Vector (16 page)

"You could have seen it any time you wanted, " Yuri said indignantly "All right, settle down, " Curt said. "Let's not argue.

But maybe we should take a look at the lab, just for reassurance. We all have a lot riding on this operation."

"Fine by me, " Yuri said.

He stood up, put his drink down, and led the way over to the basement door.

The group trooped down in single file. Yuri pulled the outer door open by its sprung hasp.

"What happened to the lock? " Curt asked.

"My wife pried it off this afternoon, " Yuri admitted. "I'd warned her not to come down here, and she didn't, until today. She came down here a couple of hours ago and used a crowbar to break in. But she didn't touch anything. I'm sure of that."

"Why today? " Curt asked while trying to maintain his composure. He didn't like the sound of any of this, and it kept getting worse.

"She said she just got curious, " Yuri said. "Which doesn't make sense, since I told her I'd kill her if she came down here and messed with anything."

"We might have to do just that, " Curt said.

"You mean actually kill her? " Yuri asked.

For a moment no one spoke. Curt finally nodded. "It's possible. As I said, this is an important operation for all of us. Maybe the most important thing all of us are going to do in our lifetime. To give you an idea of how strongly I feel, over the weekend it came to my attention that the People's Aryan Army had an infiltrator. His name was Brad Cassidy. Today Brad Cassidy is no longer with us, and his body is missing some of his favorite parts."

"Your wife is a monumental security risk, " Steve explained. "Does she know what you're doing down here? "

"She thought it was a distillery until today, " Yuri said.

"Which means she no longer thinks it's a still, " Curt said.

"That's right, " Yuri admitted.

"That's too bad, " Curt said. "Since she knows you were involved in |! the Soviet bio-weapons industry, it wouldn't be hard for her to figure it out."

"Let's see the lab, " Steve said.

Yuri stepped into the entry room followed closely by Curt and then Steve.

"Do you use that class A hazmat suit we got for you? " Curt asked.

He nodded at the protective gear hanging on its peg.

"Absolutely, " Yuri said. "Every second I'm in the lab I'm in the suit. I don't take any chances. When I open this inner door, don't go in! I'd also advise you to hold your breath just to be on the safe side.

You'll feel the breeze of the air flow into the room." Both Curt and teve nodded. Now that they were so close, both wondered if it was really necessary to look inside. The mere idea of the possible presence of an invisible, fatal biological agent gave them gooseflesh, and with what they had seen already, they were more than willing to believe that Yuri was holding up his side of the bargain. But before either could say as much, Yuri cracked the inner door and stepped to the side. Warily, the two firefighters leaned forward and caught a glimpse of the fermenters and other equipment.

"Looks good, " Curt said. He stepped back and motioned for Yuri to close the door.

"Would you like to see some of the finished product? " Yuri asked.

"I don't think that's necessary, " Curt said quickly.

"I've seen enough, " Steve added.

"What I think we should do, " Curt said, "is go up and talk with your wife. She's the new problem. We have to know what she knows." Yuri closed the door. "I'll get these locks back in order tonight, " he said. He then led the way back upstairs. While Yuri went to Connie's bedroom door, Curt and Steve returned to the sitting area but stayed on their feet. Each fireman took a healthy swallow from his drink while they watched Yuri lean into the room beyond. They could hear him talking, but not clearly enough to make out what he was saying, although judging by his tone, he was apparently getting angry.

Finally, Yuri turned back to them. "She's coming, " he said. "It just takes her a year and a day." Curt and Steve exchanged a disgusted look. The situation was going from bad to worse.

"Come on, woman! " Yuri yelled impatiently.

Finally, Connie's silhouette filled the doorway. She was dressed in a monstrous pink bathrobe trimmed in sea-foam green. Her feet were stuffed into backless slippers. Her left eye was dark red and swollen shut. A dried trickle of blood came from the corner of her mouth.

Curt's jaw dropped. Steve mumbled an expletive. Both were dumbfounded, and their expressions reflected their stunned bewilderment.

"These men want to ask you a few questions, " Yuri snapped. He then looked expectantly at Curt.

Curt had to clear his throat as well as organize his thoughts. "Mrs. Davydov, do you have any idea of what's going on downstairs? What your husband is doing? " Connie eyed the two strangers defiantly. "No! " she spat. "Nor do I care."

"Do you have an inkling? " Connie looked at Yuri.

"Answer! " Yuri yelled.

"I thought he was making vodka, " Connie said.

"But you don't think that any longer? " Curt asked. "Even though those big silver tanks were borrowed from a brewery."

"I don't know about that, " Connie said. "But those other little glass dishes. The flat ones! I've seen them at the hospital clinic.

They're used for bacteria." Curt nodded imperceptibly to Steve, who returned the gesture.

"That's enough, " Curt called over to Yuri.

Yuri tried to shoo his wife back into her bedroom, but she stood her ground. "I ain't going back until you bring me your TV." Yuri hesitated. Then he ducked into his room. He reappeared moments later carrying a small television with an old-fashioned rabbit-ear antenna.

Only then did Connie back out of sight.

"Can you believe this? " Curt mumbled.

"Yeah, I can, " Steve said. "And you wondered why I was voicing some concern this morning before we went into the federal building. This guy's worse than I thought."

"At least he did build a lab, " Curt said. "Obviously he knows what he's doing scientifically."

"That I'll grant, " Steve said. "And the lab setup is more impressive than I'd imagined." Curt exhaled loudly in frustration. In the background the sudden sound of a TV sitcom burst from Connie's bedroom.

The volume was turned down immediately to be barely audible. The next minute Yuri reappeared. He closed the door behind him and came over to the living area. He sat down, took a drink, and eyed his guests self-consciously.

Curt didn't know what to say. It had been one thing to learn Yuri was married, but quite another to find out he was married to a black woman.

It went against everything Curt believed in, and here he was doing business with the man.

Curt had grown up in a tough, blue-collar, white neighborhood with a physically abusive construction-worker father who continually reminded Curt that he wasn't as good as his popular, football-star brother, Pete.

Curt found solace in hatred. He embraced the bigotry so prevalent in his neighborhood. It was comforting and handy to have a readily identifiable group to blame rather than examine his own inadequacies.

But it wasn't until he'd joined the Marines and moved to San Diego that his rather parochial bigotry was transformed into racial hatred with a particular abhorrence of miscegenation.

The transition had not happened overnight. It stemmed from an attitude that had its origins in a chance meeting with a man almost twice Curt's age. It was 1979. Curt was nineteen. He'd recently finished boot camp, which had provided a dramatic boost to his self-esteem. He and several of his newfound colleagues, which included several Africanamericans, had left the base to visit a bar on Point Loma. It was a bar frequented by armed forces personnel, particularly navy divers and Marines.

The bar was dark and smoky. The only light emanated from lowwattage bulbs inside old-fashioned, hard-hat diving helmets. The music was mostly from a band Curt later learned was Skrewdriver, and the man who was feeding quarters into the jukebox was sitting next to it, at a small table by himself.

Curt and his buddies crowded in at the bar and ordered beers. They swapped war stories about their recent boot camp experiences and laughed heartily. Curt was content. It was the first time he had felt at all like part of a group. He'd even excelled during training and had been selected as a squadron leader.

Eventually tiring of the thudding, monotonous music, Curt drifted over to the jukebox. He'd had several beers and was euphorically mellow.

He looked over the selections and fingered a handful of quarters.

"You don't like the music? " the man at the small table asked.

Curt looked down at the stranger. He was of moderate size with closecropped hair. His features were sharp with narrow lips and straight, white teeth. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a T-shirt and ironed jeans. There was a small American flag tattooed on his right upper arm.

But his most striking attribute was his eyes. Even in the semi-darkness, they had a piercing quality that Curt found almost hypnotic.

"The music's all right, " Curt said. He squared his shoulders. It appeared as if the stranger was sizing him up.

"You should listen to the words, friend, " the man said. He took a pull on his beer.

"Yeah, what would I hear? " Curt asked.

"A message that might save the goddamn country, " the man said.

A wry smile crept onto Curt's face. He glanced over at his buddies, thinking they should hear this guy.

"My name's Tim Melcher, " the man said. He pushed an empty chair out from his table with his foot. "Sit down. I'll buy you a beer." Curt looked at the beer in his hand. It was down to the dregs.

"Come on, soldier, " Tim said. "Take a load off your feet and do yourself a favor."

"I'm a Marine, " Curt said.

"It's all the same, " Tim said. "I was army myself. First Cavalry Division. I did two tours in Vietnam." Curt nodded. The word Vietnam made his legs feel rubbery. It meant real war instead of the play-acting Curt and his friends had been doing. It also reminded Curt of his older brother Pete, the Bensonhurst football star. Eight years older than Curt, he'd had the bad luck of being drafted. He'd been killed in Vietnam the year before the war was over.

Curt turned the chair around, threw a leg over it, and sat down. He leaned on the back of the chair and drained his beer.

"What'll it be? " Tim asked. "The same? " Curt nodded.

"Harry! " Tim called to the bartender. "Send us over a couple of Buds."

"What's your name, soldier? "

"Curt Rogers."

"I like that, " Tim said. "Nice Christian name. It fits you, too."

Curt shrugged.

He didn't quite know what to make of the stranger, especially with his intense eyes.

With a fresh beer, Curt began to relax again.

"You know, I'm glad I met you, " Tim said. "And you know why? " Curt shook his head.

"Because I'm forming a group that I think you and a couple of your buddies ought to join."

"What kind of a group? " Curt asked skeptically.

"A border brigade, " Tim said. "An armed border brigade. You see, the regular Border Patrol who are supposed to be protecting this country from illegal aliens are not doing their job. Hell, the Mexican border just ten freaking miles away is like a giant sieve."

"Really, " Curt said. He'd not thought much about the border. He'd been much too preoccupied with the rigors of boot camp.

"Yes, really, " Tim said, mocking Curt's response. "I'm telling you, this is a serious situation. You and I and the rest of our Aryan brothers and sisters are soon going to be the minority around here."

"I'd never thought about that, " Curt said. It was the first time he'd even heard the word Aryan and had little idea of what it meant.

"Hey, you'd better wake up, " Tim said. "It's happening. This country is on the brink of being taken over by niggers, spics, slanty-eyes, and queers. It's going to be up to people like you and me if our God-fearing, self-reliant culture is to survive where people work for a living and queers stay in the closet. I tell you, not only are these other races seeping in here like water through a sponge, but they're reproducing like flies. This is one hell of a problem. We just can't sit around on our asses anymore. If we do, we only have ourselves to blame."

"How are you going to arm the border brigade? " Curt asked.

"If you got some crazy idea that people like me could help, think again. We can't take our ordnance off the base."

"Weapons are not a problem, " Tim said. "I've got a goddamn arsenal in my basement, including fully automatic Mls, machine pistols, scoped sniper rifles, and Glocks. I even have uniforms for us cause I already got about ten navy guys involved. We've already been on patrol."

"Have you come across any aliens? " Curt asked. Awed by the firearms Tim described, Curt's estimation of the stranger soared.

"Bet your sweet ass, " Tim said. "We've interdicted almost a dozen."

"What do you do with them once you catch them, turn them over to the Border Patrol? " Tim laughed scornfully. "If we did that, they'd be back the next night.

The Border Patrol's idea of interdiction is to slap their wrists, scold them, and then turn them loose."

"Well, then what do you do with them? " Curt asked although he sensed the answer.

Tim leaned over and whispered. "We shoot em and bury em." He wiped his hands rapidly as if brushing off dirt. "That way, it's over and done.

There's no second chance." Curt swallowed. His throat had gone dry.

The idea of shooting illegal aliens was both arousing and scary at the same time.

"I got some copies of a magazine here in my briefcase, " Tim said.

"I'll be happy to give them to you if you hand them out to people like you and me. You understand what I'm saying when I say people like you and me? "

"Yeah, I suppose, " Curt said. "What kind of magazines are they? "

"The one that I happen to have today is called Blood and Honor, " Tim said. "I've got others, but this one is particularly good. It's from England, but it talks about the stuff we're discussing. Western Europe has the same problems we do. I also have a novel you can read. Do you like to read? "