Authors: Jon Land
St. Clair settled back in her chair. “It appears, gentlemen, that from a technical standpoint, matters are proceeding very smoothly indeed. My concern now is for security.” Her eyes dug into Mandala's. “What conclusions have you reached regarding our unseen enemy?”
“They are organized, but not powerful or overly strong in number” came Mandala's precision response. If his own plan was to work, he couldn't risk becoming the target of the old bitch's wrath ⦠and suspicions. “They must not represent any government or accepted body of another sort. Otherwise they would have exposed us instead of engaging in this foolish cat-and-mouse game.”
“The game may be foolish,” the chairwoman told him, “but it has brought them closer to us than any other group has come in a generation.”
“A problem soon to be rectified. I could accomplish this just as easily without Locke. I suggest we take him out while we are still in control of his movements.”
“No,” Audra St. Clair ordered staunchly. “Locke is to be kept alive until I direct otherwise.”
“That seems to me to be a clear violation of your own security precautions,” Mandala said, “as well as the Committee's.”
The chairwoman leaned forward over the table, eyes narrowed into slits of anger. “Do not lecture me on Committee policy, Mr. Mandala. You are a killer and little more. We have existed for more than twenty-five years by steering clear of your kind and choosing more subtle measures.”
“And look where those subtle measures got you, while mine have put you on the brink of achieving your greatest goal.”
“You are a soldier to us, a mercenary, nothing more.”
“It took a soldier's insight to make operational a great plan you could only conceive in raw form.” Mandala glanced around at the elegantly appointed conference room and smirked. “You call me here and expect me to be overwhelmed by your furniture and paintings? Hah! While you were holding meetings in air-conditioned rooms all those years ago, I was sweating in fields that stank of death, fighting to destabilize the world you wanted to control. Then when you needed someone to carry out your plans in the field, you came to me. And you have turned to me repeatedly whenever you didn't want to get your hands dirty. Fine, but don't criticize me because mine are not clean.”
“We tolerate your methods, Mr. Mandala,” St. Clair said in a softer voice. “We do not accept them.”
“Let's not be naive, madam. We have thus far discussed Tantalus only up to its activation and immediate effects. What about after? The world will be at its most vulnerable. That is the time to increase destabilization and disruption strategies. We can bring the entire world to its knees, not just the United States.”
“People cannot reach bank tellers' windows on their knees, Mr. Mandala. We are an economic body, not a political one. Politics is useful to us only when it functions as a vehicle for our economic plans. Tantalus
will
bring the U.S.âand the worldâto their knees. But we will leave them able to regain their feet, with our assistance.”
“Power lies in controlling people, madam, not their bank accounts.”
“People
are
their bank accounts, Mr. Mandala.”
“We have the capacity to create total chaos and turn ourselves into the sole voice of order.”
“Precisely what we are doing. Economically.”
“Politically we would be far more effective and far reaching.”
“You're missing the point,” St. Clair told Mandala. “Economics and politics are inseparable. People respond based solely on how full their wallets are. Tantalus will give us the ability to control that factor as we see fit.”
Mandala just nodded. It was not the time to say anything that might make the old bitch suspect the plan he was about to undertake.
The people in the room were used to silence. Meetings were often dominated by it.
“Let us return to the issue of this Locke,” Van Dam said finally. “If we are not going to kill him, we must have a backup means for controlling him ready should anything else go wrong.”
“I am in the process of arranging just that now,” Mandala said.
“And what if it isn't good enough?” Van Dam demanded. “If Locke reaches someone powerful without our knowledge, what then? I believe Charney discovered my identity. He may have told Locke or left him some clue. Every minute he's allowed to live increases the chances of my exposure. You must understand my position,” he pleaded, mostly to the woman at the table's head. “I-I didn't realize how important he was to our plans. I thought he had completed his usefulness. I couldn't take the chance. I couldn't!”
“What have you done?” St. Clair asked him.
“I ordered a man sent to erase Locke.”
The chairwoman's features sank. “Recall him, you fool.”
“It's too late,” Van Dam said.
Part Five:
Schaan, Monday Morning
“WE ARE NOW
passing into the section where Sanii technology has discovered new ways of taking soil samples from other planets,” the tour guide's voice droned as Locke's eyes wandered.
Saturday night he had found an unpretentious mountain inn where a room was available. Chris's first thought was to pay someone to go out and get him some new clothes, but the sight of the desk clerk gave him another idea. The man was just a little smaller and stouter than he was. His clothes wouldn't be a great fit yet they'd certainly pass, and he accepted Locke's cash with no questions. A bit more money gained Chris bandages and antiseptic for the hand chewed by the hag, and a hearty dinner. And, since on Sunday the offices of the Sanii Corporation would be closed, he had an entire day for much-needed rest and healing.
He slept past noon on Sunday. He found out from the desk clerk that regular tours of the Sanii Corporation plant began Monday at ten
A.M.
Sanii was one of the very few major corporations to have large facilities in Liechtenstein and was thus quite an attraction. It specialized in futuristic high tech, which meant there would surely be an agricultural experimentation section. There he might find a clue to what lay behind the South American land deals Felderberg had been a party to.
“It is now possible,” the tour guide explained as the group peered through glass at miniature displays of bizarre machines working on soil, “to program robot probes to travel millions of miles away and actually
land
on foreign bodies to collect samples and then return home. Sanii scientists have discovered a means to ⦔
Locke's eyes wandered again. He was in the right area, he could feel it. This section dealt with soil. Agricultural experimentation couldn't be far away.
He had arrived there in plenty of time for the tour and was impressed by the size of the Sanii site. There were four separate buildings: one giant one that ran across almost the entire length of the site, a smaller one near its right flank virtually hidden in the shadows, and a third at least half the big one's size extending beyond its end to the site's far left. The fourth was a mirrored building that probably contained offices. The tour began in the giant structure, which announced SANII in huge red letters on its sloping roof. The roof did have one large flat spot, and Locke could hear the exhaust from powerful compressors that would regulate atmospheric conditions for the experiments inside.
The tour guide had completed her description of collecting soil samples from foreign bodies when Chris raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“I am curious about agricultural experiments closer to Earth. Are any conducted here at the plant?”
The tour guide looked puzzled. “We do have a very standard agricultural section but it's located in the smallest building and contains little of interest. Now, if you'll all follow me ⦔
That was it! Locke had his answer, at least a place to start. When the tour group swung around the next corner he slipped away and made his way back to the entrance. The security guard quizzed him and he complained of nausea, saying he needed some fresh air. The uniformed man wished him well, took back his guest pass, and held the door open for him.
Glancing back only briefly, Locke left the building and swung to the right and then quickly to the left. The smaller agricultural wing ran parallel to the mother building, and he moved toward it as quickly as he could, hoping not to attract any attention.
The entrance contained a sign warning
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY,
and two guards were poised inside to enforce it. That ruled the entrance out. Locke kept walking.
Around the other side of the building, two huge garage bays had been opened and men were unloading hundred-pound bags of something into a large warehouse. Locke remembered the clothes the clerk had provided him with were those of a workman, not a tourist, and he wasted no time. He joined the line of workers lifting bags from the truck and piling them inside the warehouse.
No one seemed to notice him. The Sanii workers probably thought he was part of the trucking crew and the trucking crew must have thought the reverse. Just in case this changed, Locke kept the bags he hoisted up in front of his face and avoided the eyes of those around him. Once the pile of bags inside was high enough, Locke slipped behind it and moved through the rear of the warehouse without hesitation, opening the first door he saw and stepping inside the building.
He was in a long, white, brightly lit corridor.
A moving person may attract attention but a person standing still attracts even more
.
Locke heeded another memory from his training and started walking before he had any idea of his bearings. The corridor was deserted, fortunate but probably only temporary. He reached a junction in the corridors and studied what was up ahead in both directions. A locker room was to the right and he steered toward it, hoping to find something inside that might help his charade.
The locker room was typical in design, banks of lockers fronted by benches with the sound of showers and the smell of steam not far off. Two men passed him as he entered without giving him a second look, and Chris found himself thankful for the multitudes of people Sanii employed. There had probably been close to 750 cars in the parking lot. He had gotten another break in that midday was fast approaching, which meant time off for lunch. The locker room was crowded. Locke moved quickly into the bathroom, bolting a stall behind him.
He sat down on the toilet and fought to steady his breathing. Nerves would give him away faster than anything. A calm exterior was the best disguise of all.
Disguise! That was it!
The two men Locke passed in the doorway had been wearing simple white lab coats. If he were walking the corridors in one of those, no one would accost him. Locke's memory sharpened. The coats had badges pinned to their lapels, picture badges. He would have to take his chances that no one would look closely. He flushed the toilet and moved out of the stall, stopping between two men shaving before the row of sinks, and washed his hands. Moving routinely back among the lockers, he grabbed the first white lab coat from the first open locker he saw. Tossing his arms through the sleeves, he started back toward the corridor.
The coat was a poor fitâmuch too short in the armsâand the picture on the ID looked nothing like him. Same color hair, though, and that might prove enough to get him through. Locke kept walking and a minute later found himself about to enter a giant greenhouse. Men in similar white coats were everywhere, checking gauges and readouts and making notes concerning plants of virtually all varieties. He was in a section apparently devoted to insuring that no plant species became extinct. He walked through it and on until he came to a pair of double doors, just wide enough to accommodate their warning label:
CLOSED SECURITY SECTION, NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT BY RED BADGE.
Locke glanced down. Miraculously, his badge was red. He started moving through the heavy doors but they wouldn't budge. Then he noticed the steel slot on the wall to his right. A special ID card was required for entry. He started to search his pockets on the wild chance the coat contained one.
“Problems?”
The voice came from behind him. Locke swung to see a mustachioed man about his own age.
“I'll say. Damn slot won't accept my card. It must have bent in my wallet.”
“I was going in anyway,” the man said in excellent English, apparently the official language of the corporation. The machine swallowed his card, then spit it back out. There was a buzz and Chris heard the door snap mechanically open. “See.” The mustachioed man smiled, holding the door open for him. “Nothing to it.”
“Thank you,” Chris responded, moving to the right as the man veered to the left.
He had surprised himself with the way he'd handled the situation. Nothing had been planned. It just came to him like an actor's lines and he didn't question his actions further.
Locke passed a plate-glass window looking into a room twenty feet square lit up with fluorescents strung over strange-looking green shrubs. An iron clipboard was hanging on the wall, attached to the plaster on a light chain. Chris pretended to be studying it briefly to make sure no one was approaching, then ripped it free, holding it in his right hand as he started walking again. Where, though, was he going? He had made it into the high-security section but there were still dozens of hallways, hundreds of rooms.
Other technicians were moving past him regularly now, none giving him a second look. The labs came one after another, all with different announcements printed on their doors.
Then he saw the door up ahead with no markings at all, just a security guard watching intently. Something fluttered in Chris's stomach. He had to get inside that room. He bent over a water fountain and took in as much water as he could hold. When he stepped back he saw a group of scientists advancing steadily down the corridor. They drew closer and Locke noticed all wore red badges with black crosses drawn through them. His own lacked a cross, but he joined the group.