Karen watched Ed carefully. She didn’t know him at all, and she supposed that it was quite possible he was a friend of Shearson’s, or Peter’s, or even a hired informer. But somehow he didn’t sound like it, or look like it. In the time that Karen had been working for Peter Kaiser, she had come to develop a nose for anybody who snuffled around the same political sty as Shearson Jones. They always had some of Shearson’s piggish characteristics – which Ed Hardesty plainly didn’t.
‘You know this blight’s going to turn out a whole lot worse than the news media have been giving out,’ Karen volunteered.
Ed turned away from the railing, and regarded her curiously.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asked.
‘Well, the television news has been saying it’s serious. A third of the wheat crop lost already, and a quarter of the soybean crop. But I don’t think anybody realises quite how serious it really is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s been a whole lot of hushing up. Some of it’s been deliberate, some of it hasn’t. Some of it’s been well-intentioned, because the government doesn’t want anybody to panic. But the truth is that almost every crop in every state has been affected – some badly, some not so badly – and it’s going to get a whole lot worse.’
‘How much worse?’ asked Ed, stiffly. He was as suspicious of Karen as she was of him.
‘Worse to the point where there may not be any fresh cereal, fruit, vegetables, or grazing crops – none at all. Worse to the point where the United States agricultural economy for one whole year may be totally wiped out.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked Ed, in a wary voice.
Karen brushed back her hair. ‘I don’t know who else to tell, except you. I thought of calling the newspapers anonymously, or CBS News or somebody. But who’s going to believe me, when the Department of Agriculture in Washington is quite freely admitting they’ve got crop problems. Sure, we’ve got crop problems, but they’re all under control. The way things are at the moment, it’s all a question of interpretation, you know? And the Department of Agriculture has been interpreting every single outbreak of blight optimistically. They haven’t been denying anything to the media. They’ve just been adjusting the truth to make it all look happy. They even shot a special public-relations film out in Nebraska yesterday, showing a smiling farmer in the middle of a whole lot of unblighted wheat.’
Ed said, ‘Surely someone’s going to start playing Deep Throat before long. Look how fast the damn thing’s spreading. It’s wiped out the whole of my farm – well, eighty per cent of it – in something like four days.’
‘I think you’re underestimating Senator Jones,’ said Karen. ‘When it comes to agriculture, he’s a very heavy number. He has the Department of Agriculture’s press office right under his thumb. It’s his personal mouthpiece. And there are plenty of newspapers and television stations – particularly out here in the Mid-West – that rely a whole lot on Shearson Jones’s sponsorship, or the sponsorship of his companies, at least.’
‘Agreed. But he can’t suppress this thing for ever.’
‘He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t even want to.’
‘Then why is he letting this happen? Why is he trying to make out that it’s only us poor unfortunate Kansas wheat farmers who are seriously hit?’
Karen said, ‘It’s this Blight Crisis Appeal, that’s all. Shearson Jones wants to scoop in as much money as he possibly can before anybody realises how catastrophic this blight is really going to be. I don’t know how much you’ve been told, but he’s already cleared nine million dollars through the appeal, and he’s trying to spin things out for just two or three more days so that he can make sure of a two-million dollar offer from Michigan Tractors.’
‘And the media are actually going along with it?’
‘Of course they are. They’ve got what they think is a story. Didn’t you see Time magazine, with all that cliffhanging stuff about the last-minute race to develop an antidote? They quoted a couple of state agricultural specialists who stepped out of line and said that Doomsday was on the way. But what’s that, compared with somebody like Shearson Jones saying that the blight is a supreme test of American agricultural technology, and that it’s going to revive the fighting spirit of the dustbowl days?’
Ed blew out his cheeks in disbelief. ‘This is just fantastic,’ she said. ‘How can one man influence a whole country so much, right on the edge of a crisis? And what does he think he’s going to get out of it? If the blight gets completely out of control, it’s going to sink the whole country’s agricultural economy for years – and how can that be worth it, even for him, and even for nine million dollars? If the whole country goes down the tubes, the money won’t be worth anything anyway.’
Karen stood up, and walked over to join Ed at the railing. She was already freckled from the day’s sunshine, and the irises of her dark brown eyes were as soft as medieval velvet.
‘I’m only guessing,’ she said. ‘But I’m Peter Kaiser’s personal secretary, and when Peter Kaiser talks to Shearson Jones on the telephone, all the calls are routed through my desk. That means my information is limited, but good. Right from the swine’s mouth, so to speak. The way I’ve pieced it together, from what I’ve heard Peter and Shearson saying, the blight’s turned out to be a whole lot worse than Shearson first expected it to be. He thought it was going to be regional. A few crops here and there, nothing disastrous. But instead of that, it’s spreading all over the country. Even the media don’t know how wide it’s spread, because Shearson’s made sure that the state agricultural people keep quiet about it. He doesn’t want to start a nationwide scramble for food, that’s the standard excuse. And you have to admit that it’s a sensible and justifiable excuse, as well as a self-serving one, so it’s hard to turn around and say he’s gotten hold of a pussycat that’s turned out to be a tiger – and he’s pretty anxious to claw in as much money as quickly as he can and then let go. That’s why he’s got you here. A last magnificent fund-raising effort before the lid blows off of the whole thing.’
‘But the damage he’s going to do to the country—’ said Ed.
Karen shook her head. ‘He believes it’s going to be minimal. Peter Kaiser and I and all the rest of the staff have been working on assessments of the country’s food reserves. Canned foods, dried foods, frozen food, military dumps, that kind of thing. There are going to be shortages, sure, and we’re all going to have to look forward to a few months without adequate supplies of fresh fruit and vegetables, until the next crops can be forced. But it’s not going to be that bad. I mean, it’s going to be bad, but nobody’s going to starve. There’s always the danger they won’t be able to find an antidote to the virus in time for next year, I suppose, but Shearson’s been leaning pretty heavily on the federal research people to come up with something.’
‘So,’ said Ed, quietly. ‘You really believe that Shearson Jones isn’t doing anything worse than flim-flamming the news media for a few days while he rakes in a few shekels? Just playing the same old game that politicians have always played – making money out of inside information?’
‘Do you know very much different?’ asked Karen, disturbed.
Ed leaned his elbows on the railing. ‘I believe I do. I’m not saying that what you’ve just been telling me isn’t right. I’m sure it is. But he’s been playing the game a whole lot closer to the edge. Or at least I think he has. You know this blight is caused by a virus?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I heard that.’
‘Well – I’ve been working alongside of Dr Benson at the Kansas Agricultural Research Centre, and Dr Benson was told last night that the federal laboratories in Washington have already found a way of killing the virus off.’
‘You’re serious?’ asked Karen. ‘They’ve actually done it? But that means Shearson’s been deliberately holding it back.’
Ed nodded. ‘The way Dr Benson heard it, Shearson Jones doesn’t want to announce that the bl
ights are all caused by the same virus, because that would take away the special status he’s been trying to give to the wheat farmers in Kansas. Apart from that, the virus has turned out to be something very much like Vorar D, which was developed by the Pentagon for use in Vietnam, as a replacement for Agent Orange. Vorar D eats its way through plant life like you wouldn’t believe, and the media will know that. The whole thing will bust wide open.’
‘But you say they’ve got an antidote.’
‘They have the technology to develop some sort of sterilisation compound. It isn’t magic, and we’d probably still lose most of our crops. But the sooner it’s manufactured and sprayed, the better.’
‘Why didn’t the federal research people go to the media?’ asked Karen. ‘That would have sunk Shearson Jones on the spot.’
Ed shrugged. ‘Dr Benson said that Shearson had some kind of half-nelson on their top researcher. That’s why they called Dr Benson in secret, and asked him if he’d leak the news about Vorar D instead.’
‘So why didn’t he? And come to that, why didn’t you?’
‘Dr Benson tried to. But Della McIntosh wanted to get some background for the Blight Crisis Appeal, and she made the mistake of taking him into a bar. You probably don’t know Dr Benson, but he’s a reformed alcoholic. At least, he was until last night. He’d arranged to meet a radio reporter, but he was so stoned that he was incoherent. I didn’t even understand what he was talking about myself until this morning, when I went around to see him at his apartment. I don’t suppose it was Della’s fault. She just didn’t know. But the radio guy just thought he was raving.’
‘My God,’ said Karen.
Ed frowned at her. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘What you’ve just told me about Dr Benson is the matter. Della McIntosh is Shearson Jones’s latest mistress. Did you know that? Well, you obviously guessed it. But she was sent here ahead of Shearson to size you up for the Blight Crisis Appeal, just to make sure you weren’t some kind of Mickey Mouse, and also to have a quiet word with Dr Benson.’
There was a long, tense silence. Ed said: ‘Are you kidding me along?’
‘Mr Hardesty – Ed – why do you think I’m here at all? Peter Kaiser is hardly the last of the red-hot lovers, and I certainly didn’t come for the fun and the games and the laughter. Do you see anybody laughing around here? I’m not. I’m worried about what’s going on, for myself and for my relatives and for America in general, and I don’t want Shearson Jones and Peter Kaiser plotting the end of the world behind my back.’
Ed said, ‘If there’s enough stored food to last the winter, and the federal laboratories have found an antidote, it’s hardly going to be the end of the world. And we can make damned sure that Senator Jones gets what’s coming to him.’
‘All right – maybe I’m exaggerating about the end of the world,’ said Karen. ‘But there’s one thing – and I probably shouldn’t be telling anybody this, but Peter Kaiser has already made his own personal arrangements to stock up with emergency food in case of a shortage, and Shearson Jones has enough eatables here to last him for a century. Worst of all, I listened in to a telephone conversation from Alan Hedges, the chairman of the Agriculture Committee, and I can’t be exactly sure of this, but it sounded like the president himself has ordered extra stocks of food to be shipped into Washington, in case the administration has to go short.’
Ed looked at Karen tight-lipped, and then back towards the house.
‘Isn’t that great?’ he said, hoarsely. ‘That’s how close and patriotic this nation becomes in a crisis. Oh sure – we all get to feel like buddies when the Russians invade Afghanistan, but what happens when we’re faced with a disaster at home? The politicians go on screwing the rest of us like they always do, and the powerful make plans to save their own hides while the average John and Jane Doe can go hang.’
Karen said, ‘What are you going to do? Are you going to tell the newspapers?’
Ed reached along the railing and laid his hand on top of hers. ‘I’m going to do more than that. I’m going to tell America myself. Just for today, I’m going to play along, like the poor young farmer who’s lost all his crops. But tomorrow evening. I’m going to be on live coast-to-coast television, and even if I only get ten seconds before they pull the plug on me. I’m going to use that broadcast to tell the real truth about what’s going on here, and tell it out loud.’ Karen looked at him. ‘I’m glad I talked to you,’ she said. ‘I was afraid you were one of Shearson’s people. I can trust you, can’t I?’
Ed smiled. ‘You and I, we don’t have any choice. If we don’t trust each other, just for this one day, then we won’t be able to trust anybody ever again.’
At that moment, Della stepped out on to the balcony, carrying a silver tray with an ice-bucket of Dom Perignon. She was dressed in a tiny gold satin bikini which scarcely covered her nipples, and which was drawn up revealingly tight between her legs.
‘Drinks, children?’ she smiled.
Karen glanced quickly and interrogatively at Ed to see if he thought that Della had been listening to their conversation, but Ed gave her a brief shake of the head. Della came up close, and stood between Ed and Karen, with her back to Karen and her breasts touching Ed’s shirt-front. Dramatically, she laid her hand on top of Ed’s and Karen’s hands, and said, ‘Isn’t this romantic? All for one, and one for all.’
*
All of his neighbours in that quiet and slightly shabby part of Washington recognised Professor Protter. He was small, and bald, and he walked in a busy, bustling way, like a wind-up clockwork toy. He always wore the flashiest of sports coats, too, with grey flannel pants that were baggy at the knees. They often wondered how a man who looked like that could have found himself such a pretty, exuberant wife, but then they didn’t know how tender and charming he could be to the ones he loved, and they didn’t know how much passion he showed her in the big brass-railed bed that dominated their pink-painted bedroom.
His wife was brunette, plump, but startlingly good-looking, particularly if you had a taste for Czech women. On Wednesdays and Fridays she gave piano lessons to the neighbourhood children, and on warm evenings, when the Protters’ windows were raised, you could sometimes hear her playing a Kempff piano concerto, with her husband accompanying her on his violin.
That Saturday afternoon, almost at the same moment that Della stepped almost naked on to the balcony of Lake Vista in Kansas, but an hour later because of the time zones. Professor Protter closed the door of the old Federal-style house behind him, and descended the five steps to the sidewalk, jingling his keys on the end of their chain. Overhead, the sky was grey and heavy, and there was a feeling of summer rain in the air. Three black children were playing football in the street.
As he walked away. Professor Protter turned for no reason at all and looked up towards the second-storey window. It was open, because of the heat, and his wife was leaning out, framed by the flowers in her window-box. She saw him, and gave him a little finger-wave, and blew a kiss.
A tall black man passing by in a crumpled linen suit said, ‘How you doing, Professor?’ and Professor Protter nodded and smiled.
He usually went out about this time on a Saturday to buy a bottle of Hungarian wine from Schwarz’s liquor store two blocks down. Then, he took the bottle home, and he and his wife would sit listening to long-playing records until it was time for an early supper. Saturday was usually goulash. Goulash and Liszt.
As he crossed the street at the end of his block, a dark-blue Cutlass abruptly started its engine, and moved out from the opposite kerb. Professor Protter didn’t give it a glance. He was thinking about Vorar D, and about Dr Benson; and he was hoping that Dr Benson would call him at home this evening.
The Cutlass U-turned, with a squeal of tyres, and nosed in beside him, keeping pace with him as he walked. It was only when he was passing the delicatessen, the one with all the fondants in the window, that he caught sight of its reflection in the glass, and turned towards
it.
He saw the man’s face, in dark glasses, and he saw the shotgun. It didn’t even occur to him to take cover. He stopped in surprise, and the car stopped, and for a moment the killer and the professor faced each other in that humid afternoon a’I’mosphere, with the normal noisy life of the streets going on all around them.
‘Are you—’ Professor Protter started to say, and took a step forward. The man in the car, owing to a nervous reaction, fired. Professor Protter was hurled backwards into the delicatessen window, into the glass which smashed but hung magically suspended for a moment before slicing down on him, nearly one hundred pounds of razor-sharp plate, right into his open mouth, and severed his head from the upper jaw upwards.
The noise of the shot, whaabaammmm, and the terrible clanging of the broken glass, those didn’t seem to be audible until minutes and minutes afterwards, when the Cutlass had long since swerved away into the Saturday afternoon traffic, and the proprietor of the delicatessen had rushed forward, rushed, clutching his apron only to stop utterly still when he saw the top half of Professor Protfer’s head lying bloodily amongst his fondants, its red-smeared upper teeth looking as if they were biting into a tray of lemon creams.
‘God,’ was all he could say.
*
She reached up and tugged the cord that closed the bedroom drapes. The warm afternoon sunlight shone through the thin white cotton of her kaftan, and revealed her gentle curved silhouette. Lean, triangular back. Small rounded bottom. Long, lean legs.
Granger Hughes, on the far side of the room, beside the frondy potted palm, said, ‘We don’t have to do this, you know.’
‘Don’t you want to?’ she asked him. ‘Or is it against your religion?’
He smiled. ‘My religion is practical miracles,’ he said. ‘And if there was ever a practical miracle, it’s you.’
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