it on any of the tourist maps. It’s somewhere in the Biminis, though, and the real fun starts once we reach it.”

“How so?”

“Based on what Clive said, we’ve got to figure that the Atragon reserves lie somewhere offshore of the island, within some underwater formation.”

“Atlantis?” Natalya posed hesitantly.

“Not you, too. Please.”

She regarded him closely. “Your strength comes from being able to remain detached. It’s how you have stayed in the game so long.”

“You’ve been doing pretty well yourself. A boat explosion and Vasquez in the same week. You get high marks for survival.”

For a moment the only break in the hotel room’s silence was the rattle of the air-conditioning system. Then Natalya spoke tautly.

“Did you ever think this life wasn’t right for you? Did you ever question your choice?”

“Once,” Blaine replied without hesitation. “It was when I was going out with T.C. She took me into her world and for a time the simplicity of it enchanted me. She was just getting ready to graduate Brown and we went to a party there. That was ’82, ’83 maybe. To make a long story short, I’ve never been more uncomfortable in my life than I was around her friends. Age was part of it, but mostly I realized the real world was as foreign to me as mine would have been to them. I just didn’t belong. I belonged out here. I had come to see the people I dealt with in the field as normal. At least to me. I didn’t fit anywhere else, and I saw that.”

“But it was the woman who broke the relationship off.”

McCracken looked stung. “Is my file that complete?”

“It was in your eyes. And your tone. All this is still about guilt, isn’t it? You think it’s your fault she died, and you’ll do anything to avenge her.”

“That’s the way it started,” Blaine conceded. “But I don’t really give a shit about Raskowski anymore. It all comes back to the world I’ve chosen to exist in. If Raskowski is successful with his death-ray plot, then the door will be opened to more like him. The best way I can avenge T.C. is to stop that from happening.”

“It seems we have both stopped fooling ourselves recently,” Natalya said and proceeded to tell the story of her father. “It was only recently,” she said at the end, “that I realized there will be no freedom for him. I wanted to believe them for so long that I wouldn’t let myself see the truth.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Blaine soothed her. “These men are experts at turning us against ourselves. They find areas of weakness and exploit them. It’s what they do, what they are. The trick is to avoid becoming the very same thing.”

“You should have been a philosopher,” she told him, almost smiling. “Or a poet.”

“Yeah, people have been calling me a lot of names lately. Thing is I’m the same as I always was. It’s their perception of me that’s changed.”

She came closer to him, knelt on the floor, and held his knees. “I like you just fine the way you are.”

“Hmmmmmmmm … should take Wareagle quite a while to get to Washington and reach Sundowner. Think of any ways we can pass the time?”

“Plenty,” she said, closer still.

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Captain Midnight couldn’t believe the results of his own tests.

The pinkish stones held a potential as a power source on a level approaching Atragon. It was impossible unless—

He would run more tests, cover every angle in triplicate before he contacted Sundowner. The enormity of this discovery humbled him, so he had to be sure. He could not risk error.

Captain Midnight stole a sip from his canteen and went back to work.

Ryan Sundowner arrived in his office at virtually the same time every morning. Since he was early Tuesday, he was not surprised to find his secretary had not yet arrived. Sundowner unlocked his office door and felt a slight chill as he stepped into its dismal coldness.

He saw the huge figure standing by the window an instant before he flicked on the light switch.

“Who the hell are—” Sundowner stopped when the man’s true size became clear, along with his … appearance. The man was dressed in blue jeans, work shirt, and leather vest. His hair was tied up in a ponytail and his flesh was leathery and dark. An Indian …

“It was important that I come in unannounced,” the stranger told him calmly.

Sundowner stayed near the door, wondering whether he could get out before the giant reached him. “This building’s got the best security of any in the government.”

“The eyes of your guards see only what they are permitted to, Mr. Sundowner,” Johnny Wareagle told him. “They are easily deceived by one who walks with the spirits. But don’t blame them. No harm has been done. I am simply a messenger.”

“Oh?” from Sundowner, moving further from the door, more intrigued now than frightened.

“You have a phone call to make.”

“We’ve got problems, Sundance,” Blaine said by way of greeting.

“So I gathered from your large friend here.”

“Just tell me if the replacement for Ulysses has been launched.”

“No, but how did you—”

“Tell me if I’ve got this reasonably straight. The President gets word from the Soviet General Secretary that a mad, renegade general’s death ray is deployed on board Ulysses. Of course this means the satellite has to be deactivated but not until a replacement can be launched just in case the whole scenario has been a setup for a Soviet sneak attack. Am I close?”

“On the money and I’ve got a feeling you’re not finished yet.”

“Not even close. You guys blew it, Sundance. The death ray’s on board the replacement.”

“My God … Blaine, it’s my fault, I suggested using the replacement.”

“Forget it, Sundance. If you hadn’t, someone else would have — the Fanner Boy probably. You’re only guilty of doing what was expected of you. Predicting responses seems to be Raskowski’s specialty. His first satellite went bonkers after knocking out Hope Valley, and he needed a replacement. We played right into his hands.”

Sundowner steadied himself. “No,” he insisted. “I checked out the replacement satellite myself. No way anything on the scale of a beam weapon was on board.”

“Raskowksi would have expected such precautions. He’d have planned for them.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m telling you that satellite is …”

“What, Sundance? I get nervous when people don’t finish their sentences.”

The scientist still wasn’t talking.

“Sundance?”

“He wouldn’t need to launch a death beam at all, Blaine,” Sundowner said almost too softly to hear. “All he really needs is to get a reflector up there, something non-carbon based like sodium or aluminum. Put it into orbit and fire his death beam from a generator on ground level. The beam would strike the reflector, which could be angled by computer to bounce the beam back to any area in the country. Just pick a target.”

“Could the general have gotten such a reflector on board?”

“A dozen different ways and I would have missed all of them because I wasn’t looking.”

Blaine glanced at Natalya. “And what about the generator gun, could it be placed anywhere in the world?”

“Most definitely not. It would have to be the continental United States or possibly one of the islands, Cuba for instance.”

“Wait a minute, if this is so simple, why’d the general bother with a satellite in the first place?”

“It would be more effective and easier to control, and a ground-based ray would be a hell of a lot easier to lock onto and shoot out than a satellite twenty thousand miles above the earth.”

“Back to my original question, Sundance: has it launched?”

“It’s on the pad. Six hours to liftoff.”

“Then it should achieve orbit …”

“Thirty-six hours after that. But it doesn’t matter, Blaine, because I’m going to stop the launch. I’m going straight to the President as soon as I’m finished here and lay it all out for him. He’ll understand. He has to.”

“That’s the hope, Sundance. Now put Johnny back on.”

Blaine could hear the receiver changing hands.

“Hello, Blainey,” said Wareagle.

“You’re a man of many miracles, Indian. I thought I’d asked the impossible of you this time.”

“A state of mind,” Wareagle told him, “easily overcome.”

“Of that I’m sure. Up to another journey?”

“Life is but a collection of random journeys.”

“I’m headed for the Biminis, Indian, specifically an island with no name. We still may need the Atragon to get this over with. This nameless island is supposed to be guarded by a sea monster.”

“A new challenge for us, Blainey.”

“See you there, Indian.”

Sundowner was about to phone the White House when the call came from Captain Midnight. He signaled Wareagle to follow him.

A descent of six floors by elevator brought them to the cavernous bottom floor of the Toy Factory and the personal lab of Captain Midnight.

“You’re sure?” Sundowner demanded, moving straight for the pinkish crystals placed atop the lab table.

Captain Midnight nodded. “It’s Atragon, all right.”

Sundowner ran his fingers over one of the crystals. He glanced over at Johnny Wareagle whose stolid expression showed no sign of surprise. “Not the same consistency as the ones we got from Earnst,” said Sundowner. “Smoother, less ridges. More gemlike.”

“Some people in Colorado were probably hoping for gemstones when they sent these to the National Assayer’s Office. They sent them down here when they couldn’t identify them.”

“But you have.”

Another nod, even surer. “It’s less refined and developed but every bit as potent as Earnst’s Atragon. The lighter color seems indicative of a smaller storage capacity, but the difference so far as we’re concerned is negligible. If we still need this kind of power, the wild-goose chase is over.”

Sundowner headed for the door. “I’ll let you know in an hour.”

Ordinarily, Ryan Sundowner was a patient driver. But while driving to the White House, he couldn’t help charging through yellow lights with horn honking. He imagined himself explaining to a traffic cop that if he didn’t deliver certain information to the President fast, the entire country would be facing destruction. Probably the best excuse the cop would ever hear.

Traffic was moderate from Bethesda to the outskirts of Washington, but once in the city the snarl of vehicles seemed to stretch forever. Sundowner fought back the gnawing in his stomach, chanced a few darts through red lights, and was certain the sound of an approaching motorcycle belonged to a traffic cop about to nail him.

He had actually relaxed a bit when the sideview mirror revealed a leather-clad civilian rider with darkened visor who had pulled his bike up right alongside the car as if sifting through traffic.

The machine pistol bullets shattered the window and most of Sundowner’s brain with it. His last reflex was to jam down on the accelerator, which sent his car crashing forward, starting a chain of collisions the motorcyclist quickly left behind.

And in the backseat of a limousine far back in traffic George Kappel dialed an overseas phone number.

“Sundowner has been eliminated,” the Farmer Boy reported.

Johnny Wareagle stared intensely at the phone, willing it to ring. Sundowner’s call was now more than an hour overdue. Several explanations were possible, but Johnny considered only one.

Sundowner was dead. The scientist’s aura had felt pale, depleted, and now Wareagle understood why. The spirits had been trying to warn him men, but he had disregarded them and now the price for that would have to be paid.

The deadly satellite would be launched.