Fiction 1, Chapters 9 & 10

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"Canadian Shield" Copyright © 1993

Chapter 9

"Swift is her walk, more swift her winged haste:

A monstrous phantom, horrible and vast.

As many plumes as raise her lofty flight,

So many piercing eyes enlarge her sight;..."

Aeneid, Virgil

       MONTREAL, QUEBEC:

       "Thank you for flying Swissair."

       Marcus Bakker could do no more than grunt in return.  Not that it mattered; the stewardess expected no reply __or a perfunctory one at best.  Even if Bakker had managed to overcome his surliness, any answer would have been overwhelmed by the thunderous roar of another airplane taking off anyway.

       Ordinarily the man striding through the corridors of Mirabel airport was considerate of servants, employees and acquaintances __and exceptionally punctilious to competitors.  But even though he was the Chairman and C.E.O. of a company based in Geneva, he could not abide everyday contact with the Swiss themselves.

       They are so God-damned smug, he thought, as he walked rapidly across the main arrival terminal toward the baggage carousel.  When they play the jolly host, I want to grind my teeth into tooth powder.  They do not actually ever do anything themselves.  They just act as servants smoothing the way, while they assume for themselves a station above that of their superiors.  They are the most irritating lubricant in the world.

       Marcus Bakker hated to fly.

       It is bad enough in a 747, he considered; far worse in the Concorde.  To fly, first-class or no, in a 727, or God forbid, a 737, is like spending an eternity chained in a falling box.  That combination of moderate claustrophobia and mild acrophobia tended to exaggerate his natural antipathy to the patient Swiss.  Bakker's company may have been chartered in Zurich, but his own offices and home were just outside of Geneva in the small city of Carouge __as far away as he could get from Switzerland, while still inside it.

       As the Chairman, Bakker was certainly entitled to use Morgen Industries' corporate jet; he was the only one entitled to use it.  It would have been much more comfortable in that particular plane __even for a trans-Atlantic flight__ but his first priority had to be circumspection.

       Though his affiliation with the Institute was well known to McGill and their arrangement was a common one between the academic and the corporate worlds, there was no sense drawing too much attention to his direct involvement in what was supposed to be academic research.

       Bakker's connections, as a philanthropist, with the University of Geneva had given him a great deal of clout in French-Canadian academic circles.  The stability of the Swiss nation, its respect for the three major languages and cultures of its people __as well as the sharply-fanged neutrality that passed for its foreign policy__ commanded the respect of those intellectuals looking for models that might show the way for Canada in the twenty-first century.

       The fact that the University of Geneva was basically French-speaking didn't hurt either, nor the fact that Bakker spoke French perfectly himself.

       Still, Japanese companies had been bribing away American technology through their university system for years, and the more defensive Canadians could be xenophobic about things like that.  Open contact with McGill was all right; direct contact with the operational personnel on-site, however, was best kept discreet.

        The Canadian Customs officer thought that the white-haired, tall and elegantly slender man on the other side of the counter would have been kind of cute in a fatherly sort of way, if he hadn't given the impression of a bubbling pot about to boil over.  She might have even enjoyed stretching him out a little further by conducting a minute inspection of his luggage and briefcase __however, there was a considerable line behind him.

       The influx of foreign visitors for the upcoming Aurora Compact meetings was starting early.  

       A quick peek at his visa and a careful stamp of the Dutch passport took all the time she had to spare for a visitor who fit no undesirable profiles.  The girl mentally dismissed him:  He's not all that cute, anyway, eh.  Bakker's nose __a bit bent, just a little too long, a touch wider at the tip than at the brow__ fit right into her preconceptions about the name Marcus.  Why do they always circumcise the wrong organ? completed her thought.

       "Have a pleasant visit, sir," she said.  "That's all."

       He took a cab to the downtown Hilton in Centre-ville Montreal, where a large suite was reserved for him, only a few blocks from McGill University.  There still were several hours to spare for a hot bath and a nap before his subordinates were due.

       "Please report," Bakker commanded.  "You first, Lester."

        "Lester" was Lester Polewicz, a native-born Canadian of Polish immigrant parents.  There was a trace of accent, or perhaps intonation, in his speech that manifested his foreign heritage and immigrant upbringing, but nothing exotic about his looks.  The hair, almost black, clean-cut features and lean, hard frame would have fit in anywhere in northern North America without comment.  At forty, he considered himself in his prime and loved nothing more than working out before a mirror.

       "Sir!"  Polewicz was already standing, but drew himself up even straighter than usual.  "The suite has been swept, of course, and the small travel alarm on the coffee table will alert you to any intermittent radio transmissions.  You should be able to hear the alarm signal __a series of three chirps__ anywhere in the suite.

       The bath had relaxed Bakker sufficiently to restore him to his normal, somewhat patronizing self.  "I hope that you have it on now, my boy.  How is it activated?"

        Polewicz said, "Yes, sir.  It's on.  That function is always working.  Pressing the alarm button will cause the device to radiate a signal of its own that obscures the transmission of any vocal conversation by wired mikes, as well.  Please note, sir, that when it is on as it is now, the little red light is lit continuously."  He pointed at the bright little LED __quite unnecessarily__ and then continued.  "Off, that light is intermittent, as a warning.  The battery is rechargeable, and good for three hours of use on its own.  It should be kept plugged into the hydro outlet though, both as a power source and as an antenna."

       Bakker asked, "What about security at the depots.  You've had time to follow up on the deaths of your Indians last week.  What have you found?"

       Polewicz hadn't found anything worthwhile that he hadn't known before the deaths.  "The two men killed were part of a three man team used by my security chief at the Farm, for outside assignments.  As you directed, our own security force personnel are restricted in their operations to our property.  We use a local legbreaker as a cut-out in the chain of command.  There is no risk of compromise, but he has been retained in a remote area, away from the Farm.  In an extreme case, expendability is an option."

       "I did not ask to be reassured, Lester.  Were they working on an assignment from us at the time of the incident?"

       "Yes, sir," the younger man confirmed.  "They were checking on reports of some kind of insurance adjustor, asking around about the Farm and two boys who were killed up on God's River last month."

       "Were those deaths connected with the Farm in any way?"

       The answer to that question was absolutely "Yes," but Polewicz had no intention of losing his job __and perhaps his life__ by telling Bakker that a penetration had almost succeeded at the Farm, that a middle-aged Wop priest had gotten within a hundred feet of the deadliest and most precious substance in the world.

       "Not that I know of, Mr. Bakker," he lied, "but it's difficult to know whether any of our Indians or Metis' were involved.  For the sake of security at this point, the chain of command is one-way."

       "What of the third Indian?" Bakker wanted to know.

       "He claims not to have been involved in the deaths of the other two, sir.  The boy says that he was hit from behind by an unknown party and woke up twenty-five miles away from the site of the killings __near the highway.  There are no charges lodged against him as yet, but his superior and he are being held by our men anyway at a camp not far from York Factory __near Hudson Bay."  That camp had been one of those in use during the summer for surveys and site analyses by contract employees of the Institute.

       "You would say that it is under control then, Lester?"

       "Yes, sir.  I would, Mr. Bakker."  Polewicz started to reach for a comb in his shirt pocket, feeling jumpy.  Aware of the self-betrayal immediately, he snatched his hand away and converted the gesture to a tie-straightener.

       "And what about recruitment?"  Bakker gave no hint whether he had picked up on his subordinate's nervousness.  The other two were going over their own portfolios of memos and reports.

       "Not as well, sir," the younger man said, fully recovered now.  "Since the distribution at Oka, with its premature results, we have been careful not to disburse more than a handful of garden variety weapons and a modest amount of ammunition.  That has limited our expansion among the Indians, Mr. Bakker.  Seriously so."

       "But the pattern, my young friend."  Bakker placed his left hand on the other's right shoulder.  "Has the pattern been followed that our computers have modeled?"

       "Yes, sir.  Exactly.  Roots, branches and all, just as ordered.  When the time comes, the weapons will flow like a cascade __but for the moment, there is no way to trace any of the projected incidents or the supply routes back to us."

       "Satisfactory, I suppose, but try to keep more up to schedule, Lester."

       The Chairman looked then toward Langerhans, his protégé, with pride and a genuine affection.

       "Theo!  It is good to see you again.  Do you have the watershed figures yet?"

       "Yes, Marcus; both the estimated schedules and budget.  They are well within the target zone, eight months earlier and forty-seven million dollars, U.S., less than the specified maximum."

       Theodore Langerhans' voice fitted his looks.  The aquiline  nose, red hair, fair skin and strong burr screamed Scotsman at the rest of the world.  To fellow Scots, his speech immediately proclaimed him to be a man of the Hebrides.

       Bakker beamed.  "Excellent, Theo!  The Ukrainians.  How is that going?"

       "Very well, Marcus.  We have managed to channel considerable funds to them through bogus co-operatives, and __put together with their matching contributions__ we are adding almost eighty thousand hectares a month in claimed land in their name.  We hold the mortgages however __indirectly, of course.  That will accelerate by two or three times within the year."  Each "r" in his speech tripped the tip of his tongue three times.  That was the most distinctive characteristic of his Scottish accent.

       "Very good, Theo.  Just as I expected from you.  Lester: We'll meet again tomorrow at eight hours for a more detailed session.  Cecil, would you and Theo be so kind as to stay behind for a few minutes?  You should see a video of the results on your Recombinant Slime Mold XXIII.  We can go forward with the testing in Canada, now.  Schedule for fully monitored trials, and then cable me when everything is set."

       Polewicz had risen from the couch to leave the suite, when the Chairman had an afterthought.

       "Lester, were there any witnesses to the two killings.  Of the Indians, I mean."

       "Just one, Mr. Bakker," he responded, "a girl at the store where it happened.  We don't know exactly what she heard.  She disappeared a few days later."

       "That is too bad, Lester.  Quite sloppy, actually.  Have her questioned when she is found.  Find out if there is more to this than meets the eye, if we are being attacked in some way."

       Polewicz nodded.  "Yes, sir," and braced himself to show no reaction even if he felt humiliated at this dressing down in front of the others.  He was sure that Langerhans would not have been treated so, nor Phaethon.  And he was right.  But to both observers, of course, his discomfiture __his flinching after the blows, not before__ was obvious.

       "And____you had better be sure that our two hermits stay on ice, as well.  We have little need of further things like these terrible church-burnings I have been hearing about.  The Indians are running out of restraint without any further rabble-rousing.  Time is growing short now.  Action today.  See to it, Lester."

       "Sir!"  Lester Polewicz stood at attention now, already making his plans to kill the two men at the God's River camp.  Orlando would have to leave the fortress at the Farm and take care of it for him personally.

       But the Security Chief thought he might fly up there himself to take over the runaway witness when she was found.  It would be a shame to waste a pretty young girl on the boy-lover.  A real shame.  Naturally, that end of things was his business alone, and not to be shared with the others.

       Bakker thought that he wielded power.  Lester Polewicz would someday demonstrate real power to him.  But not yet; not quite yet.

       The Chairman now resigned himself to the hell of just going through the motions for the sake of appearances.

       Bakker's meetings with the grant trustees and project administrators at McGill would require three more days of his time, so that he would appear to be normally interested in the pure research that was being accomplished, and normally concerned with the large sums being devoted to it.  Such boredom made the anticipation of his dreaded return flight bearable, almost welcome.

       NORTHEASTERN MANITOBA

       Emil Orlando had his orders, but he didn't like them.

       No matter, he'd had to leave the Farm and that was that.  The plane had room for only two bodyguards, along with himself and the pilot.  With the weapons, it was a tight fit.  Still, Orlando reflected, it was only another hour to York Factory, and about ten minutes less to their actual destination.

        He sorely missed having a friend to talk to on the trip.  That always assuaged his normal nervousness at leaving the protection of the Farm.  Orlando never missed the opportunity to hash over the good old days in Algeria with Casals, or Dupont as he was now called.

       The black market bazaars, the raki smuggled in from Turkey and the inexpensive hashish: all of that had represented so much more freedom than he was now able to allow himself.

       In particular, his fondness for pederasty in the old days was a luxury that he must budget with restraint in his new life, much to his regret.  In his mind, the physical and emotional perfection of young boys was no more a perverse attraction than any other work of art.  So much was that so __that his tastes were far too refined, in his estimation, to find any pleasure in the more common sexual pursuits.

       Of course, such preferences were not in the table of contents when he shared his reminiscences with Casals.  To Orlando, it seemed that Casals had been the only man in Algiers who strongly disapproved of such things.  It was too bad really, but there is no accounting for taste, he reminded himself.

       Often __in the silences of his mind__ he cursed his blackmailers and employers, who had him marching lockstep with Ukrainian-Canadians and South Africans.  Whether or not he held rank, either group would rip him limb from limb if he indulged his predilection, and it became known to them.  Emil Orlando was both their security chief and their prisoner, at the same time.

       This trip was worse, far worse than his normal tour.  Orlando was going to execute two men who worked for him __not for breaking the rules of the game__ but for being on the board when the rules were changed on them by a new and unknown player.  It was not just, and the exile expected a certain amount of justice in this world __that was why he took extraordinary precautions against the enemies of a younger self who had virtually disappeared twenty years before, half a world away.

       Looking down, the man once known as Roland Lime could see the Hayes river below them, right under the plane's shadow as it hurdled the landscape.  They were an hour past Norway House __about halfway to their destination.

       Orlando's reasoned agoraphobia was intensified by the knowledge of his most recent dereliction.  The Farm was no longer only his castle, it was Death Row for him as well.  There would have been a slight chance of his survival __had he disclosed the full extent of the recent penetration of the Farm's security.

       Instead, he had closed the lid on both shock-proof boxes with their ten sealed glass phials, ignoring the two empty spaces at one end of each box.  Re-closing, but unable to relock the damaged bunker door, Orlando buried, as far away as he could, the body of the guard he'd discovered just outside.  Then he neatened up the area and wedged the door in place.  From the guardhouse, all looked normal afterwards.  His report of the incident completely ignored the loss of the four phials and the death involved, in keeping with a lifetime's experience of surviving through dishonesty.

       Juggling the schedules to keep the guard's death a secret had been the most difficult part.  Orlando took a chance, shrewdly as it turned out, that none of the principal conspirators could even imagine the nightmare possibility of the deadliest substance in the world __short of plutonium, perhaps__ being stored in an unlocked hole in the ground.

       But his life would surely be forfeit at the next visit of Phaethon and Langerhans together, with their dual keys.  Orlando was the expert who had warranted that those locks could not be picked or blown.  He could not leave the Farm for long.  He could not stay at the Farm for long.

       He must survive from day to day now, he thought.

       It was not yet noon when they landed on the river and taxied to the wharf.  The pilot was instructed to keep the motor turning over, awaiting their imminent departure.  Then Orlando and the two armed men walked up the wharf toward a cabin.  

       Their prey were both standing in front of the cabin as they approached, and one of them gave a casual wave to him as he walked, and said, "Jacques, it is good to see you."  

       The man standing with the speaker visibly relaxed at the friendly tone of the greeting.  Unlike his boss, the young Indian had never even laid eyes on Orlando.  But at this camp he had heard many things about the old man, "Jacques," from his squad leader Robert, none of them good.  Such a man did not inspire trust or liking in his associates __or reveal his real name.

       The Indian lad is actually little more than a boy, Orlando judged.  What a shame!

       "Bon jour, Robert," he said.  His nose wrinkled at the unwashed smells of the interior, but he did not comment.  "We have come to carry you away from this land of outhouses and mosquitos; to speed you to the civilized delights of Thunder Bay.  Quickly, now!  Gather your belongings."

       Robert Graywolf could not conceal his puzzlement __or his unease__ as he stuffed the few things he had brought into a duffle bag, but he said nothing.  When he searched the paymaster's expression for a clue to what was coming next, his concern attracted Orlando's attention.  The latter man just nodded his head toward the young Indian's back, and pressed an index finger to his lips, gesturing for silence.

       It was clear to Graywolf that they would not all fit into the airplane that had just arrived.

       When Orlando ordered the two armed men to escort him down to the river and the plane, the terrorist squad leader knew that something bad was going to happen in that cabin.  With any luck, he would not only not be a participant __he wouldn't be a witness either.  Robert Graywolf hurried out with the duffle bag over his right shoulder.

       "I just wanted to ask you a few questions, dear boy," Orlando said.

       "I'm not a boy, old one."

       "Forgive me, I did not mean to insult you.  Would you please let me know if Robert is at the wharf yet?"

       The young man went to the sun-bleached front entrance of the murky cabin, carrying his own bag, and peered out of the open doorway.  The old Algerian lifted his automatic and sighted on its target through damp eyes.  He thought as he did so, that the price of being a romantic was far too high sometimes.

        "Not y____"  In milliseconds, the young Indian died; one narrow slice of time after another, one thousandth of a second for each increment.  The bullet, an unjacketed wad-cutter, had left the barrel of the nine-millimeter Browning pistol at a little more than three hundred meters a second.  About seven milliseconds later, it pierced the back of the boy's skull in the occipital region __with a neat, round little hole.

       The sound of the shot had impacted the target precisely one millisecond earlier.

       The bullet __carrying several small skull fragments__ passed through the brain, generating an hydrostatic shock wave as it went.  Within two milliseconds, the bullet and the shockwave reached the inside of the left frontal bone __the forehead__ and blew out a double-thumb-sized chunk of bone and brain, followed by a spray of bloody tissue.  The bare ground in front of the cabin accepted the stain without complaint.

       Graywolf heard the shot and hoped that it would be the only one fired on that day __but as he walked over the path, both guards suddenly fell behind.

       With cold fear clutching his heart and spasms of nervous pain shooting up both sides of his back, the next victim came to a spastic halt and tried to turn, but couldn't.  He managed to rotate his head though, just enough to see out of the corner of his left eye __the assault rifles leveled at him.

        The middle-aged man who had always been the transmitter of violence __not the receiver__ was too afraid to talk, to beg, to pray.  He knew that he had only seconds to live, but was terrified to shorten that time with any action that would hurry his fate.

       A quavering bladder failed him then, and he sank to his knees in shame and dread __tears streaming down his lined cheeks, drops that fell on pants that were already stained and wet.  Robert Graywolf spent his last embrace on the olive drab duffle bag that had been on his shoulder.  He never even heard the sound of the single rifle bullet that killed him.  It struck his spine, just between the shoulder blades, at almost twice the speed of sound.

        The meetings that followed in Montreal, over the next several days, were an unqualified success; Langerhans and Phaethon were both agreed about that.  The watershed project was remarkably ahead of schedule and under-budget __while the bio-genetics work was advancing from the status of applied research to engineering miracle at a satisfying pace.

       Theodore Langerhans had long known of the Chairman's personal regard for him, even in the early days of their ten-year professional relationship.  And he returned that affection and admiration.

       There had never been a quality role model for his youth, no one who could measure up to Bakker.  From the very beginning, the younger man had been captivated by the Chairman's dream of a new nation that would lead the world of the future.  And he had been gradually overawed both by the man's intellectual scope and his unfailing kindness and courtesy.

       With gratitude to destiny, Theodore Langerhans accepted that this man would be his spiritual and intellectual father, brother and friend.  Compared to Bakker, the Scot felt handicapped by a certain tunnel vision of the intellect.  Yet, at the same time, he knew that he himself possessed a remarkable ability to focus his energies on the accomplishment of an immediate task.  And that was an ability that no visionary can afford the time to develop.

       Both men utterly reliable, they were more than leader and follower.  A C.S. Forester fan, Langerhans thought of himself as a landlocked Captain Horatio Hornblower, and Bakker as the sort of Admiral, perhaps Nelson, that Hornblower had deserved but was never privileged to serve as Flag Captain.  Together they would be virtually unstoppable.  

       Still, the young commercial genius had known well that there would be a price to pay someday for his chance at greatness; likely a price in blood.  And he knew that some of that blood would inevitably be the blood of innocents.

       With that thought, he took from his attache case the two medallions that had accompanied Marcus Bakker's video tape.  Twenty-four hours after the test of the new slime-mold, these chains and their pendants were found glittering in the sun on the small island where nothing but a few newly-arrived bacteria lived.  There had been belt buckles and a pair of spectacle lenses too, imbedded in the little twin mounds of humus that were under the jewelry.

       Well, not exactly jewelry, he thought.  The front of each shiny medal was stamped with the image of a Saint, a holy man extending a priestly blessing.  There was no inscription around the rim to identify him, which made the medals unique.  And the back of each was coated with enamel, displaying a bold black pattern on a crimson background.  That black outline looked like some sort of Ninja throwing star, but it had been identified as a Maltese Cross and some atavistic Protestant memory conjured up heraldic notions of papist evil stamping its majesty on a field of human blood.

       Otherwise, no explanation had accompanied them.  No expert available could account for that symbol of Holy War, which had not seen the light of day since fifteenth century Poland.

       Yet the sterling silver was almost untarnished by corruption, and it was certain that they had been brought to that island no earlier than days before.  There was little doubt, either, that those who had brought them there had not left them there.

       What a ghastly way to die.  The Scotsman shuddered at the thought, wiping his fingers on a handkerchief after returning the relics to their envelope in his briefcase.

       Still, the horrors of the unnatural disasters that Bakker and Langerhans foresaw, the millions of lives that they could save, the leadership that they would provide to a desperate world in an unprecedented crisis, and his utter faith in his only mentor; all of these drew him onward inexorably to follow where Marcus Bakker led.  He was the adoptive heir to greatness, the greatness of an enterprise that had spanned two generations and three continents.

       The Founding Father of that enterprise was long dead now.  Marius Bakker had been a soldier who believed in peace, a member of a ruling minority who called for universal justice, a dreamer and scholar who believed in taking action to achieve his principles.

       Marcus Bakker's own dream of rescuing a white "silent majority" of South Africa still encompassed his father's vision totally, omitting none of the elder's goals.  But the son's noble ambition had also grown with the man himself and the technology of the times, far beyond the scope that any prior generation could have imagined.

       Langerhans tried to remember their first meeting in exact detail.  The year had been 1985; the season, chilly summer; the locale, an even colder stream in the Scottish Highland.

       The older man's dry-fly had flown true and barely kissed the surface of the water, making just as much commotion as a flitting insect __and no more__ on the surface of a pool near the other side of the wide stream __about a fifty foot cast.  The day itself was equally still, an ever-present mist generating a hushed echo to accompany the most subdued of sounds.

       Langerhans, angling from the same side but further upstream, had nodded his appreciation for the difficult and elegant cast that the other had made.  He particularly noted the minimal "false" casting in the other man's technique, just enough to flick unwanted drops of water from line and lure.

       Too few anglers, in his opinion, could equal this older man for economy of effort and graceful motion.

       In counterpoint, he shortened the remainder of his line to pick it up for a straight cast somewhat earlier than he normally would have.  Ordinarily, a horizontal cast or a roll cast would have been sufficient to lift the extended line and flip its fly back upstream, closer to the rough water.

       But not this time.  Now, for some reason, Langerhans felt the urge to salute.

       Quickly stripping about thirty feet of extended line with his left hand __between the reel and first guide__ he quickly, decisively brought the rod back fully to form a graceful arc, then forward as the picked-up line snapped all the way back.  Without looking, he knew that the figure eight of his back cast had been perfect.

       As his right wrist snapped the forward cast, the diminutive fly followed the momentum of the leading thirty feet of filament, ounces only __even less than that, really__ as well as the free line, looped in his left hand, that rapidly shot through the pole guides.

       The wet fly landed in roiled water just downstream of some rock-strewn rapids, literally as light as a feather, and drifted toward the still domain of the elder trout.  Like a puppet-master, he manipulated rod and line expertly to transmute the inert lure into a drowning insect fighting for its life.  Then, periodically, he would spiral his line with a roll cast, lifting the fly through the air to land yards upstream and begin the deception anew.

       The true art in this effortless exercise was not to be found in the cast of the fly, nor in grace of movement.  The mind's eye held their talent, and the flowing water was their medium.  Equipment __though expensive__ contributed no more to their mastery than any given sable brush or palette knife to a landscape artist.  And their mastery was not over the stream, but themselves.  Their minds lived within the water at such times and belonged there fully as much as any other of its creatures.

       Later, since they were staying at the same lodge for the same week, it was not a remarkable coincidence that they would meet and compare notes.  Among those who make angling a religion, all fly fishermen sit in the same pew.  Langerhans himself had often cast the same area with a dry-fly, simply to experience the full potential for challenge inherent in that particular stretch of water.

       Of all sports, none can be more solitary than fishing.  And there is no other that may foster comradeship more quickly.  Their conversation that evening was a fascinating one for Langerhans.  Yet, they talked of nothing but the streams that they had worked, notably a few such in Canada that had been fished by both men at different times.

       The older man was not there that day, however, to fish for any prey but Theodore Langerhans himself.  Top of his class __the equivalent of an MBA, with honors__ the young Scotsman had made a name for himself in the City right from the start.  At the prestigious Chartered Accountancy firm that snapped him up after graduate school, he had quickly become their prize trouble-shooter.  His career profile, second to none in London, made any predecessor's or competitor's seem pitifully slow by comparison.

       Equally important to Bakker, this target for recruitment then chucked all that for the lure of adventure and had spent the last five years managing the most successful large-scale timber-cutting operation in Canadian history.

       Even from environmental and sociological viewpoints, the thirty-three year old accountant's first large project as general manager had been acknowledged by all involved to be a model one.  During that heady period, he began to accept that a momentous destiny awaited him somewhere in the future, that he had somehow been anointed to accomplish the impossible.

       On subsequent evenings, the older man had drawn that belief out of the lonely young Scotsman: That somewhere, someday he would finally be offered a challenge that was not possible for any other man to meet.

       And that was the lure that Bakker had cast to set his hook in him: "Impossible."

       It was undoubtedly pleasant for both Langerhans and Phaethon to reflect that __while they had received kudos and bonuses__ Polewicz had to suffer the adjective "sloppy" in Bakker's critique.  The two managers had nothing in common personally or professionally, except for the fact that they were both professionals.  But that was enough of a common interest to serve as a basis for excluding Polewicz from any conversation as they flew back to Edmonton.

       Langerhans knew Phaethon just well enough to have correctly guessed the lure that Bakker had once dangled before the brilliant young molecular biologist.

       Not "impossible."  Biogenetic research regularly redefined that term.

       But an opportunity to accomplish the "unthinkable," now_____

       Polewicz didn't mind being excluded.  He was busy planning for the Aurora Compact meetings, only weeks away.

       Picking up the Toronto Star, he checked through it thoroughly for an update on the sporadic racial terrorism lacerating the fragile bonds of national law between the cultures of the Canadian Confederation.

       For all the paranoia, Polewicz thought, Orlando is inspired in his ability to devise such tasks for his subordinates.  With a negligible risk of betrayal and a minimal risk of failure, his roving squads __three white, one black, and two of Indian appearance__ were led by mercenary appointees.  Each of those was kept completely unaware of the overall plan and the identity of their director and paymaster.  He's entitled to bugger a few kids for a bonus, as long as he doesn't get caught.

       While his subordinates were enjoying First-Class service on Air-Canada, Marcus Bakker received reports from several lower-echelon individuals who also kept an eye out for his interests, independently of and unknown to the airborne top management team.

       One of those reporting was most valuable to the C.E.O. for reasons well beyond the mere protection of his financial assets.

Chapter 10

"For no man fears Caesar himself, but he fears death, banishment, deprivation of his property, prison, and disgrace. Nor does any man love Caesar, unless Caesar is a  person of great merit, but he loves wealth, the office of tribune, praetor or consul. When we love, and hate, and fear these things, it must be that those who have the power over them must be our masters."

Discourses, Epictetus

       LANGLEY, VA:

       "The Chief will see you now, gentlemen."

       Morton Weiner, PhD, and William Blankenship, OBN -Old Boy Network- passed by the secretary's desk in single file, and entered a large inner office through one of the double doors that kept non-conformity at bay.  The inner sanctum was sparsely furnished with Colonial antiques, "on loan," and paneled with cherry-wood planking.

       Sometimes Weiner thought that double Dutch doors would have been an even more accurate symbol and implement for the closed-door policies of the Division Chief, Western Hemisphere.  He figured that would give Bracken four times the normal ration of doors to shut, instead of two.

       The new multi-pane windows, behind the large table that served as a desk, were supposed to be horrendously expensive, with four layers of tempered bullet-proof glass.  Those were sandwiched around and between three layers of a transparent structural gel that was mostly vacuum, and together they insulated the interior from virtually the entire spectrum of radiation except visible light.  The sandwiched construction also dampened any vibrations completely before they could reach the outer pane.  At least the closed-window policy made more sense, when you consider laser-beam eavesdropping, Weiner thought.

        After twenty-two years in the CIA and a fairly decent career profile, he still considered it a temporary job __and the Company still considered him a temporary employee.  His pay, benefits, vacation and tenure were entirely in accord with his position of senior officer, his grade, time in grade and his length of service.  But where it counts in D.C. __being "in the Loop"__ Morton Weiner Ph.D. was still an outsider and always would be.  That had kept him employed by the CIA several times when his more knowledgeable seniors were bounced, so he really didn't mind being denied access to all the inside dirt __information that he didn't need in order to function well.

       It was just that he resented the mechanics of the whole thing; the imperceptible nods, the pregnant pauses __the number of times a "break" would be called at a meeting and almost everybody else in attendance would be asked to stay behind "for a moment, please."

       Like Maxwell Smart and the Chief, in the "Cone of Silence," he mused.

       As he watched Blankenship's carefully blow-dried hair precede him, the analyst considered that his reputation as a mental heavyweight and political lightweight might be the only thing that would save his ass this day.

       He could always teach.

       Of course, he had entered on his career as technical and administrative employee of America's premier intelligence agency in order to avoid the boredom of teaching.  But that was before twenty-two years of mostly boredom with the Central intelligence Agency had taken its toll.  Then __suddenly__ he somehow tripped onto the "fast track."

       Weiner had been stationed in the Far East as a mid-level control, when he had been assigned to work closely with a field agent named Ralph Gary.  The field man had penetrated a conspiracy on the part of a South Korean consortium to establish a pyramid franchise scheme for counterfeiters in the U.S.A..

        Gary, himself, had been recruited by the Koreans to represent them in America, to sell their services as providers of quality paper, inks, and computer equipment and software to the upscale counterfeiting market.  Bucks-R-Us.  When that agent had been killed on assignment, Weiner was flown in to take over simply as an observer with the Secret Service assigned to the case here.  The Service in turn had an observer overseas with the CIA task force working on their end in Korea.  It had been royally screwed-up, and a lot of shit had hit the fan.

       Naturally, he had been promoted.

        Afterward, Weiner had been instrumental in bringing a Korean-American systems programmer named Park aboard as a Contract Technician.  The consortium had been too well connected with the government of South Korea to get more than a slap on the wrist, but "Mac" Park had been able to castrate and rip their guts out with his computer skills.  Metaphorically speaking, that is.

       Weiner had served effectively as his control, a position for which he would have seemed to be the logical choice.  Except that he didn't know his bits from his bytes.  But since it was considered highly desirable to restrict any knowledge of an electronic incursion into the internal affairs of a foreign power __and an ally at that__ the Company had dubbed him for the post, despite his general ignorance of computers.

       Working with a contract operative instead of salaried agents called for another temporary promotion for Weiner.  Operational success had confirmed him in that increased pay grade, giving him a stature for which no employable slots were available.  So he'd been temporarily buried behind a Central American desk, with nothing even remotely important to operate, control or analyze.

       After debriefing, Park had not sought further work with the CIA, and had gone on his merry inscrutable way.  At first, after informing Park of the penalties for disclosure, the Company had been relieved.  They prefer, if possible, that such technicians be virgins when they come to the marriage bed, so that they can be trained properly, and so that odious comparisons are out of the question.

       Afterwards, the specter of suspicion raised its ugly head.  The CIA's virgin bridegrooms, now seasoned husbands of its Electronic Intelligence technology __the Office of Information Technology__ weren't quite sure what was happening or how.  All they could say was that their equipment was operating differently; not faster, not slower, just "smoother."  They finally gave up trying to figure it out.  Their software had been patched and cobbled too often for that.

       Every once in a while, though, when they turned a corner, they peeked back to see if Park was following them.  Weiner had a hunch that MacArthur Park was up at the next corner, peering back at them instead.

       After a few minutes of questions and answers, Derek Bracken had apologized to Blankenship for taking so much of his time, and closed the meeting.

       As Blankenship and his subordinate, Weiner, rose to leave, Bracken asked the latter to "give him a minute, please," to clear up some obscure detail.  From Blankenship's haste to make for the safety of the outer office, Weiner knew that this delay would not be his long-delayed initiation into the "Loop."

       Weiner didn't have to wonder what was wrong with his career at the moment, but he was surprised at Bracken's pressured appearance and had to wonder what was wrong there.  It wasn't just pressure; there was something haunted in his expression.  Then the hangdog expression in the Chief's eyes was suddenly, heroically pushed into the background by the little man, as he made an effort to somehow regain control over his affairs.

       Bracken growled in his face, "What the hell do you think you're playing at, Weiner?"  Both hands brushed back his blue pinstripe suit jacket and the searching thumbs wormed their way into the armpits of his vest.

       A bandy-legged rooster, thought Weiner.

       But he just stalled.  "Excuse me, sir?"  You've got to keep your cool here, boy.  

       "You may be able to put one over on your supervisor, son," the Chief warned, "but you're a long way from being smart enough to do the same with me."  Bracken had puffed himself up to average height as he said that, and barely managed to fill out his vest at the same time.

       Morty took his own advice and played it cool.  "I don't understand, Mr. Bracken.  I was approached by a man named Quirk, about one of the targets of an existing operation that is outside my purview.  I reported that __by the book__ to Mr. Blankenship and he was, of course, unfamiliar with Quirk and also the target, one Father Anton Zenkov."

       "Weiner!"  Bracken was exasperated now.  His thumbs popped out of his armpits and were cocked over their index fingers pointing, two-gun-style, at the over-promoted misfit that he had somehow gotten stuck with.  "In case it has escaped your attention, Winnipeg is a long way from Central America, which is the only thing your supervisor is even remotely familiar with.  And I very much doubt that the good Father has vacationed recently in Costa Rica, intruding on your territory either."

       Bracken's sarcasm missed its target.

       Weiner protested, "I did nothing that any other analyst wouldn't have done, sir.  I reported the contact from Quirk immediately to my supervisor, and provided him with the background, or context, needed to put him in the picture fully.  Being thorough and prompt is what I am paid for, Mr. Bracken."

       "You're paid to follow orders, Weiner __and not to spin your wheels or run off on tangents.  And especially not to jerk my chain.  There's enough for you to do in Costa Rica."

       Bracken wanted Weiner to sweat, but the other was getting his back up instead.  Years of being ignored were boiling up politely in the brilliant misfit.

       "With all due respect, sir," he insisted, "my only significant case now is code-named 'Secret Ingredient.'  I doubt if it would ring a bell, Mr. Bracken.  It involves a person, or group of persons and a team of two specially trained mules that are apparently capable of holding back their normal elimination for several days.  It seems as though they are able to penetrate friendly territory at will, after which the mules allow themselves to be backed-up to a patio, or doorway, or, twice, an opened door on an executive limo, and then dump a truly impressive load of Grade-A mule shit, right on target."

       "Really?"  Bracken was interested in spite of himself.

       "Better than 'smart bombs' actually, sir.  Coca-Cola, which is the largest land-owner in Costa Rica, is becoming understandably miffed with the lack of progress in capturing this terrorist group that targets their facilities and executive personnel, exclusively.  But, of course, the responsibility for that lies with the Costa Ricans, not with us."

       "Are you telling me that you don't have enough to keep you busy, Weiner?" the Chief demanded.

       "Exactly, sir.  Very well put."

       "Well, young man, I know exactly how to take care____  Hold it! ____Wait just a minute.  Let's get back to Quirk.  It occurs to me that he asked you a question which you couldn't possibly answer at the time __for lack of information.  Now you tell me that you acquired all of that information about operations five thousand miles from your bailiwick, merely to coach your supervisor on background he doesn't care about.  Do you expect me to believe that, Weiner?"

       "That's not fair, sir," the younger man protested.  "Mr. Blankenship requested me to do so; it's in the Log.  I was only doing my job."

       "Have you ever noticed your section leader walking on the street, downtown?"

       "No, sir, I haven't," Weiner said, puzzled by the non-sequitur.

       "When he goes out to lunch in the city, he takes a book with him, young man.  To read, over his lunch break.  Even before that, however, while he's walking toward the restaurant, he can't resist reading from that book.  Weiner____he nearly falls over, or bumps into something, at least twice per block.  But it's the intersections that are the real cliffhangers."  He gave the other a significant look.  "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

       "I think so, sir.  You're saying he could easily be manipulated by somebody with an ax to grind."

       "Exactly.  Maybe by you, Weiner."

       "There you go, sir.  If you would kindly look in my file, you'll find my lack of such motivation and technique listed as a negative factor in several evaluations.  Perhaps, someone else is manipulating all of us, sir."

       "Never mind, it was just a thought.  Tell me about Quirk, not the usual stuff, in the file; give me some personal background."

       "There's hardly any, sir.  There is enough of a background trail to support his existence, but just barely.  We suspect that "Quirk" is a manufactured name, for a manufactured life story.  The man seems to spend most of his time as a nomad, living alone in a trailer, at least for the last four years.  The paper trail says he studied electrical engineering and has a degree in data processing, but on his tax returns he lists his occupation as 'writer' and reports a modest income from technical writing assignments."

       "What is he like personally," Bracken wanted to know.

       "About six-two __a big guy__ but you wouldn't think he's dangerous to look at him.  Silver hair and beard.  Not a fashionable dresser, or particularly impressive; he looks a little like a tame bear.  As a matter of fact, he claims to be part bear __says that's why he likes to get on the fast track, every now and then."

       "What does he mean by that, do you think?"

       "Oh, I know what he means exactly, Mr. Bracken.  He told me the story once.  Quirk maintained that he lived a settled existence for most of his adult life.  But I gathered from a few other things he'd said, that he'd been raised in a family that lived on the road __some kind of gypsies__ and later on he took up that life again."

       "You mean like fortune tellers.  I thought they lived in storefronts."

       "No, sir.  It was some other kind, that lived in trailers.  Irish.  Well, this was a couple of years after Quirk's wife died, and he and his trailer were up in Alaska, in a place called Portage.  That's near the coast, where the Kenai Peninsula begins.  His rig was ten or twelve miles up a side road at a dead end.  It was twilight __around ten P.M.__ and he started cooking his dinner, including some bratwurst."

       Weiner noticed Brackens grimace and said apologetically, "He was quite specific about that, sir."

       "Go on," Bracken sighed, resigned in advance to a long, drawn-out story.  He'd asked for it; he was going to get it.  But the more he knew about Quirk, the easier it would be to get hold of him.  He began to play with a letter opener, one that resembled a small thin dagger, on his desk.  It was a recent gift from a special friend and it seemed to help him take his mind off things, especially things like this Quirk.

       "No sooner was the cooking done and the food on the table in front of him" __the narrative continued, unabated and unabridged__ "than there were some kind of rubbing and rattling noises outside the trailer.  Quirk thought that it might be a moose passing between the trailer and the woods, and he wasn't alarmed.  Then, without any other warning, the window next to him cracked.  The venetian blinds were closed and there was no way to see what the problem was, but he jumped out of his seat and grabbed an unloaded shotgun.  There was a box of bird-shot shells handy in the next room.  It's a National Forest, and loaded guns are against the law."

       Bracken said dryly, "That seems to be the last time he worried about that.  How about speeding this up?"  He was unconsciously stabbing at his desk blotter with the letter opener.

       "Yes, sir.  But it's significant______

       Bracken turned his head sharply toward the drapes, forgetting about the implement in his hand as he held it up for silence.  "Weiner!" he interrupted, "Did you see that drape move just then?"

       The other man was staring at his boss, aghast.  Bracken had almost blinded himself with the damned letter opener.  He answered, "No, sir.  Actually, I can't see it too well from here."  He turned around in his seat to get a better look at the offending drapery, but nothing seemed out of place.  "Would you like me to straighten it out, Mr. Bracken?"

       "No____no.  That's all right.  Must have been a little wind or the air conditioner or something."

       In here? thought Weiner, who decided he'd better get on with the personal stuff that Bracken had asked for.  "Anyway," he stumbled on, "Quirk still couldn't see anything because of the blinds, and he was fumbling a round into the shotgun through the ejector port.  All of a sudden there was this tremendous smash against the side of the trailer and Quirk heard the window on the other side of the blinds being shattered to bits.  The blinds were shaking and rattling, but there was still no way to know whether he had been hit by a truck, or a U.F.O., or maybe charged by a moose."

       His Area Division Chief held up one hand, the one toying with the little dagger again, to interrupt and said, "Did he describe his emotional reactions at the time?"

       "Yes, sir; very precisely," Weiner answered nervously, his eyes pinned to the blade in front of him.  "Our boy said it was the first time in his life that he could understand why people took up parachute jumping or bull-fighting."

       "I see!"  He casually began to closely inspect the needle sharp tip that topped off the object of his fascination.  Very closely.

       "Then, all of a sudden, the blinds just disappeared; there one minute and gone the next, and Quirk was nose-to-nose with a black bear sticking his head through this big hole in the trailer where the picture window used to be."  Weiner mimed his impression of a stupefied bear_____

       Bracken sighed again with a little gesture of resignation, but avoided stabbing himself by the slimmest of margins.  To Weiner, he seemed almost oblivious to the danger.

       ___And the story went on.  "He threw the bowl, with his dinner in it, past the bear's snout and out through the hole onto the ground.  The bear dropped down from the window to check it out, but came back almost immediately, and this time stuck its head and its left paw in through the hole.  That worried him, mostly because there was a computer set up right next to where the hole was.  According to him, the trailer was strong enough to support the weight of the bear leaning on the outside of it __but the animal could easily have enlarged the hole by pulling the weakened wall outward."

       "You mean to say that the beast could have just smashed its way into his trailer?"  The nervous little dagger held still for a moment and Weiner could not tear his eyes away from it.

       It's too much to hope for, that we'll replay a Pink Panther routine here, Weiner's brain thought.  But what Weiner's mouth said was,  "Bears break into cabins all the time up there to get food, although not usually when they're occupied.  And cabins are a lot stronger than trailers.  Anyway, by this time he had gotten a round into the shotgun __just bird shot though__ and the gun was ready to fire, safety off."

       "What was the bear doing then."

       "Nothing, Mr. Bracken, just staring at Quirk.  The shotgun muzzle was about three feet from the left eye of the bear and the bear's paw was still inside only up to its elbow.  The trailer lights were on and it was an easy shot at a still target.  Then!  That was the time to shoot.  If he waited until the bear started its rampage, he would have no chance for a kill-shot with a single round of bird-shot____"

       "Well, did he shoot, or didn't he?" the older man wanted to know.  He came perilously close to dropping the sharply-pointed letter opener into his lap.  It clattered to the edge of the desk-top instead.

       "No, sir.  He said they just stared at one another __neither one moving for minutes__ until Quirk found himself dismissing the bear by growling at him.  And the bear got down from the hole and walked away."

       "What kind of growl," Bracken asked, "menacing, or what?"  His hands fumbled around but gingerly avoided touching the implement he had dropped.

       "With all due respect, sir; what might sound menacing to you or me, could sound like poetry to a bear.  Anyway, the man himself didn't know what his growl meant.  According to Quirk, an Athabascan Indian friend named Evelyn brought him to a local shaman to tell his story, and the shaman said that he and the bear had traded part of their spirits __that the Bear was now his totem."

       "That's quite a story, Weiner, but what's the point?"

       "The point, sir, is that this is why Quirk believes he attracts and is attracted to danger now.  Unlike a normal person, he accepts it as part of his existence, and makes his plans accordingly."

       "He does seem to be dangerous, judging from the body count last year."  He sounded impressed, anyway, to Wiener.

       "Well, sir; we know the our man Gary was dirty, so if Quirk did him __and there's no proof of that__ it may have been justified.  Otherwise, only about half the bodies could be attributed to him directly.  The other half managed to kill each other in his little traps.  He's really very creative, sir."

       "Do you think that he's one of us, somehow; that he's an agent or an operative gone rogue?"

       "No, sir.  Not even an analyst.  There's no martial arts training to speak of __according to the survivors__ and his weapons are either too arcane for our kind of training, or too commonplace.  There's definitely a military service background, I'd say __although there's no record of it under 'Richard Quirk'."

       "What makes him dangerous, then?"

       "Mr. Bracken, that's a good question.  He's dangerous because he is immediately decisive; not impulsive____decisive!  It's as though he has some sort of split personality."

       "He's psychologically disturbed?  Multiple personalities?"

       "Yes and no.  When I had dealings with the man he seemed functional.  But another reason why he survived was the fact that everybody underestimated his ability to manipulate others."

       "A born liar, you mean.  Was he psychopathic?"  Bracken began to develop a nervous tic of the cheek muscle under his left eye, as his hands trembled but refused to pick up the letter opener he had dropped.

       "Not that bad, sir.  Not then.  Just quirky; the name fits him.  I gather from some of the psychological reports done on him, though, that the shrinks expect a violent reaction __possibly self-destructive__ sooner or later.  Some of the kills pointing to him in Texas were very messy.  And the emotional and physical traumas of being tortured couldn't have helped __there was some brain damage.  For a while, he was blind."

       "For how long?"  Bracken seemed to be uncomfortable with the subject and got up from his desk to pace behind it, trying to get away from his little toy as well.

       "About three months, sir," Weiner said.  "But, getting back to what I was referring to as a split personality, it was like some sort of parallel processing, like they're trying to do with computers __not multiple personalities.  That was then.  Now, I guess that it could be that what he normally does is out of balance, with different personalities taking over at different times; I don't know.  You'd have to ask the psychs for that evaluation, sir."

       "The Treasury report mentioned something about his personality, I believe."  Bracken leaned over and tapped that file on top of his desk with a index finger.  Then his spastic hand just barely brushed the handle of_____  He snatched it away.

       "Yes, sir, they did."  Oh God!  Don't let him stab himself while I'm here.  He'd get me thrown out for good, before the day is over.  "Although they didn't put it so kindly.  'Manic-depressive' was the least pejorative comment.  There were three different sets of interrogators.  We were there, along with Treasury and the local police, all of us tripping over the others, interrupting, and going off in all sorts of directions."

       Weiner smiled as he thought back to the events of six months before.  "Sir, you know how confusing it is for anybody to be questioned repeatedly by a single, competent team.  At some point everybody __no matter how honest__ gets screwed up.  Not him.  I swear that he learned more from us that day than we learned from him.  He was still in the hospital at that time, Mr. Bracken, recovering from a stab wound, water torture, and several broken teeth, ribs, fingers and knuckles, not to mention a broken nose.  He was blind __apparently permanently__ as the result of a blow on the head, and facing possible murder charges."

        Weiner shook his head, knowing that his facts were true and not being able to fully believe them himself.  He continued after a second.  "The man had actually died on the way to the hospital in the back of a police car, only three weeks earlier.  Quirk had been comatose when they loaded him into the back seat, and the cops couldn't say how long he had been dead when they got him to the emergency room."

       Bracken had a doubtful scowl on his face.  "And the same man handled that kind of interrogation __only three weeks later__ under those circumstances?"  Still standing, he jammed both hands deeply into his pants pockets.

       "He just laughed and ran us around in circles.  The police and the T-Men and our people __including me__ wound up arguing with each other, carefully spurred on by him.  If there was anything he didn't know about the case before that, there were no secrets left afterward.  The confusion made him nostalgic, he said; it reminded him of family gatherings."

       "It reminds me of the Forty Committee meetings, between Nixon and Carter." Bracken reflected sourly, "and nothing about Kissinger makes me nostalgic.  But you seem to know him pretty well."

       "About as well as anybody seems to, sir, at least on our side of the fence."  The nod of Weiner's head seemed as much negative as it was positive.

       "Well____I'm putting you on detached duty in this matter.  Since you now have the background information anyway, it might help me to have you on site as an observer and analyst reporting directly to me; ad hoc, so to speak."

       "Thank you, sir, I'll do my best."  His hands are trembling so badly in his pockets; he looks like he's jerking off.

       Bracken tried to focus his thoughts and get back to business.  "You like this Quirk; don't you, son?"

       The analyst thought about it, shifting his mental gears.  "That depends on which side of the coin's up at any given time.  Sometimes that's a tough call __but basically yes__ I like him."

       "Like him or not, if you run across him in the field, have him taken out.  He's been meddling in this affair in Edmonton with his computer inquiries, and we can't afford another Ollie North on our hands.  The idea of a free-lance who might somehow be able to use our facilities __but isn't under control__ is insupportable.  We won't hurt your friend, son, just immobilize him for a while."

       "All right, sir.  If that's all, I'll get right to it.  It's good to have something useful to do again."

       Bracken called an end the meeting, still standing well away from the letter opener.  Then he started to walk around the antique and escort Weiner to the door until the realization hit, that he'd have to display his hands to do so.  So he turned back to stand behind the elegant antique that served him as a desk and pretended to closely inspect the plant alongside it.  "But remember, young man, I've got my eye on you.  Now, talk to Management and Services, then to IAD and get the details worked out on the assignment____travel arrangements to Edmonton, and such."  

       "Yes, sir," Weiner said, as he rose from his chair; grateful to get out while the getting was good.

       "By the way, though, there were copies of that counterfeiting software and skids of inks and paper that never showed up.  And three-quarters of a million in real bearer bonds, too."

       "Yes, Mr. Bracken?"  -What's your point?  As if I didn't know-

       "You don't suppose ____?"

       "Not unless I have to, sir.  Besides, that's Treasury's problem."

       Bracken brightened visibly at that.  "Yes, it is, isn't it."  Then he turned gloomy again almost immediately.  "But, now that you bring up the subject of responsibility and the Treasury __we're the ones carrying the ball for the Aurora Compact.  If anything happens to the President, or the Congressional delegation __or even goddam Lee Iococca__ we'll be the ones with our asses in a sling.  Not the Mounties, not the Secret Service.  Us!  And we might have a bunch of crazies running around north of the border that make your Central American drug-lords look like the Shriners.  Especially, your friend Quirk."

       At Quirk's name the hands had jumped up of their own accord and linked folded arms over his chicken-chest, camouflaging any further display of the trembles.  

       After a relieved Weiner had gone, Bracken underlined in a shaky hand the last entry in his note-book, and then underlined it more evenly a second time.

       It was a puzzle, really.  He could trace a connection mentally from Weiner to Park, to Quirk, and accept the fact that the information systems that he had to rely on might be compromised.  What he couldn't understand was why: If Quirk and Park were involved in this Ukrainian affair __either one of them would initiate sensitive data inquiries in civilian data banks, triggering a response from the Watch list.

       No matter, he thought, we'll all be dead in fifty years; some of us sooner.  Then Bracken underlined his least often used euphemism, "phase-out," again.

       He picked up the sharply pointed letter opener finally, and began to flip and catch it while he considered the ramifications of the case.  It relaxed him.  He began to forget about Quirk.

       Flip and catch; flip and catch; flip and_____

       Uh-oh.

       ShitShitShit!

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

       "Was that the curse working?  The one that you scoff at yourself.  But I notice that you also take credit for it with a certain perverse pride."

       The gibberish from the priest came at me out of nowhere in the dark chamber of his chapel.  I shook my head, to clear the cobwebs from it.  Against all logic, he seemed to be gaining energy from his captivity even as I was losing it.  Entropy in action.  

       "Who knows?" I admitted.  "Bracken's town is a tough town.  In that kind of career, you don't really retire; you get pulled down, like some kind of politically incorrect monument.  Maybe it was the pressure of that kind of thing getting to him.  I really can't say."

       "I do not wish to offend you unnecessarily," the priest said with apparent sincerity, "but are you sure that you are quite rational?  Perhaps you are creating memories retroactively to fit the circumstances.  What do they call it?"

       "Schizophrenia?"

       "Yes."

       "Sorry, but it can't be that."

       "Why not?" he asked.

       "Schizos mostly invent enemies.  Mine are real enough."

       "What is it that you invent, then?"

       I smiled at him.  "Friends," I said.  He didn't smile back.

       My prisoner thought about that for a few minutes and then took a new tack.  "Speaking of friends, you appear to have much more regard for Mr. Langerhans and Mr. Bakker than for anyone else in this affair, saving perhaps your family and the Carringtons.  Are you also a fisherman?  Is that why?"

       "No.  Not really.  The fulsome description of Bakker's angling skill came from Langerhans' diary, almost word-for-word.  There's a personal computer program called "Managing Your Money," with a word processor and an appointment calendar built in.  That's where the diary was stored, on his P.C., but connected to the Institute's network.  It had password protection, but I'm a bit of a computer hacker.  Langerhans talked Bakker into starting one too, on tape though.  It was supposed to be for the sake of posterity.  Mostly, I think it was just to keep the boss occupied and out of the Scotsman's hair."

       "Perhaps you can tell me then," he said. "How did Bakker recruit Polewicz?  Did he advertise for some sort of gangster?"

       "There's only a little about that in his diary __nothing indictable__ but there was some info on the process in two different private detective's reports for Morgan Industries, maybe four years ago."

       He looked doubtful.  "You couldn't possibly have access to all of this."

       "It's all on computer, somewhere.  That's all it takes."

       The priest still didn't believe me.  "Where, though?  How did you know where?"

       I smiled, a little ruefully.  "All the critical references were collected by the Mounties in one big data bucket, all in one convenient record that stuck out like a sore thumb.  Believe me, it's easy to find any such record with the right file-name and record reference.  No trouble at all, Priest."

       "And where did you get those from?"

       "The warrant for my arrest, of course.  Bless me, Father, for I have sinned...."

       The first detective's, or should I say inquiry agent's, report started out simply enough:

       "Mr. Bakker.  You seem to have the wrong idea about the kind of services we offer.  My firm specializes in Executive Employment background checks, not criminal investigations.  I was with the Surete here for twenty-five years and I can assure you that half of these men are known criminals.  The other half are probably unknown criminals, judging from the company they keep on this report."  His native accent was French, although the conference was conducted in English.

       Bakker was quick to reassure him.

       "That is exactly why we wish to employ your firm, sir, and also why we specifically asked that you be assigned to our account.  You might consider this to be a kind of test.  We wish to know that in the future, you will not only be able to provide us with previous employment background and any existing criminal records, but also an accurate assessment of basic character.  These names have been suggested to us as a worthwhile exercise of your investigative techniques."

       The retired policeman was still skeptical.  "And you will only employ those on whom we report favorably?" he asked.

       "Of course, Inspector.  We may still use your old rank as a courtesy title, I trust.  Morgen Industries is paying dearly for your services, as you know.  We will not ignore your recommendations; you have my word on that."

       There were forty names on the sheet.  The agent looked down at it again and said, "The entire list will take about two months to complete, Mr. Bakker.  Do you wish continual postings as we update the file, or merely a final report upon completion?"  The assignment was just too lucrative to turn down, without solid objections.

       "A final report will be sufficient, Inspector."

       There were several follow-up notations in the file, after the final report was delivered; including some disappointed commentary about the lack of further business from Morgen Industries.

       The information from the second detective on the case had been typed second-hand, recopied from a nearly indecipherable hand-written memo.  The Redcoats added some background information on the detective himself, a seamy sort of chap by all lights __according to the anglophile who assembled the data.  This report was dated four months after the first.

       It was cool in the room, but the little fat man was mopping his brow with a handkerchief that was already sopping wet.

       "Sorry about this, Mr. Bakker."

       "That is all right, Mr. Widscoe.  It is just metabolism.  I understand.  Napoleon had the same imbalance, I have read."

       Widscoe was relieved at the other man's acceptance and smiled, holding the wet handkerchief under the left side of his sport jacket in imitation of that other pudgy little man.

       Bakker smiled back, repressing his disgust.  "About these three men, Mr. Widscoe.  Have you been able to arrange suitable exhibitions for each?"

       "I thought it best to work one at a time, sir.  Frankly, it's your wish to be present that's the limiting factor here.  None of our subjects is that predictable in his movements.  You might waste weeks of your time waiting for an exhibition to occur or we might have to pass up an otherwise suitable occasion due to your absence.  A video-taping that you could review at your leisure might be the best solution, Mr. Bakker."  Widscoe looked at Bakker anxiously, suddenly afraid of his own unexpected temerity.

       Not to worry.  The other's patience was almost inexhaustible, at least on the ground.  "I have little enough leisure as it is, Mr. Widscoe.  Suppose we try it my way for a few days and see how well that works.  We can always change our plans later if they do not work out."

       One week later, Bakker and his detective were somewhere __they couldn't be sure exactly where__ between one-third and two-thirds finished with the exhibition phase of recruitment.

       The first contender had been a disappointment.  He'd survived, but would be crippled for several months.  That in itself did not disqualify him.  The beaten man had simply not displayed the characteristic quality in defense that Bakker was looking for.

       The next applicant was officially employed as a supervisor of collection personnel in the Finance industry.  Widscoe assured Bakker that contestant number two was an accomplished specialist in the orthopedic end of the business.

       Now the Chairman of Morgen Industries and his temporary minion were both seated along one long wall of a country-and-western saloon deep in the city of Quebec.  The second exhibition was just about to begin.  Bakker was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that kept his face in shadow.

       Their target was a tall, slim man in his mid-thirties, dressed in black leather jacket and pants __not motorcycle leathers, designer leathers.  In contrast to the room's full complement of blow-dried peacocks __males without masculinity who came there mostly to admire their own moves__ this man's hair was trimmed closely and brushed flat, straight back, no pony-tail.  His self-esteem appeared to be entirely self-contained, as well.

       Widscoe, who knew aberrancy when he saw it, classified their man on exhibit as a control freak and maybe something a lot worse.

       The subject, named Polewicz, was chatting up a shapely blonde girl at the bar who was obviously and completely stoned.  "Chatting up" was perhaps inaccurate.  Her male companion was protesting feebly as Polewicz boldly stroked her large, unbound breasts through the flimsy material of her lavender dress.

       The young woman was in no shape to object __perhaps not even to notice__ and her stroker seemed to be getting more enjoyment out of taunting the boyfriend than feeling her up.  His left hand __the one closest to the bar__ slid under the hem of her short party outfit to stroke her inner thighs and pubic area.

       Virtually unconscious, the blond woman began to respond __too stoned to think of dignity or even to know or care about the identity of this new source of pleasure.

       Soon, a few leering men in the immediate area were watching, fascinated but afraid to interrupt or join in.  At that point they weren't afraid of the perpetrator physically; they were afraid to interrupt the entertainment.

       The girl's hips began to undulate in time with the hand Polewicz was using to stroke her under the dress.  His fingers began to nip and squeeze, extracting little gasps and yelps from her.  She tried feebly to brush his hands away, but managed only to clutch them closer to her flesh as they continued to mount their assault.

       Her assailant kept her body turned away from the bar, allowing the onlookers __especially the impotent companion__ full view of his depredation.

       The girl's engorged nipples were now straining the thin fabric of her bodice, even the large surrounding aureoles standing out prominently.  Her lightly clad bosom was completely in view for Bakker and Widscoe each time her upper body writhed around in conjunction with the pelvic stimulation she was experiencing.  Widscoe mumbled something; comparing the central peaks of her breasts to walnuts.

       Polewicz's right hand alternately stroked and squeezed those nipples to greater heights while his left sent tremblers of pain/pleasure through her numbed body.  Those ministrations would probably have inflicted too much suffering to offer any pleasure at all, were it not for the lines of cocaine that dusted her nostrils.

       Bakker couldn't afford to interfere then, and wasn't sure what he could do in any event.  He just hoped that the upcoming exercise Widscoe had planned would stop this man before the girl __little more than twenty years old__ came to more harm in his presence.

       Meanwhile, the young boy standing beside her, red-faced and ashamed, torn between fascination and repugnance, fled the bar.  Neither Bakker nor Widscoe had been able to hear Polewicz's taunts to him nor any threats that might have been made.

       That didn't matter.

       They both knew that the fleeing man was escaping himself, not Polewicz.  It wasn't just the threat of physical violence that had completely cowed him.  The ruthlessness of the offending act itself had completely overwhelmed the boy.  It was just as if he himself had been molested and was too stunned to respond at all, except belatedly by flight, in the face of the sexual violence inherent in the act.

       In the shadows of the trendy disco, under the black leather that clad his body, both onlookers had to assume that their subject was physically aroused; not that either cared especially.

       They were wrong.

       Polewicz would need at least an hour more of carefully scripted stimulation in order to achieve an erection in the presence of another person.  Oddly, he had no such trouble alone.  But after that, the remainder of his experience would come swiftly to him.  And very, very slowly __with a little pain and much degradation__ to the object of his affections.

       The girl's molester now dropped his hands from her and tossed a twenty dollar bill on the bar.  He pulled her after him, roughly, turning to leave the bar.  Her coat, which had fallen to the floor, was completely ignored and high heels clattered as she tried to keep her balance.  He headed straight for the front door, the blonde in tow.

       Three burly, dangerous men stood in his way.

       At once, Polewicz pulled the girl back with him to where he had been earlier, keeping the bar at his back and the girl in front of him as a shield.  By the wall, Widscoe __pouring out the sweat__ nudged Bakker's cringing ribs with a damp elbow.  "Now!" he said.

       One of the bruisers held a leather covered sap, a blackjack; the second one tightly gripped an empty liquor bottle.  The third man held his grasping hands in some sort of Kung-fu style and wove them around in front of his face.  His bare feet stalked a pattern on the wooden floor that made no sense to any of the onlookers.

       All of the besiegers were taller and heavier than their intended victim, and their faces looked more than just tough.  They looked mean.  Like men who wouldn't stop punishing a victim, when they were no longer told to punish.  Like men who wouldn't stop punishing, even when they were told to stop.  Suitable men for the task.

       Bakker wondered if he and Widscoe might be able to protect the girl herself from the three, once they had taken care of Polewicz; if Widscoe, in fact, really had any control over these beasts once they were unleashed.

       He thought not.

       Polewicz didn't wait.  He grabbed the front of his shield's dress and tore it from her chest.  She was quickly shoved into the path of the martial artist, who flinched away from her naked, plump, swaying breasts as though they would corrupt him.  She latched on to his grasshopper arms, trying to stay upright.  

       The man with the bottle just stared at her, unmoving and wide-eyed, while bruiser number one came in swinging at Polewicz's left temple with his blackjack.  A deadly serious blow, even with a padded sap.

       The man in black quickly tipped the adjoining barstool into the other's path, entangling his legs, forcing him to climb over and through its legs to try and maintain his balance, requiring that he divert his attention from weapon and hand for a critical moment.  In fact, he was now effectively offering both as a gift to the man in front of his stumbling body.

       Polewicz struck for the first time.

       Grabbing the blackjack hand right at the wrist with both of his, he twisted it away from him and turned his own body partly in the same direction.  A right boot raked down the shin of his attacker's right leg __the only one so far to have cleared the stool__ and his right elbow rammed back like a switching locomotive into the nose at the other end of the captive arm.

       Then the edge of his palm struck at an unguarded neck, just at the carotid artery, in a creditable follow-through.

       As a coup-de-grace, his open right hand smashed the back of the other's bleeding head into the wooden bar-rail and returned to the bar-top, picking up the fallen blackjack with ruthless efficiency.

       That took two seconds.

       Then Polewicz turned to face the bottle wielder first, weighing the captured weapon in his hand.  That pug-ugly, having finally wrenched his eyes away from the half-naked girl, turned right and left, estimating the revised odds.  His remaining partner, the Kung-fu practitioner, was still trying to remove the distracting breasts from the direction of the oblique pattern he intended to use for a devastating attack.  The man with the bottle took advantage of a waist-high partition next to him to smash the bottle against it, trying to transform a blunt instrument into a jagged stabbing weapon.

       It dented the wood; that's all.

       He tried again.  This time it worked, but a shard struck him over the eyebrow __just missing his left eye.  The blood poured down, temporarily blinding that eye anyway.  So the second man just stood there dumfounded, wondering what the hell had happened to him.  Polewicz hurled the blackjack directly at him, striking smack in the center of his forehead and felling the bleeding man like a steer in a slaughterhouse.  Add two more seconds.

       Kung-fu threw his burden aside, suddenly not caring whether his karma-laden fingers were soiled with the desecration of a female body, now that the necessary clearance was available to make his move.

       Fingers clutched in sock-puppet position again, the martial artist raised his arms forward and overhead, to hang them down like some kind of wing.  He tilted forward on the ball of one foot and raised the heel, even as the other knee lifted to support the dependent foot in mid-air.  A very stilted move but a quick one.

       Half a second and he was almost prepared to launch an unstoppable blow at his selected victim, who tried to escape by jumping the bar.  Almost prepared.

       At the last minute, however, the third attacker had to lower himself again to shift position.  Now his weaving feet brought him even closer, to strike before the bulk of the bar interfered with the perfection of his move and allowed the other man to evade and escape him.  Add another half a second.

       Polewicz seemed to stop right in the very act of vaulting the bar, his back to this final assailant.  Hanging in mid-air for a split second, he shot his booted feet straight back into the other man's face.  One steel-cored heel fractured three upper teeth and the whole bony mass between mouth and nose.  The other heel ruptured the left eye and crushed its socket beyond repair.  Add one and a half seconds.

       Perhaps seven seconds to end it; certainly less than ten.

       Then a strange thing happened.

       "What else could occur that you would now call strange?" the priest demanded.  "Is the rest of this vile behavior ordinary?  God help us all."

       I elaborated for his benefit.  "Well, he bent down to claim his prize, to take the semi-conscious woman with him.  But suddenly, he pulled his hand back in fear, staring at the blood on it.  The man had to roll her over to inspect the damage and then he carefully wiped his hand on the cleaner tatters that remained of her clothing.  She had fallen on the jagged bottle, you see.  His face, full of malicious joy before, was now filled with fear and revulsion.  Polewicz said nothing __according to the Widscoe's report__ but repeatedly kicked the second and third attackers in the lower abdomen and testicles until they were nothing but pulpy flesh under their outer clothing."

       The priest was at least a little curious.  "Do you think he was afraid of AIDS?"

       "I think it goes a lot deeper than that.  Widscoe described him as an evil child whose favorite toy has been taken away, striking out about him in a terrible tantrum."

       "Because she died, then?  Did he really care anything about her?"

       "That's what was strange, Priest.  There was only a shallow cut on her stomach, a minor wound at worst, and certainly not life-threatening.  Yet for his purposes, she was utterly spoiled.  He left the bar right away, without a backward glance at any of them."

       "I think that was lucky for her, that wound."

       "Yes.  But I still wouldn't count on yours doing you as much good."

       "What of the third contender?" he asked.  "Surely the third contender failed, since the second one you know to be Lester Polewicz."

       "According to all sources, there was no third exhibition.  Bakker aborted the assignment, paying Widscoe in full.  He told him that he now realized that things had gone too far, and the project would be terminated.  Two weeks later and thousands of miles away, Bakker sent for Polewicz and hired him as his Chief of Security for the Institute he was building near Edmonton.  And he never let the man in on the fact that he had been so tested."

       My "guest" grimaced.  "Let me guess.  He was looking for a man who would follow orders ruthlessly."

       "Not even close, pal.  He was looking for a man who would disobey orders ruthlessly."

       The priest was really puzzled now.  "I do not understand at all."

       My smile was weary and cynical.  "It's the ultimate in covering your ass.  He gives an utterly ruthless man a written set of generally acceptable rules to follow and an assignment that can't be accomplished by following those rules.  He then contracts to pay that ruthless man a king's ransom for success, almost all of that reward payable only on completion.  You figure it out.  The best part is that even Polewicz doesn't know Bakker's on to him, that he's being used."

       It was time for a nap.

       "Any other questions, before I get some beauty sleep.  There's more on Bakker, plenty more.  I've got some of his memoirs and other stuff you can read tomorrow morning if you want to."

       "What about the girl?"

       I couldn't even understand the question.

       "Haven't you ever heard of relevance?"  I rubbed an aching neck.  "The girl was nothing but a line or two in a report by an insignificant, sweaty little man who introduced two of my enemies a number of years ago.  Even if she's still alive, she wouldn't remember the incident.  She's not a person; she's a reference.  You're the one looking at the grim reaper.  Worry about yourself."

       He shook his head in denial.  "Your lust made her real, Demon.  You all but raped her right along with Polewicz, while you told his story."

       "Get some sleep, Priest.  It's good practice for you and maybe it will take your mind off my troubles."

       "I will sleep, Demon.  Perhaps you will also.  Perhaps you will not."

       I smiled, amused.  "Why not?"

       He smiled back, with more reason to smile.  "Because I have recognized a clue to your greatest weakness."

       "And that is?"

       "Neither Bakker nor his sweaty little man underestimated Polewicz's achievement __if such evil can be named so__ on that night.  It is only you that undercuts him by making sport of his opponents.  Admit it then, on your soul, Demon.  They admired his prowess, if nothing else about him.  But you are compelled to mock everyone, even people like Polewicz.  And I know why.  Just as you do."

       There was nothing for me to say.

       Except maybe: "To Hell with you, too."

       "Did you say something?"

       "Go to sleep, Priest."

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