Wild Country

Chapter Twenty-One

On Saturday, Felix Sorel arrived in Oregon Territory with papers claiming he was one Ernst Matthias. Within the hour, he and a second man were seated in a monorail lozenge as it slid up broad green valleys toward a tumble of mountains on the horizon. Sprawled like an apron across the lap of one of those mountains lay their destination, the southernmost township under Canadian protection: Ashland.

Sorel studied maps and promotional pamphlets, noting that many of the prewar roads shown on the maps were "no longer maintained," to quote the map legends. Now and then Sorel stared at some local landmark, identifying it on the map. Long ago. he had learned to use every means to brief himself on an unfamiliar region — especially one where his pelt had a price on it. By the time they reached Ashland, Sorel had a bare-bones working knowledge of the town and the arterials that fed it.

The second man, Harley Slaughter, carried forged ID as well. The lank, yellow-haired Slaughter talked little and, as he stepped from the lozenge into sunshine, watched the crowds a lot in his heavy-lidded way. From the first. Slaughter was uneasy among the tourist throngs who made Ashland seem a major city in miniature. If he felt any premonition, he kept quiet about it.

Harley Slaughter enjoyed perfect health but had hollow cheeks and gaunt limbs suggestive of a man recovering from serious illness. His expression said he was half-asleep, if you missed the way he scanned his surroundings for trouble. He had the trick of noticing everything without the faintest show of recognition, and he carried another trick up his sleeve — literally. Strapped to the underside of his right wrist was the barrel of a coldgas weapon, its pressure cartridge snugged into his armpit, its trigger mechanism a flesh-colored tongue of plastic hidden by a long shirt-sleeve. By flexing his wrist sharply outward. Slaughter could fire the weapon through his sleeve without the wasted time and effort of a fast draw. Though its range was limited, the weapon was quiet and flashless.

A product of North African genius, the coldgas mechanism was semiautomatic, firing porous metal balls of medium caliber. Each ball was coated with a plastic film that peeled away when penetrating a target, and then the ball tended to disintegrate. The pores of the ball contained formic acid, the same stuff that fire ants used to such effect, except that a hundred ants did not carry as much formic acid as a single ball from Slaughter's weapon. Harley Slaughter did not depend on muzzle velocity or impact effects; anyone who took the slightest flesh wound from him became hors de combat from sheer agony, tearing at his own flesh, sometimes dying from toxic shock. Slaughter's was not a very nice weapon, but Harley Slaughter was not known for nicing.

Marianne Placidas found the men at the monorail platform and did not remark on their roundabout route (Chihuahua to Portland by laserboost, before the long glide through Eugene to Ashland by electric monorail). She was too nervous for small talk and guided them to her rented diesel-electric Chevy without preamble.

"I assume," said Sorel once they were inside the Chevy, "that you are not as unarmed as you seem to be."

In answer, she reached under her skirt to produce a tiny six-millimeter automatic. It was flat enough to fit a thigh holster but, "Strictly for point-blank use," Sorel criticized.

"I didn't need it at all," she said.

"The need may yet arise," he said. "Do not imagine that these Israelis came here for a harmless weekend of costume drama at the local Shakespeare festival. Are you ready to use your weapon if need be?"

"You know I'm damned good with a pistol."

"Against two-legged targets?"

Licking her lips: "If I have to."

From the backseat, Slaughter drawled, "They'll all be packin' some kind of heat behind the smiles. Count on it."

"Ah: Marianne Placidas, meet Leo Cherry. You must introduce me as Ernst Matthias. You may as well start using the name now," he insisted.

"Shouldn't I have an alias, too?"

"No. They will check and discover that you are operating without cover, and so they will consider you harmless. It is your best protection," he lied. "Now, put this thing in motion and take us to the hotel."

She glanced at the man behind her, then at Sorel. "No more preparation than this. Pel — Ernst? We're just going in cold?"

"You and I will seem to. Smile often, and listen as if you were bored. Leo here" — he jerked his head to indicate the man behind them—"will join us when he has seen to exits and — monitors." He had almost said "ambushes," but the woman was already agitated enough. Her silent beauty might be useful in several ways: as distraction, as apparent proof of his own harmlessness, and if necessary as a shield. Women never seemed to expect a man of Sorel's reputation to use them this way. Yet Felix Sorel owed his reputation to planning for the unexpected.

Slaughter left them two blocks from the hotel. Marianne found a parking lot and made a good entrance on Sorel's arm. Her spirits were buoyed by the trappings of the Lithia, an excellent hotel in the old style with a subdued opulence. Glass walls on two sides of the lobby added an informal western touch, bringing passersby on the street very close to the interior. The Lithia's ambience seemed to deny the remotest chance of danger.

Marianne and the balding Mills recognized each other instantly in the crowded lobby, he rising to greet her from one of the booths that lined the great glass-enclosed room. She introduced Mills as "St. Denis" and Sorel as "Matthias." Mills turned and included a confederate. "Mr. Matthias, you may have heard of my colleague. Professor Aron Maazel-the-agronomist."

Sorel nearly laughed to hear this homely phrase. "Your accent seems very American," he said to Mills, then extended his hand to the seated man.

The ex-American's handshake had been firm, his summer suit almost offensively stylish. Maazel, the rumpled fat man in the booth, seemed to lack vitality, and his smile was as welcoming as a slit cut in thin cardboard. Maazel's round, hairless head perched on a body that had been too long inactive in reduced gravity; when he stood up to acknowledge Marianne, flesh quivered at his chins. Sorel guessed that this was not the sort of agronomist who got din under his fingernails. Perhaps he was the sort who studied computer graphics in the search for hardier stock, faster sprouting, more deceptive poppies. No telling what his attaché case contained, but Maazel never let go of it and replaced it against his ample belly as they ordered a round of champagne cocktails.

"I understood there would be three of you," Sorel murmured as the waitress swept away with their order.

"One of us was… delayed. We expect him any moment," said Mills.

"With your third member," Maazel added in a wheezy tenor, drumming his fingers against the black case in his vestigial lap. "How was your trip to Ashland?"

"Very nice," said Sorel and the woman simultaneously, prompting grins all around. From Sorel's grin, no one would guess that he was damning the woman. Obviously, someone had spotted her earlier; had seen and reported the threesome before Slaughter separated. Now Maazel had told him, in so many words, that the Israeli surveillance and comm network were superior. It was supposed to make him feel outclassed. It did, and that was Maazel's mistake.

But the agronomist, if that was what he really was, looked at Sorel expectantly. "I rarely travel for pleasure," Sorel said. "It is only a means to conduct business." he added with a shrug.

"Then you honor me," said Maazel, fiddling again with his case, and Sorel felt a wave of satisfaction flow like damp heat from the fat man.

Mills saw something dangerous in Sorel's expression. "Don't worry," he said, "I'm sure they'll both be along any minute. Excellent service," he added, beaming as their waitress unloaded her tray. "Prosit."

"Ah, they are coming," Maazel said, and reached for his cocktail as he continued. "Surely you realize, sir, that if your voiceprint did not match that of Felix Sorel, I would have little to say to you." Into Sorel's glare the fat man made a half salute with his glass and bestowed a genuine smile. "I have long been a follower of your athletic feats. Would you prefer that I kept my knowledge to myself?"

Marianne had frozen in midsentence while talking with Mills. Sorel glanced at her, then saw Mills shrug. The natty Mills reached for his cocktail and murmured, "Dr. Maazel deals in science, and I'm afraid that scientists have a horror of hoaxes."

During a slow count of perhaps four heartbeats, Sorel smiled and nodded as always when he contemplated violence and did not want that contemplation to show. During that time he concluded that Maazel's attaché case contained some kind of comm set with a readout visible or audible to him only; that he, Sorel, had underestimated the speed with which these clever bastards could analyze new information; and that Maazel was a fool for tipping his hand. A fan of Sorel's, perhaps. A cool negotiator backed by high-tech gadgetry and an unforgiving government, yes. But when dealing with a man like Sorel, a fool for all of that.

Encouraged by Maazel's foolishness, Sorel relaxed. "Forgive my caution, gentlemen," Sorel said, and sipped his cocktail, letting his eyes smile at Marianne over the rim of his glass. He was not certain, but he'd had the momentary impression that her hand had been drifting down to the vicinity of her hidden pistol.

Sorel sipped and let his glance stray toward the entrance, feeling less vulnerable. Marianne Placidas might be an amateur, but she hadn't panicked; had evidently made herself ready to follow his course of action — or, in this case, inaction. Then he saw the yellow hair of Harley Slaughter, and when the tall Texan knew he had eye contact, he turned with great deliberation and stared toward a side exit before facing Sorel again. That exit, then, was the quickest way out. Sorel scratched his jaw to show that he understood and only half noticed the swarthy, hawk-nosed little fellow who eased past Slaughter, murmuring some excuse in close quarters.

But hawknose spied his friends and moved gracefully to the booth, nodding to Maazel.

"Miss Placidas; Senor Sorel," Maazel said, "meet our third member, Zoltan Azeri." The swarthy man made a tiny clockwork bow to them and then stood to one-side.

"You may as well ask our third member to join us," Sorel said as if enjoying a joke on himself. He smiled at Azeri.

"I believe you have been challenged, Zoltan." Mills chuckled.

Thickly accented, in scorn: "Challenged?"

"Not a well-chosen word, Saint Denis," Maazel said with his own wheezy laugh. "Zoltan, please ask the gentleman you followed to join us."

Azeri's head swiveled to gaze at Slaughter, then back. "The tall one in the denim jacket; you will vouch for his reaction?"

Sorel raised his free hand and beckoned, nodding as he did so. "Mr. Azeri is wise, Professor," he said as he saw Slaughter picking his way around the piano bar. He felt something of a fool himself. What if the little Israeli had confronted Slaughter without hesitation? Harley Slaughter was no trained seal with wholly predictable moves, but a trailwise gunsel who had jumped bail from a capital offense. He just might have wasted little Azeri on the spot. Or he might have said something so offensive that Azeri would — But those scenarios could be ignored now, for Slaughter approached wearing a rictus almost like a smile.

The booth had room for them all, but: "May I suggest something, senor?" Maazel tapped his attaché case. "I have things to show you, and now that we are all here I wonder if you would care to take a stroll."

Slaughter: "Just you two?"

Maazel: "But of course. With my bulk I shall not stray far," he said, patting his belly.

Sorel considered it. The fat man might not want to broadcast details any more than Sorel did, and he wasn't suggesting a hotel room where Sorel could be ambushed. And Felix Sorel did not fear a man like Maazel in public, so: "Excellent. Enjoy yourselves," Sore) said to them all, sliding from the booth.

Maazel needed the help of little Azeri to exit his cramped seat, but moments later the athlete strode out into autumn sunshine with Maazel and that attaché case.

They ambled downhill, speaking guardedly as they passed shoppers. Maazel trudged with the splay-footed gait of a man with poor balance, taking his time, explaining in general terms how agriculture was monitored from satellites.

Certain produce, said Maazel, was of such compelling interest to many governments that orbiting spy-eyes could identify many crops and trip automatic alarms. "A matter of broad-spectrum photography, local temperatures, rainfall — and of tradition," Maazel said with a fruity chuckle. "The French keep what they believe to be a close tally on one crop, for example. It is grown widely in Kampuchea, and in Turkey." He paused as a well-dressed couple passed, then continued softly, "Also, a bit of it is grown in Oregon Territory. Oh, yes, the American authorities learned long ago that this crop could be grown near a town called Grants Pass and even within the city limits of Seattle.

"But what if a much more common and perfectly harmless crop could be imitated by the, ah, Turkish flower?" Now they walked through the grassy verge of a park where strollers admired a showy little waterfall. Maazel indicated a stone bench near the water, nodded, and steered Sorel to the bench.

A constant splash of water was among the best barriers against a listening device and implied that the fat man did not take his security for granted. Sorel replied, "I suppose authorities would be alerted by the crew that slashes the poppy pods."

Maazel's broad face, now gleaming with sweat, registered delight as he lowered himself to the bench. "Correct! Exactly so," he said as if Sorel were a student in some innocent seminar. He fished a set of livesnaps from a vest pocket, studied the labels on their backs, and offered one to Sorel.

In a way, the livesnaps were a test. The little liquid crystal movie cards were still a high-tech curiosity, the images programmed into memory chips so that each flexible card could provide a moving holographic image in full color. Sorel passed his technology test by pressing the dot in the lower-right-hand corner, deforming a tiny crystal to provide piezoelectric energy for a brief moving sequence of images. The blank flexible card instantly became a moving, three-dimensional snapshot.

Sorel watched the livesnap without understanding. He saw a slender plant with long sparse leaves and an elongated pod, waving in a slight breeze. Clinging to the pod, he saw, was a tiny winged insect that moved from a spot on the pod to an unspotted area. After fifteen seconds, the card went blank. "This is a poppy?" he asked doubtfully.

"Yes, but study this enlargement," Maazel urged, offering a second card. "The Papaver somniferum, opium poppy, has been mutated to the appearance of an edible plant called salsify. It was a European plant originally but now grows wild in Oregon Territory. It became a food crop here during the last war when food was in short supply. We recognized that the pod-slashing crew would raise suspicion, because salsify is harvested like other shallow-root crops. That is why we applied genetic engineering to this fruit wasp," he said with pride.

The enlargement sent a shiver down Sorel's spine. The tiny wasp busily chewed a hole through the pod surface, inserted a body extension, then moved to another site perhaps a millimeter away and resumed chewing before the livesnap went blank. Sorel pressed the dot again, watched the sequence again. "It seems to be depositing eggs," he said.

"Sterile eggs," Maazel said with a wink. "But the pod soon begins to ooze raw opium through each hole. The female wasp continues to visit pods until she dies — long after she has exhausted her egg supply."

Now Sorel saw the connection. "Your wasp does the job of a field worker," he said.

Nodding, Maazel took the livesnaps and replaced them in his pocket. "And standard machinery separates the pods while it harvests the plant, in a single pass. A crew of three can harvest a square kilometer of Papaver in a weekend, with no one else the wiser. How does it look to you?"

It looked damned efficient. It looked like the end of the French connection, that long trail of illegal processing from Turkey through Marseilles to Mexico and then, thanks to Sorel, into Reconstruction America. It also looked like the end of Sorel's usefulness as a middleman. To give himself time for furious thought, Sorel asked, "Where does one obtain the seeds and the wasps?"

"The seeds are free." Maazel smiled. "The wasps, all guaranteed sterile females, will be shipped to the user as eggs — roughly a million in each batch, guaranteed to hatch and grow into adults with eighty-five percent viability. The wasp soon dies, and in any case it will not migrate from the field of choice. In a region with hidden valleys like this, it will be years before some entomologist discovers a specimen. More years before he learns its, ah, very special use."

Sorel made appropriate grunts, unable to figure why the Israelis had approached him, of all people. When all else failed, he was willing to ask directions. He said, "And what would you say is my very special use in all this?"

"We know your outlook on Americans, and your means of taking revenge on them," said the fat man without implying any value judgment.

"But why would you care about that?"

"We do not. We care very much that our ally, Turkey, is becoming difficult as she becomes less dependent on us — and more dependent on her major illegal crop."

"That seems a very risky thing to tell me."

"Not so risky," Maazel wheezed, his eyes slitting above puffy cheeks as he grinned. "The Turks know it, and we know it, and so on. We simply choose this way to, um, manipulate the price of their product."

Sorel sought the missing piece in the puzzle. "But if the seeds are free, surely it is because the grower can harvest the seeds himself for the next crop."

"Correct again."

"Then you will not merely manipulate the price of the Turkish product; you will utterly destroy their market when its price is undercut by processing here."

"Your first error," Maazel said, erecting a finger like a Vienna sausage. "We are the only source of the wasps, Senor Sorel. It is not difficult to predict a precise yield from the number of wasp eggs we ship. We do not intend to destroy the Turkish market. We merely allow a measured amount of competition by someone dedicated to producing all he can for American addicts — someone like yourself."

"You would also be controlling my end of the business," Sorel reminded him.

"Of course; but on a scale far greater than you have ever known before." He saw Sorel nod agreement and added, "Is it not elegant?"

It was more than elegant; it was regal. While marveling at this scheme, Sorel realized with a shock that these Israelis had made a really incredible mistake. They assumed that Sorel cared more for revenge against Americans than he cared for the lifestyle he led. These orbiting Ellfive nabobs expected him to become a farmer in a region where a price hung over his head, instead of a — very well, he would admit it: a player leading a double life in the world's most exciting game.

Maazel's smile said that he expected Felix Sore! to leap at this chance, regardless of its effect on his lifegames. And no matter how long he pondered the Israeli offer, Sorel knew that he absolutely would not, could not, accept it.

Which left Sorel holding a satellite-sized tiger by the tail. If he refused the offer, he might not see Mexico again. Even if he did. he would be a prime target for every hit team New Israel controlled. That meant Sorel could never move in shuttle-set circles again; it was one thing to be on an American shitlist. and quite another to find yourself on a Mossad hit list. Americans made you a celebrity. Israelis made you dead.

If only some shrewd Turk had whacked Maazel and his cronies on their way to this damned meeting! The Israelis would have pulled back, analyzed the problem, delayed their plan — perhaps indefinitely. And Sorel would not have been placed with one foot in the frying pan and the other in the fire.

Suddenly, with the clarity of a digital readout. Felix Sorel saw what he must do to remove the heat. "I assume you can advise me on the land I must purchase in Oregon Territory," he said, and with his handshake Sorel offered a lovely golden smile.