Doc Ford 19 - Chasing Midnight (23 page)

The fat man motioned toward Tomlinson without bothering to look at him. “Ask the long-haired gentleman to leave. And your other
colleague. And, of course, Ford. He can’t be in the room if you expect me to speak frankly.”

Geness was observing the man, possibly interpreting his theatrics as weakness. Or maybe it had nothing to do with his brother telling Talas, “Okay. Everyone but Ford goes. Him, we want to watch how he reacts.”

The fat man mumbled something about “a compromising position,” but Geness was already signaling Odus, who took charge by grabbing Tomlinson’s arm and yanking him toward the door. Then to Kahn he said, “You heard my brother. Get out!”

Kahn was indignant. He reminded them they were symbiotic brothers, members of 3P2, but then he stopped talking when he noticed Geness’s glassy stare and left. When the door was closed, Talas became the convivial fat man again, an experienced negotiator who shared confidences as if they were gifts when in fact they were concealed loans that might pay him interest down the road.

To the twins he said, “Your colleague who just left is a truly despicable little brat. Never trust him.”

Odus liked that, but Geness remained expressionless as he replied, “Abraham says the more time you take, the better chance you’ll think of a believable lie.”

Talas appeared chastened but still managed to chuckle, “Yes, let’s stick to business. Time is money. Okay, then”—he looked at me and allowed his smile to vanish. “There is an American agent—a specialist with unusual skills—whose existence isn’t questioned but whose identity has never been confirmed. Not positively, anyway, although the Russians and the Muslim countries have been trying to do so for several years.” Talas maintained eye contact as he nodded. “Some believe this is the man.”

“Him?”
Odus, enjoying himself now, wanted to believe it but had to ask.

“He is a thoroughly treacherous person, by all reports. And my sources of information are among the best in the world—members of the former Soviet KGB. You’re familiar with the organization?”

“We have degrees in engineering and philosophy,” Geness said, but even he wore a mild smile now, a man whose only experience with political intrigue had come from computer chips and Bible tales.

“Then you understand why I asked that the room be cleared. Okay, then! I’ll give you an example: last night, in a private meeting, I heard Viktor Kazlov tell his bodyguard that if anything happened to him that he should find this man and kill him immediately. ‘Don’t bother asking questions, just shoot the biologist’—those were Viktor’s words, or something similar.”

I was wondering if that was true as Talas tilted a bottle of water to his mouth, then emptied it with a series of reptilian constrictions that proved he had an Adam’s apple.

“He is a professional assassin,” Talas continued. “In Eastern Europe alone, it’s said that he’s responsible for the execution of at least three men—all innocent Muslims, by the way. In Cuba, one man that I’ve heard of. In Southeast Asia and Africa? Impossible to say.

“The KGB’s only interest in that sort of information would be to add data to create a clearer picture of the doctor’s tactics. His
modus operandi
, one might say. Or to eliminate him as a suspect in some earlier assassination.”

For the first time, Talas spoke directly to me, saying, “‘Interstice timeline.’ Isn’t that what the intelligence community calls it? A way to connect victims of execution with their probable assassins. Another way to put it, I suppose, is that it’s a way to graph a man’s sins by charting his travels.”

Odus said to Geness, “Interstice timeline. That is
so
sick. Like intersection points, right?”

Geness’s expression remained blank as I told him, “I don’t know
where Talas came up with his story but it’s fiction. We had an argument this afternoon about his people poaching fish in the Caspian Sea. That’s why he’s trying to get me killed. And he’s a Muslim, so what’s he care about one more infidel? You’re a philosophy major, you understand what I’m saying.”

Talas made a show of remaining aloof. “Few Muslims are cold-blooded killers. Sadly, the same can’t be said for this man. Tie him up and lock him in a closet, that’s my best advice to you. If you entrust him with these letters, you are risking—”

“This is complete bullshit,” I cut in. “You want the truth, I’ll tell you the truth. I’m a marine biologist, plain and simple. For the last ten minutes, I’ve been thinking more about what’s happening to the sturgeon on Kazlov’s boat. How do you know there are a thousand? That many fingerling sturgeon, in an area that small, someone needs to get down there and get the generator going. The damn thing should have started automatically when the power went out. The filters have to be changed, the water, too. Depending on their size, they might need fresh water, not salt water. I’m not going to risk my life to find Talas’s caviar buddies, but I can help save those fish once it’s safe to go out.”

I was noticing that Geness rarely blinked. It added an opaque quality to his eyes, as if they were covered by grape skins. Sounding interested, he said to me, “The Judas didn’t say you’re an assassin.”

“Yeah,” his brother said. “He told us you’re a tactical expert. Like a secret agent or something. This was before we figured out he’s a Judas.”

“Maybe he wanted to impress you by making me sound important,” I countered. “Or save his own butt by turning the dogs loose on me.”

Geness appeared amused as his brother said, “That’s a shitty thing to say about a friend.”

I had already projected how it must feel to be the Neinabors—the butt of jokes, small, soft and emotionally fragile, raised as outsiders by religious nomads. To be taken seriously by the insane, you must insert yourself into their world, which is why I replied, “You ever have a friend who didn’t stab you in the back? It happens all the time.”

Geness’s response was an involuntary nod, and I saw a look go between him and Odus. Then the two got back to the business of how to add Armanie and Kazlov to the list of people they would soon murder.

A
few minutes later, I noticed that Talas was trying to engage me with his eyes, possibly to warn me I was making a mistake by denying his story. To ignore him, I stared at my sodden running shoes rather than risk any sign of collusion.

Odus was saying, “So who we going to send with this guy, if we choose him? One of the women?”

“Did Abraham say anything about the Chinese girl? Maybe Rez and Trapper didn’t tell you, but they checked her billfold and she’s a member of 3P2! Plus, they found a military—”

To silence the man, I took a long step toward Geness, so close the guy thrust his pistol at me in surprise, then used his left hand to shove me away.

“Don’t do that,” he said, startled. “I didn’t give you permission to move.”

I told him, “I’ve got to piss so bad, I can’t hold it anymore. Whatever you decide, make up your damn mind.”

A risky finesse, but it was enough to shut up Odus and maybe convince Geness that what Talas was saying was true. Biologists weren’t expected to be aggressive.

“Get away from my brother,” Odus yelled, pushing his way toward me. Before he got close, though, I told him, “If you slap me, you’re not going to like what happens next.”

It stopped the twin in his tracks, and then Geness helped my cause by saying to his brother, “A marine biologist,” as if sharing an inside joke.

“Yeah,” Odus said, catching on. “
Yeah.
For a big, goofy-looking nerd, he’s kind of a hardass.”

That was it. Geness had made his decision, I could read it in his face. They had only one other decision to make—who to send along. Geness expedited the process by warning me, “Abraham says to shoot someone every fifteen minutes until our delivery boy gets back. Motivation, he says. What do you think of that?”

I was looking at a wedge of red-and-green computer bag beneath the desk, thinking,
If they have another bomb, why would he bother killing people one at a time?
Which was reassuring until I remember that the insane are logical only when it serves their irrational objectives.

“Abraham won’t spend the rest of his life in prison,” I replied. “You will. That’s what I think.”

Odus was shouting, “Hey, don’t be a smartass!” but went silent when his brother, still calm, said, “No, you’re missing my point. Who do we shoot first? It’s a sacrificial offering, you know.” The twin studied me for a moment. “Do you read the Bible?”

“No.”

“You should. It would help you understand. Proverbs says, ‘God will despoil the lives of those who despoil the Earth. For there is no sin graver than to befoul the Earth, so they
must
be sacrificed.’ Understand now?”

I replied, “Those women have nothing to do with any of this. They own a few restaurants, so they came here to have some fun. That’s all—”

Odus cut in, shouting, “Shut up. They came here wearing dead animals on their feet!” Then he offered a quote to Geness. “The Earth mourns and withers, and its defilers shall be scorched until none are left. Isaiah, right?”

I was picturing women’s leather shoes tossed into a pile in the middle of the room as Geness said, “What I’m telling you is, someone has to be sacrificed. If it was your decision, who would be first?”

Without hesitating, I nodded at Talas. “Sacrifice him.”

Geness was actually smiling as he shook his head. “Uh-uh. Mr. Blimpie needs to stay alive for our party. Who next?”

“Tomlinson,” I replied with a hint of bitterness—enough, hopefully, to influence the next decision.

Maybe so, because Geness began nodding, pleased with the way he had handled things, as his brother said, “Because your old friend snitched on you, huh?”

Snitched?
The Neinabor twins had never escaped childhood.

I refused to discuss the subject with a shake of my head.

“That’s what happened, he snitched.” Odus nodded to himself. “Say, how do you get into the spy business, anyway? We’ve heard the CIA recruits people when they’re still in college. We’d be good at it, you know.
Seriously.
I even called their headquarters a couple of times but no one called back. My brother and me, we’ve got master’s degrees, so it’s not like we aren’t qualified.”

I pretended to be surprised by the CIA’s disinterest because I wanted to confirm something Geness had said earlier. “In philosophy?”

“Western religion and mechanical engineering. We graduated in half the time it took most of the rich asswipe leeches at USC. Straight 4.0s, but the CIA didn’t give a shit. And we sent, like, ten e-mails, remember, Geness?”

He turned back to me, “How many people have you executed?
Honestly. We don’t believe in hell—not that brimstone shit, anyway. But anyone with brains knows the Revelation of Saint John is coming true. So… so, what we’re wondering—”

“The thing won’t understand because he doesn’t read the Bible,” Geness reminded him.

Odus’s face reddened, and he yelled, “I know that! Stop treating me like I’m fucking stupid!” Then, in a calmer voice, he said to me, “When the Rapture comes, do you think we’ll be judged like some random ghetto murderers? It’s got to be different for environmental warriors, right? God protects the Earth by helping us, right?”

I nodded because that’s what the twins wanted me to do, but I was thinking,
They’re delusional, they’re volatile, and someone’s going to
die.

“In the Hebrew texts,” Geness was explaining, “the Latin
homicidium
has a totally different meaning than the Latin for ‘warrior’ or even ‘assassin,’ which is
caedis
. For my brothers and me, our bodies reuniting with the Earth as vapor and salt water—that’s the ultimate Rapture.”

Odus took over, saying, “The whole judgment thing would worry anybody. I mean, maybe Moses gave us the
Thou shalt not kill
commandment first for a reason. Not that we’re scared. But you’re the first person we’ve met who’s actually done it. You know,
kill
someone. Understand what we’re getting at?”

Yes, and the implications as well. The twins saw themselves as martyr warriors. They were willing to die for their cause but were unwilling to suffer the consequences.

There was also something else I now suspected: they had made a suicide pact. The two of them planned to die in a cloud of vapor and salt water, along with their enemies.

That’s when I knew for sure what was going to happen. Umeko had been wrong about the bomb. There
was
an explosive somewhere on the island. That’s why the twins had demanded that Kazlov and
Armanie be returned to the lodge before three a.m. The explanation was obvious—so obvious now I felt like a fool for not figuring it out earlier. The twins had built their bombs at
home
in California. The detonator clocks were still on Pacific time.

Suddenly, it was all too clear. Two mechanical engineers would have no problem rigging a clock or wireless detonator—both, probably, if they were smart, so one system could override the other. And they
were
smart. Getting their hands on military-grade explosives would be a bigger challenge, but mixing a low-grade explosive was easy. The only difference was that potency—the speed of deflagration—and stability were reduced.

The homemade variety was combustible, more sensitive to static electricity and friction. But that wouldn’t bother a couple of martyrs. They could vaporize themselves by pushing a remote button or let a ticking clock make the decision for them.

Chasing midnight. I’d been doing it for the last two hours, but now the danger was confirmed. With great effort, I managed not to look at the Super Mario bag stashed beneath the desk.

“What’s the problem, Ford? The idea of being judged worry you, too?”

Apparently, I hadn’t heard Odus’s question the first time because he sounded irritated. Then he said again, “Tell the truth: how many men have you killed? Or maybe Mr. Blimpie is lying about that, too.”

I let them watch me give the question serious thought. I wanted to give it enough time to confirm that such a number existed before appearing to give in. Finally, I told Geness, “All right. I’ll do it.”