Black Harvest (The PROJECT) (13 page)

"How you feeling?"

"Fine." She sat on the couch, drank. He sat down next to her. She smelled of soap and lemon shampoo and some fresh scent that was her. Her breath was strong with whiskey. Maybe she'd had another during her bath.

"Good whiskey," she said. "Helps, at the end of a busy day."

She was beginning to slur her words. He said nothing.

"Another busy day." She raised her glass at him. It wavered. "Get up, see the sights, have lunch. Shoot a few people. Back to the hotel in time for dinner."

"Selena..."

She drank. Her glass was empty. She got off the couch, staggered a little as she went to the bottle and poured another drink.

"Maybe you've had enough."

She rounded on him. Liquid slopped from her glass. "Don't you tell me I've had enough. I'll know when I've had enough."

"What's the matter?"

"What's the matter? What the hell do you think 'sa matter? You made me into a fucking killer."

That's not fair. He didn't say it.

"Oh, shit." She set the glass down, dropped down on the sofa. "Din't mean that."

"I know." He put his arm around her. She put her head on his shoulder.

"Jus' stepped over 'em. Like they were garbage."

It took a second for him to figure out what she meant.

"They were garbage. Those were bad people."

"But they were people. We killed 'em."

"They would have killed us."

"Darwin."

"What?"

"Darwin. Su'vival of the fisstest. Fittest."

Her face turned white. She clapped a hand over her mouth, jumped up and ran for the bathroom. He heard her vomit into the toilet.

Nick waited. The sounds of retching stopped. He heard water running. In a few moments she came to the door.

"Come on, bed time." He helped her into the bedroom and out of her robe. She crawled under the covers.

"Sorry," she mumbled. Then she was out.

Nick went back into the living area and turned out the lights. Sofia sparkled in chains of light along the valley floor. For no reason at all he thought of the closing scene in Gone With The Wind.

Tomorrow was another day.

He used the bathroom, brushed his teeth, went into the bedroom, undressed. He got into bed. Selena snored.

He stared at the ceiling, thinking. She'd been drunk, but the words stung, even though he knew they were untrue. She'd chosen her new life. Not him. He thought of Megan.

What he'd felt for Megan and what he felt for Selena were two different things. Love was too simple a word. The word itself confused him. Megan had been so different. Megan had been at ease with herself and with him. She'd lived in a world far removed from the desolate places where death shaped his days and nights. If she hadn't died, Megan's world could have been his world. He would have left the Corps, become a normal civilian. Never made his appointment with a child and a grenade in Afghanistan. Never met Harker or Selena.

Megan's world had been peaceful. No one would call the world he shared with Selena peaceful. The strain was beginning to show. Selena was becoming more volatile. She wasn't sleeping well. Sometimes he'd see her gazing off at nothing in particular. She was getting the look. He knew she was headed for a moment of truth. Sooner or later, everyone who made violent death part of their job came to that moment. He didn't know how she'd handle it. Maybe he'd talk with Harker about it.

He closed his eyes. It was a long time before he slept. He dreamed.

He's back in the dust of the Afghan street, again. He's in the market, like always. The AKs begin, like they always do. He ducks into a doorway, as he always does. The child runs toward him with the grenade, again. He raises his rifle.

This time, the dream is different. This time, someone is standing off to the side. It's a woman. A naked woman, dark, as if she were standing in deep shade. She looks at him. Her eyes aren't human, they're like deep pools of black with stars in them. The child throws the grenade. He feels the rifle kick back against his shoulder and the child's face changes into Selena's. Everything goes white.

Nick sat up in bed, gasping. Sweat covered him. The sheet under him was soaked. Next to him, Selena had fallen into a deep sleep.

The dream had changed. It had never changed before. It was always the same, playing out the day in Afghanistan when he almost died. It had twisted his nights for years. For a while, it had come less often. Now it was back. Now it had changed.

Who was the woman? No woman stood naked in that Afghan village three years ago. Something had been different about the child's face. Then he remembered. It shook him.

He got up and waited for tomorrow.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Selena had been quiet on the long trip home from Bulgaria. Nick doubted she remembered much about what she'd said in the hotel. He hadn't brought it up with her. He'd decided not to talk with Harker. Selena was part of his team and it was his job to watch out for her. Harker had enough on her plate.

The night before he'd dreamed of Afghanistan again. The dark woman wasn't in it. The child's face stayed the same, an Afghan child. He'd been up since 3:00 A.M. Drinking coffee and staring out the window. Thinking about Selena.

She didn't know him, not really. He tried to remember how it had been when Megan was alive. Had she known him? It was a question he'd never asked himself. He'd been different, he knew that. When she died he'd shut something down. Sometimes it felt like he had a steel wall around him that kept everyone out. Selena had breached it.

When Harker offered him a civilian job he'd thought he was done shooting at people. He'd lead a normal life. A quiet life. Got that one wrong, he thought. He had no idea what a normal life was anymore. One day at a time.

Nick looked around the room. Everyone was together in Harker's office for the first time in weeks. Even Lamont was back. His mom had named him after Lamont Cranston, the Shadow of radio fame. In the Seals they'd called him Shadow. The nickname had stuck. 

Lamont had Ethiopian ancestors. It showed up in his wiry body, all muscles and tendons that stood out like ropes. He had blue eyes and coffee shaded skin. A hard ridge of white and pink scar tissue ran from his forehead across the bridge of his nose down onto his cheek, a souvenir of Iraq. He wore a blue sling and soft cast on his injured arm. It was a big improvement over the rigid plaster he'd sported since Khartoum.

Harker held up a flash drive. It was black and shiny.

"This came yesterday. By UPS, if you can believe it. No explanation, no note."

She was wired. Nick couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her look like that. She kept tapping her damn pen. He wished she would stop. Maybe it was that last drink from the night before, but his headache wouldn't quit.

Harker inserted the drive in a slot on her desk. The big monitor on the wall lit up and showed a windowless room. The walls were featureless. Five men sat at a smooth wooden table. Two had their backs to the camera. The lighting and quality of the video were good, but the field was narrow. Nick figured it had been taken by a concealed camera, maybe in the wall.

One of the men facing the camera was in his 60s, elegant, immaculate in a dark suit that signaled money and power. His shirt gleamed with the look only a five hundred dollar tailored shirt can achieve. He wore a tie that had probably come from the same place as the shirt. His hair was silver, perfect, sculpted by an artist.

Wendell Lodge, Director of Central Intelligence.

From the back, one of the men they couldn't see seemed vaguely familiar, but Nick couldn't place it. The other wore civilian clothes and a close haircut. He had a military feel about him. Something in the way he sat. Lodge was talking. The audio was unintelligible.

Harker said, "The audio clears up in a moment. The man to Lodge's left is Harold Dansinger. You all know who Dansinger is?"

Everyone did. A rich man who'd made his fortune in agriculture, Dansinger was a major force behind genetically altered foods. Grains were his mainstay. Wheat. Rice. Corn. Barley. Millet. The bread grains and basic foods of most of the world.

Carter had seen ads for Dansinger's products. They showed him smiling under a trademark white Stetson, his hand stretched out toward golden fields of corn rolling in green rows to the horizon. A few happy bluebirds glided in a cheerful sunlit sky. Homey letters spelled out
"Hal Dansinger
,
The Farmer's Friend."
Below that the ads read
"Dansinger Enterprises: Putting American Food on the Tables of the World."

Nick pictured the ad in his mind. He thought Dansinger looked like a used car salesman who'd just sold another clunker for a nice profit.

"I wouldn't touch his food with a pole," Selena said. "He engineers his products to destroy natural competition. Once you plant Dansinger's rice or corn, that's all you can grow."

"What's Lodge talking about?" Ronnie asked.

"Wait."

The audio cleared in mid sentence.

"--April. Long range weather forecast is favorable over the Ukraine and Western Russia. Demeter is ready."

"You are sure everything is in place?" Dansinger's voice was dry and without warmth. He was in his late sixties, large boned and raw, weathered from years under the Texas sun.

Lodge answered Dansinger's question. "Yes." He paused. "Before we go on, I'd like to make sure we are all in agreement."

One of the men at the table stood. "I am not. Wendell, I agree with our goal, but not this. The suffering will be immense if we implement. It's conceivable millions could die. I can't be a party to this."

Harker gestured. "That's George Wilkinson, head of BRES."

BRES was Biological Research Engineering Solutions, the world's leading authority on boosting third world agricultural economies. If there were crop problems in Southeast Asia or Africa, you called BRES. Wilkinson was a genius. He was also recently dead.

Carter's ear began itching.

"I understand your hesitation, George. I feel the same way. There's no decision to implement as yet. But Demeter is ready if the Russians push us too far." He gestured at the short haired man with his back toward them, who nodded. "This is simply preparation. We'll be sorry to lose you. Of course I trust in your discretion about our discussions."

"I signed the paper, Wendell, I'm not going to say anything. But this is wrong. I think you must reconsider." He looked at his watch. "I have to get back to Washington. Gentlemen."

Wilkinson left the room. There was a brief silence. Dansinger spoke.

"He's a problem, Wendell."

Lodge glanced down at
notes on
the table. "No, Harold, he's not."

"Then I can report to the others that he will not interfere?"

"You may."

The screen blanked.

"Do you think it's legitimate?" Nick asked Harker.

"I do. We can analyze it, but I don't think it's faked."

"Wilkinson's dead."

"The implication is clear. Lodge had Wilkinson killed because he wouldn't go along with the plan, whatever it is."

"But why? That's over the top, even for Langley."

"If Lodge had Wilkinson killed, it's not official. He's gone rogue. He's planning something unauthorized about Russia. I'm going to have to go to the President. Damn."

"Who could have sent this, Director?"

"Good question, Nick. Someone who doesn't like Lodge. Someone who can't come out in the open."

"At Langley?"

"Maybe."

She set the pen down. Everyone watched her.

"This is all we needed," she said. "Up against the CIA."

"We're not up against CIA," Nick said. "We're up against Lodge. I get along with Hood and Hood wants to be DCI. Maybe I could approach him. See if he's got any knowledge of what Lodge is doing."