Authors: Jon Land
Fires of Midnight (11 page)
H
aslanger was a
wunderkind,”
Gloria Wilkins-Tate continued. “Best and the brightest of Hitler’s Nazi youth …”
aslanger was a
wunderkind,”
Gloria Wilkins-Tate continued. “Best and the brightest of Hitler’s Nazi youth …”
“Geniuses selected from screenings conducted of every child in the Reich, then spirited away to special schools and assignments. Haslanger was in his twenties during the prime years of the war, already a full doctor, and he was dispatched to the central Nazi research labs in Dusseldorf, the clearinghouse for all the advanced scientific research Hitler was obsessed with. Selective breeding, in-vitro fertilization, even species crossing—they were all tried behind those doors with varying degrees of success.”
“Species crossing?”
“Since Watson and Krick didn’t discover the existence of DNA until several years later, the work was very crude and the results by all accounts hideous. Suffice it to say that the Nazis in general and Haslanger in particular were well ahead of their time.”
“And The Factory allowed him and the other scientists you recruited to stay ahead of it.”
“With a far different end in mind, Mr. McCracken.”
“Win at all costs, you mean?” Blaine challenged. “Not very different at all.”
“Survive at all costs, more accurately. We could never foresee an end to the Cold War. We could see only a worsening leading ultimately to
all-out war. We wanted to be ready for that war.”
all-out war. We wanted to be ready for that war.”
“So you let Haslanger and the others keep their blank checks.”
“With certain limitations and parameters, that’s exactly what we did. They were all brilliant men, but Haslanger had the sharpest mind and the ruthlessness to match. His early work showed great promise but virtually no tangible results.” Her voice drifted and Gloria Wilkins-Tate tightened her sweater about herself. “Until the existence of DNA was confirmed. For Haslanger it was like opening a treasure chest. He began mixing and matching the strands of DNA from various species, searching for the proper match to create the ideal soldier, a perfect killing machine. But he didn’t have the advantage of the identification and isolation practices and procedures available today. Everything was hit or miss and his end products were unspeakable, genetic nightmares. Most were killed within minutes of birth.”
“Humans included?”
“It was the experiments with humans that led to that part of his work losing its sanction. He began playing with the human genetic code long before he was ready. I don’t know what he was mixing, or what exactly he expected to produce. I only know that the monsters he created …” The old woman stopped, trembling as she pictured once again the results of Haslanger’s gene splicing. She settled herself with a series of deep breaths. “My history, Mr. McCracken. I let him go on much too long, until the seventies, when he began channeling all his energies into selective breeding.”
“Bringing us to Operation Offspring.”
“It was a much simpler, if less dramatic concept. We knew the wars of the future would be fought in the research lab, not on the battlefield. Toward that end, Erich Haslanger set out to create geniuses. If a mother and father both have genius IQs, imagine what their offspring would be like. Of course, the mother and father would never have to meet—that was the beauty of it. All Haslanger needed were the proper samples. He then paid female workers to bring the babies to term. Between 1979 and 1980, over eighty of Haslanger’s children, a new generation of wunderkind, were delivered. They were raised en masse initially to allow for constant observation and quick identification of those with genius capabilities. Just short of their third birthdays, fourteen of these were selected for placement with individuals who were, for one reason or another, under our control.”
“1981, then,” McCracken calculated. “Maybe ’82.”
“Yes.”
“And where does Harry Lime fit in?”
“Your friend was one of the guardians we selected.”
“Even though he was crazy and all of you would have known it,” McCracken followed accusingly.
Gloria Wilkins-Tate didn’t bother with a denial. “Our choices were motivated by other factors as well.”
“People who for the record, like Harry, could easily be made not to exist. People who had a close but tenuous association to the government. Harry would have fit all those qualifications perfectly. Who pulled the plug?”
“There were leaks, embarrassments. The Carter years were not good ones for us. The Factory was abolished, accounting for the file status of men like your friend and for my … retirement.”
“What about the children?”
“Once Operation Offspring was abandoned, they were removed from their guardians and placed indiscriminately in adoptive homes.”
“Not Joshua Wolfe.”
“No,” the old woman said, her voice hesitant and confused. “Apparently not.” Her eyes sharpened, flashing fear. “Someone else must have continued to control and monitor him, picking up right where we left off.”
“I don’t suppose you have any idea who.”
“It could have been anyone privy to our reports. That list was very small, but I don’t have to tell you in Washington it doesn’t necessarily stay that way.”
“Could it have been Haslanger?”
“Not alone. He wouldn’t have had the resources.”
“I’m sure he could have found a benefactor.” Blaine paused. “He’d done it before.”
He reached into his pocket and produced the picture found in Joshua Wolfe’s Harvard dorm room, handing it to Gloria Wilkins-Tate. She released her grip on her twisted sweater and accepted the photo, lifting her glasses on their chain to her eyes so as to see the shot of the smiling man with his arm draped over the shoulder of a long-haired teenager.
“Joshua Wolfe,” was all Blaine said.
The old woman’s stare was far away when she looked up. “All the children we placed were given the names of animals for easy identification and coding. I didn’t think I’d ever be seeing any of them again, even Wolfe.” Her eyes caught life again. “Where did you say he is now?”
“I didn’t, but it’s Harvard. And he’s not there anymore. Something happened.”
“What are you talking about? You act like I should know.”
“I’m sure you do. The whole country does. A shopping mall in Cambridge, Ms. Willdns-Tate. Seventeen hundred people found—”
“No!”
“Joshua Wolfe was responsible, believe me. Prevailing theory right now is that it was a tragic accident, a botched experiment. But if Haslanger’s involved, there’s no telling. And if he gets to the kid first …”
“This can’t be happening!” the old woman moaned.
“Rest assured it is. And I’ve got a bigger problem: Harry Lime’s disappearance. Somebody arranged for it after he spilled his guts to me. You
placed this kid with him, Ms. Wilkins-Tate. You gave Harry a dead wife to fill out the scenario and he started to believe she really existed, even thought I’d been to the funeral. Then one day last fall, whoever picked up where you left off came to take his kid away for good. They ship Harry down to Florida and the new Air America. Only once in the Keys, everything starts to break down. In Harry’s mind the kid’s been snatched, kidnapped. So whoever’s running Operation Offspring now isn’t just making geniuses, they’re covering their tracks. Right up Haslanger’s alley, isn’t it? He’s done that before, too, hasn’t he?”
placed this kid with him, Ms. Wilkins-Tate. You gave Harry a dead wife to fill out the scenario and he started to believe she really existed, even thought I’d been to the funeral. Then one day last fall, whoever picked up where you left off came to take his kid away for good. They ship Harry down to Florida and the new Air America. Only once in the Keys, everything starts to break down. In Harry’s mind the kid’s been snatched, kidnapped. So whoever’s running Operation Offspring now isn’t just making geniuses, they’re covering their tracks. Right up Haslanger’s alley, isn’t it? He’s done that before, too, hasn’t he?”
“You really think you can stop this?”
“I can find whoever killed Harry. That’s a start. Where is Haslanger now, Ms. Wilkins-Tate? Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know! You must believe that. If I did, I’d—”
She swallowed the rest of her words when the lighting in the collection room died, plunging them into darkness.
“T
ake my hand,” McCracken said to Gloria Wilkins-Tate calmly. He could see no light whatsoever sneaking in beneath the door crack, indicating the power was out on the whole floor.
ake my hand,” McCracken said to Gloria Wilkins-Tate calmly. He could see no light whatsoever sneaking in beneath the door crack, indicating the power was out on the whole floor.
The old woman’s rigid fingers flapped against his own. McCracken closed on them gently with one hand, while his other reached for the doorknob.
“This isn’t unusual,” she told him, “especially in the summer. Brownouts and the like, you see.”
Blaine had worked the door soundlessly open. “The emergency lighting’s out, too.”
“Oh,” Gloria Wilkins-Tate responded, understanding.
“We can’t stay here. We’ve got to move.”
He led her out of the collection room and to the right at the same time he steadied his SIG-Sauer. Inching their way through the blackness and using the wall for guidance, they reached the end of the short hall and rounded it. Blaine recalled the high-tech, movable stacks were to the right, while directly before them lay a huge expanse of traditionally shelved books.
A slight shuffling sound came from not far ahead of them, followed by a thump.
“Who’s—”
McCracken laid a hand over the old woman’s mouth too late to stop the single word from emerging. A shape shifted before him, whirling. Blaine felt it first, then caught a vague, soundless outline. He fired the SIG in the direction of the whirling shape, feeling again for Gloria Wilkins-Tate’s hand in the process. But she had yanked it away at the ear-pounding burst from the SIG’s barrel. McCracken was still flailing for a fresh grasp
when the shape, a huge disturbance in the darkness, split between them. Blaine lunged aside, dipping free of an expected grab. He followed the shape with the SIG, afraid to shoot with the old woman’s position before him unknown.
when the shape, a huge disturbance in the darkness, split between them. Blaine lunged aside, dipping free of an expected grab. He followed the shape with the SIG, afraid to shoot with the old woman’s position before him unknown.
There was a gasp and a crack. Then the sound of something thudding to the floor. McCracken steadied the SIG and pumped off four rounds. The first three muzzle flashes gave him a view of a figure that stretched three-quarters the height of the stacks ducking in amidst the neatly shelved books.
Blaine crouched down and felt about the floor. His free hand closed on Gloria Wilkins-Tate’s arm first and traced up it for her neck. There was no pulse. And something else, he realized, something all wrong.
The old woman’s head was twisted all the way around, her neck snapped as easily as a twig.
Blaine reclaimed his feet, pausing briefly. The nearest exit was straight ahead and to the right, had he chosen to use it. But there were no answers to what was going on beyond the exit door; the answers lay here with whoever had just murdered Gloria Wilkins-Tate. So McCracken backpedaled down a row between two tightly packed shelvings of books, following in the killer’s path.
K
rill embraced the darkness, the advantage if provided him wondrous. His eyes, those hideous bulging spheres that so cursed him in the light, cut through the blackness and took in what lurked within it. His eyes worked much like an animal’s under such conditions, recording motion more than shape.
rill embraced the darkness, the advantage if provided him wondrous. His eyes, those hideous bulging spheres that so cursed him in the light, cut through the blackness and took in what lurked within it. His eyes worked much like an animal’s under such conditions, recording motion more than shape.
And it was motion that told him the gunman was edging tentatively along the aisle he had dashed down himself after dispatching the old woman. Tall shelves cluttered with collections of first editions dating back centuries enclosed the aisle on both sides, creating a tunnel-like effect that would further obscure his new prey’s vision.
Krill waited, thought about holding his position here until the man walked right into him, then discarded the notion in favor of a better one.
He saw the man edging along halfway down the aisle, a nine-millimeter pistol sweeping the air before him. He sidestepped to the right and started down the adjacent aisle, closing slowly.
B
laine edged his way through the darkness, hoping to find a hint of light to improve his vision. The dim glow of an exit sign at the rear of the firstedition stacks grabbed his attention when he was halfway down the aisle. It wasn’t much, but at least it provided a destination.
laine edged his way through the darkness, hoping to find a hint of light to improve his vision. The dim glow of an exit sign at the rear of the firstedition stacks grabbed his attention when he was halfway down the aisle. It wasn’t much, but at least it provided a destination.
The enemy had created the darkness to utilize it, obviously equipped with some sort of night-vision device, which provided an incredible advantage.
Strange how he had gone for the woman first when he just as easily could have tried for McCracken, instead of alerting him.
Strange how he had gone for the woman first when he just as easily could have tried for McCracken, instead of alerting him.
Unless Gloria Wilkins-Tate had been his primary target, the killing of Blaine just an afterthought. But who could possibly—
Books rained down around McCracken. He spun toward the origin of their fall, leading with the SIG. In the darkness a hand closed on the wrist holding the gun, the grip like nothing he’d ever felt before. A vise being turned quickly to maximum tightness. His hand wobbled, the pistol torn from his grasp and sent clanging to the floor.
A second hand joined the first through the litter of fallen books on a shelf even with the top of his head. It closed for his throat and McCracken just managed to deflect it with his free hand. He felt a powerful tug on the captured wrist and found himself slammed into the shelving, dislodging another shower of tumbling books. He flailed desperately to keep the fingers that seemed more like steel digits from finding his throat. With the shelving standing between him and his opponent, his legs were useless as weapons, leaving him only the single free hand he had dedicated to defense.
Go
for the eyes, whatever he’s wearing over them.
for the eyes, whatever he’s wearing over them.
A strategy born of necessity not choice, the risk lying in clear exposure of his throat to the enemy’s inhumanly strong grip. McCracken waited until he felt another wrenching tug. When it came he shot his hand outward on an upward angle for where he judged the enemy’s face to be.
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