Black Harvest (The PROJECT) Page 14

  Things had changed. Long patches of sickly yellow and brown fanned out into the crop. It kept spreading, whatever it was. He'd put in a call to the local office of the USDA. Someone was coming out today.

  "Shit, Bob. Don't look good."

  "I can't figure it. It's not insects. More like some kind of blight. There's never been anything like that around here."

  "The USDA guy will know what it is."

  "I guess so. Even if they've got something to stop it, it looks like I'll lose half the crop."

  "You got insurance, don't you?"

  "Yeah, but not enough if I lose it all. And the bank won't give me a break."

  "That's for sure."

  Like everyone he knew, Bob walked a fine line between profit and loss, survival and bankruptcy. The bank ruled his life, and the less said about it the better. It used to be different, back when things had been local, run by people who understood what farming was about. But then the economy tanked. His community bank was gobbled up by one of the big corporations. Now decisions about his life were made by people thousands of miles away who'd never been closer to a farm than a supermarket. It was hard enough being a farmer, what with the weather and pests and cost of things like diesel and fertilizer and insect control. Now this.

  Bob didn't want to admit it, but the hollow feeling in his stomach felt like fear. Fear for his livelihood. Fear for Mae and his kids. Fear he would lose everything.

  The day was crisp and sunny. A fresh, strong breeze blew across the Nebraska plains. Bob's land was in the heart of America's bread basket. Fields of wheat and corn spread for a hundred miles in every direction. Winter crops coming up, crops being planted. An ancient cycle, one he understood.

  Bob loved his life. He loved farming. He thought few things were more beautiful than the silent fall of snow covering the fields during the winter, or watching towering clouds and lightning build on the far horizon in the heat of summer. Listening to the crops rustle in the wind. For Bob, amber waves of grain was a lot more than a line in a song. It was the American dream come true.

  The spreading darkness in his fields was a different kind of dream, an American nightmare.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  AEON meant forever.

  400 years before, AEON had been born in the political unease of eighteenth century Europe.

  AEON had always been about the accumulation of wealth. With wealth came power. With power came control. With control came more power, more wealth and the ability to shape the destiny of nations. With the ability to shape nations came the plan.

  The ideology embraced by AEON was the ideology of power. Democracy or Fascism, right or left, it was all the same. Over the centuries AEON had learned how to manipulate them all. Political systems were merely a means to increased wealth and the creation of rigid economic separation between worker units and rulers.

  The goal was in sight. The infrastructure to identify, track and contain dissidents, the corruption of government agencies across the world, the control of world finances, all were in place. Demeter and Black Harvest were the opening gambit in the final implementation of the plan.

  The council had nine members, held to strict rules of accountability. There were two Americans, one member from the UK, and one each from France, China, Germany, Russia, Brazil and Japan. Meetings were held by teleconference via state of the art encrypted technology. The criterion of success was rigidly applied to each member. Mistakes were not excused and meant expulsion with unpleasant results.

  Harold Dansinger was the newest member of the inner circle. He was still on probationary status. He could express his view, but could not vote when decisions were made.

  The raid in Texas was a personal disaster. Dansinger needed to reassure the others that things could be brought under control and that exposure was not a remote possibility. He needed to reassure them that he himself was not a liability.

  Malcolm Foxworth was the member from England. Foxworth owned a media empire that encircled the globe. Foxworth was the Supreme Leader of AEON, but he preferred the title of Chairman. It was so much more democratic sounding.

  Foxworth began. "Harold, help us understand the current situation, why don't you?" Members of the Council were always addressed by their first names. It created an illusion of equality.

  "As you know, Malcolm, the stockpile of Demeter was destroyed. The raid was carried out by a black ops unit called Project. It reports to the President only."

  Foxworth's face hardened. "We know about the Project. They created a problem for us not long ago."

  Dansinger wanted to guide their thoughts away from himself. "The actions of DCI Lodge resulted in their interest and involvement."

  There was no visible reaction by Foxworth. Dansinger continued.

  "I have restarted production of Demeter in the Utah facility. Stockpiles will be renewed within two months."

  He sipped water. The others watched from the screens.

  "What about the outbreak in Nebraska?" It was the other American member. "How did this happen? That was not part of the original plan. What do you intend to do?"

  "I have not yet discovered how Demeter was released, but I believe the outbreak can work to our advantage. We simply alter the sequencing of the plan. It gives us an opportunity to refine it. We let the virus spread. An antidote will be discovered, offered and applied. The virus will be stopped. Unfortunately, that same antidote will not be effective in the other areas of the world, once we implement infection."

  Foxworth said, "Go on."

  "Before the virus is contained the US government will be forced to quarantine parts of the country. Martial law will be necessary. The detention centers are empty and ready. It's an election year. Rice will be blamed. It might be an opportunity to remove him, one way or another."

  Heads nodded. So far, they were with him.

  "What is your exposure?"

  "Minimal. There is no evidence of anything. I don't know how the Project found out about Demeter, but Lodge is working on that as we speak. The President cannot act openly without proof. All evidence regarding Demeter was destroyed in the attack on my facility. They cannot prove I have any involvement. Once I introduce the antidote no one would dare confront me."

  Foxworth considered Dansinger's words. "Very well. We will take this under further discussion. Harold, you will keep us updated on your progress."

  Under the words Dansinger heard a warning.

  Dansinger's screen went blank.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Alexei Vysotsky listened to Korov's report.

  "You are certain the virus was destroyed?"

  "Yes. For the moment, Demeter is halted."

  "For the moment."

  "The laboratory and stockpiles are gone. But there must be other laboratories. I think we've bought time, not an end to the threat."

  "What are the Americans doing?"

  "We meet today to discuss the next steps. I believe they are genuine in their desire to smash this."

  "Lodge?"

  "That is one of the subjects of this meeting."

  "They have accepted you?"

  "They have. They are fearless, a very accomplished group. I wish I'd had them with me in Chechnya."

  "High praise from you, Arkady."

  "They earned it."

  "Nonetheless, they are Americans. Do not forget that. Trust only goes so far."

  "Of course, sir."

  "Continue to observe and report."

  Korov put away his phone. Vysotsky's comment annoyed him. He hadn't been in that compound. Carter and the others had earned his respect. More than that, they'd earned a measure of trust. Vysotsky would never understand that.

  Different countries, different uniforms, same dedication. The same code. The code crossed all boundaries when men fought together.

  His feelings confused him. He poured a cup of coffee and walked to the window. He'd always thought of America as the enemy. That hadn't changed. What confused him was his acceptance in
to this group, however temporary or expedient it might be. Korov knew the reverse would not be true. He couldn't even conceive of such a thing. It was bizarre. Even more bizarre, the Project wasn't a military unit like Zaslon. It was an intelligence group. Not exactly spies, in the traditional way. More like the sharp point of a rapier wielded to end threats before they'd fully begun.

  He didn't understand Harker's actions. It wasn't the way things operated in his world. He slept in a hotel with free access to come and go, instead of a barracks somewhere under close surveillance. No one questioned him about carrying a weapon. He belonged to one of Russia's most secretive and effective units, yet he was allowed freedom in the heart of the American empire. It simply didn't compute.

  Outside the hotel window the air was gray with smog, hazy, the sky overcast.

  He thought about the woman, Connor. She was part of the combat team. Women were not assigned to operations like this in Russia. He didn't think they were here, either. She had done as well as the men. It surprised him. It hadn't escaped him that she and Carter were sleeping together. You could always tell. She was very attractive. In another time and place...he put that distracting thought aside.

  Korov thought Carter as good a small force leader as he had ever seen. He'd accomplished the mission with cool efficiency against unfavorable odds.

  In spite of himself, Korov found himself liking the Americans. They'd made him part of the team. The real test would come when he learned what they planned for their Director of Central Intelligence. In Russia, such a powerful man would be protected, invulnerable.

  Arkady stared out the window at streams of cars crawling along a distant highway. He had no illusions about the political labyrinths inside the Kremlin. In Russia, it would be difficult to convince the leadership to make someone like Lodge disappear. More likely the accuser would be the one to disappear. What would Harker do?

  That was another thing that confused him. A black ops intelligence unit run by a woman. He had to hand it to her, she didn't dance around what had to be done. She didn't seem concerned about possible repercussions from the attack.

  All in all, this had turned into the most interesting assignment he'd ever had.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Stephanie was running late. She stepped out of the elevator in her parking garage and walked toward her car. Her shoes sounded loud in the echoing space. If Beltway traffic wasn't bad she might make it on time. Yeah, right, she thought. That's on the order of Moses parting the Red Sea.

  She reached her car, a sensible Toyota Avalon. Enough luxury and power without getting into the really high end stuff. It was a lovely blue color. She liked her car. She pushed the remote and heard the beep as the doors unlocked. She opened the door. She heard a sound like a hissing snake and felt a sudden sharp pain and looked down at a dart sticking in her leg. She felt dizzy. The keys fell from her hand.

  She woke lying on a cot. A small window well high up on the wall let in enough light to see a square room of unfinished concrete. A camera watched from the ceiling. The door was made of gray steel. A metal toilet without a seat took up one corner. The only other features were a water tap in the wall and a drain in the center of the floor.

  A shot of fear cleared the fog from her mind. She sat up, awkwardly. Her right arm jerked back. Handcuffs shackled her to the cot. The cot was bolted to the floor.

  The last thing...yes, opening the car door. Something in her leg. A tranquilizer dart.

  She was in a cell. Not thinking, she felt for her gun. The empty holster mocked her. The handcuffs rattled.

  Except for a headache and a queasy feeling in her stomach, she was unharmed. Her skirt was smudged with something, maybe from the garage floor. She had a scrape on her leg.

  They'd taken her watch. Stephanie had no idea how long she'd been unconscious. She guessed a few hours. She took a deep breath, calming herself. Suddenly she was angry. She raised her free arm and gave the camera her middle finger. Maybe that would get someone's attention.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Harker sighed. Ronnie had shiny new crutches and a cast on his right leg. Lamont's arm was back in a sling. Nick came in walking like he had a board strapped on his back.

  "Maybe we should just set up an ER in the hall. Has anyone seen Stephanie?"

  "No." Headshakes.

  "We'll start without her. Good work in Texas. We've stopped them, for now." She looked at the picture on her desk of the Twin Towers. She picked up the silver pen. "What shall we do about Lodge?"

  "Maybe Rice can handle it." Nick's back ached like hell. It was black and blue and red, a bad sunset from a grade B movie.

  "Nothing's changed. We've got no proof of anything."

  "We could put pressure on Dansinger," Lamont said. "If he gives Lodge up, he could get a deal from Rice."

  "For someone who was about to kill millions of people? I don't think so."

  "Dansinger might not know that."

  "We could, how do you say, 'grab' him. Dansinger, not Lodge. Or maybe Lodge himself?" Korov watched Harker.

  "Lodge is too risky. Maybe later, but not now. Rice can only protect us so far."

  "We could bug him," Ronnie said.

  "Any bug we got in place wouldn't last long. Everywhere he goes is swept three or four times a day."

  "Steph could help," Nick said. "She's hanging out with Lucas and Lucas works for Hood. Maybe he can find something out."

  "What if Hood is part of this?" Harker said.

  "He doesn't strike me as someone who'd get in bed with Lodge. He doesn't like Lodge, he's ambitious, he wants Lodge's job. That might work to our advantage."

  "If you're wrong it will tip our hand."

  "What hand? If I were Lodge, I'd have figured out who was behind Texas. I'll bet a year's pay he knows it was us."

  Everyone thought about that. Nick's ear began itching. He tugged on it.

  Selena pushed hair away. "Lodge won't take it lying down. He's got to move against us, do something."

  "I know what I would do." They turned to Korov. "I would seek information. I would not ask nicely."

  "How would you get it?" Harker asked.

  "From one of us."

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Bright lights came on. Two large men brought a chair into the cell. Stephanie watched them. The chair was made of heavy wood. The seat was cut out in the middle, like a child's potty training chair. This chair was full size, with leather straps fixed to the arms and legs. Stephanie tried to hold down her fear. A third man entered, carrying an aluminum case. He reminded her of a bank clerk from a black and white movie about the Depression. He was short and balding and small, prissy looking, with a prim brown mustache and a pinched chin. He wore a vest and round, steel rimmed glasses. His lips were pursed. He eyed her with indifference. It chilled her.

  "Strip her. Put her in the chair."

  The men came over to her. One of them wrapped his huge arms around her while the other unshackled her from the cot. She struggled and tried to bite him.

  He punched her in the stomach. She doubled over. They ripped off her clothes and tossed them aside. They carried her squirming to the chair while the prissy man watched and smoked a cigarette. They sat her in the chair and tied her down with the leather straps and left the room. A minute later they came back carrying a table and a box. They set the table down by the chair with the box on top of it.

  "That's all." The third man dismissed them. "Close the door behind you."

  "Yes, sir." They left the room. The door clanged shut. She was alone with the prim man.

  He smiled, an unpleasant smile. "In this room we are going to get to know each other."

  "Fuck you."

  "No, not that. Something much more...intimate."

  He hummed to himself and laid the aluminum case on the table. He opened it. The lid contained a row of rubber topped vials, three syringes, swabs, alcohol and something in a tube.

  From the bottom of the case he took out a white cloth
bundle. He unrolled it and placed it on the table. It contained a polished scalpel, a narrow forceps of surgical steel, a set of three different kinds of pliers and an assortment of odd shaped pointed probes.

  He opened the box. It had a large car battery, wire leads and a smaller box with a dial.

  Steph's breath came faster. It was just a battery. How much pain could he inflict with a battery? She could handle it. She told herself she could handle it. What did he want? Who was he?

  "Let me explain why you are here. I advise you to speak civilly to me. Understand?" His voice was quiet.

  Her lips were dry. "Yes."

  "You are going to tell me about Demeter. How did you know about it?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Yes, they always say that. Of course you know what I am talking about. Please do not waste our time together. You are Stephanie Willits. You work for a covert unit called the Project. You found out about Demeter. I want to know how."

  Steph was silent.

  "Cat got your tongue? No matter."

  The man seemed to be coming alive as he spoke. A light sheen of sweat covered his forehead. His eyes darted over her naked body. He took a syringe from the case, selected a vial of clear liquid, filled the syringe, squirted a bit into the air. Her upper and lower arms were clamped tight to the chair. He probed for a vein, swabbed the spot with alcohol and injected her. In a few seconds she felt a rush of heat over her body. Her pupils dilated. The room was suddenly too bright. She felt something else.

  Sexual arousal.

  "Interesting, isn't it?" he said. "The effect lasts about an hour. Our Chinese friends developed this as an aphrodisiac. Of course, they use a much smaller amount. It has other applications with a dose like yours. Let me show you."

  He leaned close. She could smell his foul breath. He extended his forefinger and ran a yellowed nail lightly over her breast. The sensation was like nothing she'd ever experienced. Every nerve ending was incredibly alive. The feel of the nail across her skin was almost unbearable, intense, just short of pain, on the border between pain and ecstasy. She gasped. She couldn't help herself. She jerked away against the restraining straps. They felt like barbed wire