Authors: Lawrence Sanders
We now skip to 1988. Interest in
Clostrium botulinum
had waned. There were simpler and more efficient means available.
But in 1988, a US intelligence sleeper in the Soviet Union reported a laboratory in Vitebsk had suddenly organized a restricted research project on botulism. The report was confirmed by other sources, and the flap was on.
Several US scientific agencies were put on a crash basis to develop: (1) Botulism as a viable chemwar agent; and (2) A defense against botulism used as a viable chemwar agent. One of the agencies assigned to this service was the Division of Research & Development, SATSEC, DOB. Which was how I became intimately acquainted with
Clostridium botulinum.
I was eighteen at the time.
Approximately six months after the Phase II alert, it was learned that the Vitebsk lab was doing exactly what had been reported: It was researching the causes and prevention of botulism. Because there had been an outbreak of food poisoning in the Pinsk area, caused by spoiled canned blintzes. The Vitebsk research led to | improved commercial food processing in the Soviet Union.
But before our Phase II alert was rescinded, civilian scientists under contract to the US Army had succeeded in developing a fully aerobic strain of
Clostridium botulinum,
easily cultivated
in vitro.
i Suspended in glycerol, it could be sprayed on standing crops or dumped into water supplies. Quite lethal. To my knowledge it was only used once, in a field test. An obscure Marxist revolutionary in , Guatemala had been manipulated into accepting a good Havana cigar. The tip of the cigar had been painted with the new compound. He lighted up, puffed, rolled the cigar around his lips. “Too i sweet,” he remarked. His last words.
That was 416HBL-CW3—the aerobic strain of
Clostridium botulinum.
It was in the specimens forwarded from the National | Epidemiology Center. It was what was stopping all those objects in GPA-11. I had no doubt that the epidemic was programmed. But j how, and by whom, and for what reason, I hadn’t the slightest idea.
I intended to fly to Washington the following day to bring my ' discovery to the attention of the Chief Director. But late that same afternoon I received a note, via commercial mail, from Grace j Wingate. Pleasant but cool. She and her aide would be in New York I the following day on a shopping trip. She was writing to take advantage of my kind invitation to lunch. If that was possible, I could make arrangements through her aide. Number given.
416HBL-CW3 could wait. There was no rush, since there was no antidote. I immediately flashed the social secretary. A very imposing dragoon of an ef came on screen.
“Louise Rawlins Tucker speaking,” she said crisply. “Ah, may I be of service?”
I identified myself.
“Ah yes, Dr. Flair,” she said. Consulting a list on her desk.
‘ ‘We have you down for luncheon tomorrow in New York. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “What time will—”
“Ah, we have you down for 1300,” she said. “We prefer the Cafe Massenet, since the premises are familiar to our security staff. Ah, will that be convenient?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Ah, splendid. The party will consist of Mrs. Wingate and myself. And security staff, of course. But they will not be dining with us. The head waiter, Henri, will have a secluded table for us in your name.”
“Thank you. And I—”
“Ah, please be prompt, Dr. Flair,” she said. “We do have a very tight schedule. Looking forward to meeting you in person.”
I was about to return the compliment, but she clicked off. Ah.
It didn’t give me much time. But I had computed how Grace Wingate and I might be alone together. Briefly. And not in my apartment, a motel room, or a lavish suite in one of the
maisons d’assignation
that had become the Park Avenue equivalent of hot-pillow joints. It was too early in our relationship to plan such a maneuver. And with her aide and security guards in attendance. . . .
I flashed a rental agency that specialized in elegant antique and classic cars. I knew exactly the vehicle I wanted; my father had had
}
one in his collection: a 1972 Jaguar
1
XKE. The agency had two available, one black and one fire-engine-red. I chose the red. In January, 1999, it would be impossible to be inconspicuous in a car
1
like that, regardless of the color. I slid my BIN card into the flasher slot. While they were verifying my credit rating, I made arrangements for the car to be delivered to the compound gate at 1200 the following day.
It was, I knew, not a car that accommodated more than two comfortably.
The next morning I flashed Ellen Dawes and told her I would not be in the office until late that afternoon. If any insuperable crisis arose, I could be contacted at the Cafe Massenet after 1300.
"Nothing less than the end of the world, ” I told her. “On second thought, not even for that.”
“I.understand,” she laughed.
“And I left you the coffee ration in the top file drawer. Under
C.
I For coffee.”
She giggled delightedly.
I had decided on civilian clothes. A suit of Oxford gray flannel with a Norfolk jacket. Shirt of white natural linen with a Lord Byron collar. Plastisilk scarf of sky blue. Black plastipat moccasins with tooty tassels. I wore a plaid cloak thrown casually over my shoulders. I smelled of elegance.
When I checked out at the compound gate at 1210, there was a gang of security guards around my red Jaguar, admiring the lines and listening to the chauffeur’s lecture on the car’s performance potential.
“What a cock-bucket!” one of them marveled.
“You going cruising for cush, Dr. Flair?” one of them asked.
“No,” I said, “Fm taking my dear old grandmother for a spin in the country.”
I don’t think they believed me. I signed for the car, handed the chauffeur a pat, slid behind the wheel. If I smelled of elegance, the car smelled of love. Natural glove-leather upholstery; natural burled-walnut dash. If burial had been legal, I would have opted for that car as my casket.
I pulled up in front of the Cafe Massenet. Directly in front. I had an instantaneous audience: passersby pausing to goggle at the car’s sensuous lines. When I alighted, carrying my plaid cloak, I attracted almost as much attention.
“Big porn star,” someone said knowingly.
The doorman awaited me under the canopy. I had his pat ready.
“I’m Dr. Flair,” I said. “With Mrs. Wingate’s party.”
“Of course, Dr. Flair.”
“I’d like to leave the car right there.”
He glanced down at the folded bill before slipping it inside his white glove.
“Of
course,
Dr. Flair!”
“I’m Dr. Flair,” I said to the headwaiter. “With Mrs. Wingate’s party.”
“But of course, Dr. Flair! An honor, doctor!”
He snapped his fingers. Someone took my coat.
“I am Henri,” he murmured. “Allow me.”
He removed a minuscule bit of lint from my shoulder.
“This way, if you please, doctor,” he said. “Mrs. Wingate’s special table.”
Heads turned to watch our passage. The trappings of power. The only objects who scoff are the powerless.
It was unquestionably the best table in the room. Secluded, but with a fine view of everything. I was the first to arrive. As I had planned. I bent my knee. A chair was gently nudged under me. The pale pink napery was so stiff it was difficult to bend.
“While the doctor is waiting?” Henri suggested diffidently. “A something?”
“A something would be nice.” I nodded. “Perhaps champagne as an aperitif?”
"Oh, excellent," he chortled. "May I suggest a ’91 Piper? It was a very good year.”
“The Piper will be fine,” I said.
“And just in time!” he cried. “For here are the ladies!”
If my entrance had occasioned glances, theirs attracted stares. The preceding black zipsuit marched past me, hand in pocket, into the restaurant’s kitchen. And stayed there. Presumably guarding a back entrance. A second sentinel, an ef, took up a position behind and to one side of our table. Impassive. The third remained near the entrance. I relished every minute of it. The panoply!
“Mrs. Wingate,” I said. Having risen. “How nice to see you again. And you must be Louise Rawlins Tucker. A profit.” When we were all seated:
Grace: “Nick! Did you see that antique car parked out front? What a beauty! It’s all red, and so lovely!”
I (negligently): “The Jaguar? Oh, yes. It’s mine.”
I knew, instinctively, that Louise Rawlins Tucker, personal aide and social secretary to the Chief Director’s wife, would be important to our scenario. During lunch I paid court. Not neglecting Grace Wingate, but trying to make the duenna feel she was guest and partner more than server and chaperone.
It was not difficult. Though her physical appearance was offputting—-she was more yeoman than dragoon—she had an easy manner and a pretty wit. More significantly, she had an obviously deep affection for her young charge. That made us co-conspirators, did it not?
The luncheon ritual went swimmingly. Louise was wearing a dove gray flannel suit, not too unlike my own in cut. That was good for a laugh. Grace was wearing—I could not have been conscious of it since I did not remember it.
Once, while I was speaking, she reached up, listening, looking into my eyes, and twirled a vagrant strand about her finger. Slowly twisting and stroking. Ems have gone to war for less.
About Louise Rawlins Tucker:
She was an obso, quite large, with enough lumps and blotches to remind me of leonine facies. But she was obviously not a victim of
Mycobacterium leprae;
simply an unfortunate, unprepossessing ef. With a wry, self-deprecating charm that included amusement at her own officiousness.
I wondered—parti-wondered—if she sensed my interest in Grace Wingate and might not be a closet romantic. Because, under my gentle prying, she revealed that she had devoted most of her adult life to the care of her widowed father. A professor of Romantic Literature at Georgetown University.
“Isn’t all literature romantic?” I asked.
“Ah,” she said.
Then, upon her father’s stopping, she had created a whole new life for herself.
“I don’t know what I’d do without Louise,” Grace Wingate said fondly. Putting her soft, tanned hand on the other ef’s claw. “Just perish, I suppose.”
“Ah, I’d do anything for you, angel,” Louise Rawlins Tucker vowed. Fiercely.
“Anything. ”
I had the oddest notion that she was speaking to me. A promise. And a warning.
When we went outside, preceded and followed by black zipsuits, there was an admiring audience circling the red Jaguar. The doorman looked on benignly.
“Nick,” Grace Wingate said, “is it really yours?”
“For the day,” I said. “A ride?”
“Oh! What a profit!”
She looked to Louise Rawlins Tucker.
“Grace, you can’t,” her aide said. “We’re running so late.” “A half-hour,” I pleaded. “Around town. Through Central Park. You and the guards can trail us.”
“Louise?” Grace said. “Please? May I?”
“Ah,” the yeoman said. Looking at me. “Well. . . . Twenty minutes. No more. We’ll be right behind you.
So they were: two black limousines following my every turn. I didn’t care. I was alone with Grace. I laughed. She laughed. “You area scamp!” she said. “Do you ever run out of ideas?” “Never,” I said. “But this is a one-shot. We can’t do it again.” “No,” she said. Regretfully. “I suppose not. Oh, Nick, it’s
such
a car.”
It was. It handled like a muscled ef. I turned smoothly into Central Park, heading north, making the grand circuit. Children were sledding. Booting a soccer ball through the snow. Chasing. There were dogs. Objects were sauntering. Couples. Users, I supposed.
“Grace,” I said.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just Grace.”
She put her hand lightly on my arm. A few months previously she had told me of her love for her husband. How she would do anything to preserve her marriage. And now she was. . . . But I didn’t think less of her for that. It made her infinitely more precious. Idealism was for scoundrels. I wasn't that. Quite. Nor was she.
“Grace,” I said again.
“Yes?”
“What are you wearing?”
“Didn’t you notice? Brute! I wore it just for you.”
“All I could see was you.”
She could not snuggle; the limousine was close behind. But her arm moved sideways. Hand probed. I moved up casually in my bucket seat so she could clasp my waist.
I took a deep breath.
“I love you,” I said.
It didn’t hurt.
“Yes,” she said.
“Will you say it?” I asked her.
“No,” she said. Quite low. “Not yet.”
“But you shall?”
“I think so. Please, Nick. Time.”
“Oh, yes.” I nodded. “As much as you want. And then I shall have your ears.”
“My ears?” She was astounded.
I told her how I worshiped her ears. She was amused. And touched. I thought.
“I’ll cut them off and mail them to you,” she said. “Dear, sweet Nick.” She touched my beard. Quickly.
“What are we to do?” I asked.
She thought a long moment. But I knew she had already computed it.
“Do you like Louise?” she asked.
“Yes. Very much.” “She lives alone in this big house in Chevy Chase. Not too far from where you and Paul live. Since her father stopped, she has become very social. Her parties are famous. Very tooty. Mike is away a lot. Out of the mainland. It would be all right if I went to Louise’s parties. Mike would approve.”
“Would Louise? I mean, would she invite me?”
“Yes. If I asked.”
“You trust her?”
“With my life.”
“Exactly,” I said. “It may come to that.”
“I’m willing. Are you?”
“There’s asharpcurveupahead,” I said. “To the left. I’m going to speed up suddenly. We’ll be around the turn before the limousines catch up. They won’t see us. I can bend to you. You can bend to me. Briefly.”
“Yes,” she said.
So we did. We kissed. Oh
The next day I took the air shuttle to Washington. I had flashed ahead to set up a facial with the Chief Director. Penelope Mapes came on screen. .