“Of course.” Jean shrugged. “But twenty million dollars goes a long way toward soothing the pain of committing such a cliché.”
Chapter Seventeen
Los Angeles, California
The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency laboratory was located in a light industrial area of the San Fernando Valley, near the Van Nuys Airport. The lab complex consisted of four nondescript, cream-colored buildings, three floors each, with blacked out windows, all sitting on two acres behind a tall wrought-iron fence.
Dressed in his dark suit, white shirt, and red tie, Joshua Treadwell gave Bob and Klaus the nickel tour. He pushed through a door marked MAV and, speaking over his shoulder, said, “It’s all about amplifying military flexibility. We can no longer afford weapons research with long-term time horizons.” He shrugged and shook his head. “That’s pre-9/11 thinking. What we need are near-term, specific deliverables.”
Bob nodded, already on board with the program. “And that’s what you call your ‘quick reaction’ projects?”
“Exactly,” Joshua Treadwell said. “And your transgenic assassins fit the model.”
Klaus was thinking it was far too early to reach such a conclusion but he kept that to himself. Bob and Joshua Treadwell were engaged in a like-minded love-fest that was far more faith-based than fact-based, so Klaus knew the introduction of logic into the discussion would only be met with disapproval and possibly with accusations of treason. He glanced back at the door and said, “What is MAV?”
“Glad you asked,” Treadwell said as they approached two men wearing lab coats. “It’s the research group I thought of when Bob mentioned your airborne assassin idea.” He pointed at the pair of MAV researchers and jokingly said, “You might just put these guys out of a job.” Treadwell introduced everyone before finally answering Klaus’ question. “MAV stands for micro-air vehicle. The original idea was to create tiny flying robots to carry monitoring devices to the enemy’s side of the battlefield. Something so small they couldn’t be seen, let alone shot down. But now that we’re fighting an enemy too scared to line up on the other side for a face-down, we’re trying to engineer them into a weapon system.” He pointed at one of the MAV researchers and said, “Show them what you’ve come up with.”
The man led them over to a large magnifying glass held by a C-clamp. Brightly lit underneath was a tiny winged device tethered to a magnesium coil. It looked like the nymphal offspring of a shuttlecock and a fly fishing lure. He explained how they had solved the seemingly impossible issue of lift, which turned out to spring from a micro-scale vortex at the leading edge of the machine’s narrow wing. “But,” he said, “programming the exact wing stroke to maintain lift in variable conditions has proven to be difficult code to write.”
“Power’s another problem,” Treadwell said as Klaus leaned in for a look. “Batteries are too heavy for the limited lift MAV’s can generate so they’re working on a reciprocating chemical muscle for power. And if you add any sort of weapon system…” He shook his head to finish the sentence. “Things were looking grim for the MAV project until a couple of weeks ago.” Treadwell pointed out the window toward another building. “One of our research groups finally delivered a new technology we’ve been waiting on.” He held up what looked like an impossibly thin sheet of white plastic. “Nanotube sheets,” he said. “A fundamentally new material, stronger than steel, self-supporting, able to turn sunlight into electricity. Miraculous stuff.”
“We think we can use it to create artificial muscles,” the MAV researcher said. “If that works, and we can solve the wing stroke issue, we might have something.”
“Still,” Treadwell said, nodding at Bob and Klaus, “these guys are ahead of the curve since all they have to do is weaponize something that already flies and is capable of carrying a payload.” He led Bob and Klaus back to the hallway. “We’ll leave you two to your work,” Treadwell said. “But you better hurry or my bug boys might just take all of your funding.”
Klaus wanted to say something about the obvious problem of controlling and directing insects in a close, contained environment, let alone on the wing from miles away but since irrational exuberance was the currency of the moment, he said nothing.
As Treadwell led them across the quad in the center of the complex, he talked about the work of the other research groups. “We’re close to breakthroughs in several areas, including swarm technology and intelligence and remote control of nanobots using GPS. And as I said, we hope to bring all these technologies together somehow to create something that is more robust than the sum of its parts.”
They arrived at another building. “Here we go,” Treadwell said. “Your new office.” He pushed open the double doors to reveal three thousand square feet of gleaming instrumentation.
Klaus couldn’t believe the scale of the thing. The room was equipped with top-of-the-line pulsed field gel electrophoresis systems, lipid transfection monitors, eukaryotic and microbial gene pulser units, thermal cyclers and everything else necessary for the creation of transgenic assassin bugs and God knows what else. For the first time since meeting Joshua Treadwell, Klaus contracted a small case of enthusiasm. He pointed in wonder at a bank of sleek machines across the lab. “Are those Bio-Plast 545 sequencers?”
Treadwell smiled his reply.
“But they are still on the drawing board,” Klaus said in disbelief.
“We make things happen a little faster here.” Treadwell clapped his hands once and said, “Oh, I got you a little present.” He turned and pointed toward a large gift-wrapped box on one of the stainless steel work tables. “Go ahead, open it.”
Bob walked over and plucked the bow from the top of the package before tearing off the shiny gold wrapping paper. He looked at the contents for a moment before he said, “No way.” Klaus stepped closer to see for himself. It was a terrarium heaving with bizarre, angular insects. “African white-eyed assassins?” Bob looked at Treadwell. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Perhaps,” Treadwell said. “But the way we see it, what the Department of Agriculture doesn’t know can’t hurt ’em.” He gestured for Bob and Klaus to follow him to the back of the lab. “I also got you some spiders,” he said. “I want to see if the venom idea is viable.”
There were a half dozen more terrariums, each with a nameplate of the arachnids housed within. On the top: the Brazilian huntsman (Phoneutria fera); the Sydney funnelweb (Atrax robustus); and the black widow (Latrodectus hesperus). “Got these from a Professor Harmon down at U.C. Riverside, does work on how venoms disrupt synaptic transmission.” The bottom row held the brown recluse (Loxosceles reclusa); the tropical spitting spider (Scytodes longipes); and the South African six-eyed sand spider (Sicarius Hahnii).
“I tried to get Professor Harmon to join the project, but he declined based on the commute. Said he’d be glad to consult, though. So if you have any questions, he’s the guy to call.”
Treadwell leaned close to one of the terrariums, inviting Bob to join him as he admired the beautiful and deadly creatures. “Look at the articulation of the legs. The complexity and dexterity and perfection when they move. It’s humbling,” he said, turning to look at Bob. “Don’t you think?” He leaned even closer, his nose almost touching the glass. “I can’t see how this could be the result of some undirected process, you know? The elegance of the design is just awesome.”
“They’re pretty remarkable,” Bob said.
Treadwell stood and smoothed the front of his suit coat. “We’re blessed to have them at our disposal,” he said, giving Bob a slap on the back. “Well, you guys poke around, find out where we’ve put everything and start settling in.” He pulled two magnetic security key cards from his pocket and handed one to Bob, the other to Klaus. “The keys to your new kingdom,” he said as he sneaked a glance at his watch. “Late for a meeting. Welcome aboard.” He gave a salute with his index finge
r off the corner of his forehead, turned and left.
After the doors closed behind Treadwell, Bob looked as if he might start giggling. He had the expression of a kid who just got locked inside an adult book store. He held his arms out wide and said, “Can you believe all this?”
Klaus looked around suspiciously. “It is impressive,” he said.
Failing to notice the skepticism in Klaus’ voice, Bob said, “A dozen Bio-Plast 545 sequencers? Hell, we could make dinosaurs with this stuff.” He aimed his thumb at the door and said, “Notice how he keeps bringing up the airborne assassins? I told you he liked it.” He caressed a $65,000 high-throughput fluidics system and said, “This is unbelievable.”
“Yes.” Klaus looked around the sterile room and said, “Nothing about this bothers you?”
“What do you mean?”
“What was he talking about, the elegance of design and undirected processes?”
Bob shrugged it off. “Yeah, I don’t know what that was all about, but take a look around.” He made a sweeping gesture reminiscent of a game show host. “What a great opportunity. I mean, think of the possibilities!”
“I think the greatest possibility is that someone will find out we are still alive and try to remedy the situation.”
Bob shook his head. “Jesus, Klaus. You know what your problem is? You thrive on negativity. If you don’t have any troubles, you go looking for some. That’s one of the reasons I like Treadwell. He’s always so positive.” He went to Klaus and put his arm around his shoulder. “I wish you could see this for what it is and—”
Just then a man came through the doors carrying a box. “Hey, this got delivered to the wrong building. I think it’s yours.” He opened the box pulled out what looked like a high-tech handgun, which he pointed at Bob.
Klaus dove behind a counter, yelling, “Get down!”
Bob cracked an embarrassed smile. He leaned over and said, “Uhhh, Klaus, that’s an adjustable helium pulse gene gun.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Puget Sound
Richard Mills never set out to find a nickname, or earn one, or have one bestowed upon him. He was simply a professional doing his job. But after he killed the leader of an outlaw motorcycle gang—a large and violent piece of white trash that went by the moniker King Cobra—certain people began to call Richard Mills the Mongoose. He didn’t refer to himself that way but others did. He didn’t care. He just wanted to do his work, get paid, and go home.
After fifty-six assassinations, Richard Mills bought a small island in the San Juan archipelago and retired. It was twelve acres of fir trees, towering rock cliffs, and a 360-degree view half a mile off the coast of Washington. The Olympic Mountains to the south, Mt. Baker and Rosario Straits to the east, Lopez Sound and Orcas Island to the north. He enjoyed the serenity and beauty of the place, but he bought it for the security. It was not the sort of place you could sneak up on, which was exactly the point.
Richard Mills thought he was done with killing, but Marcel had given him twenty million reasons for making a comeback. So now he was on a ferry, heading south to Seattle.
As the boat chugged across Elliot Bay, Richard Mills noticed the cruise ship docked at the Bell Street Cruise Terminal, Pier 66. Good. That meant the Pike Place Market, where he was headed, would be packed. He liked crowds, he could disappear in them. They made him feel safer.
The ferry docked at Pier 50. Richard Mills picked up the duffle bag he’d brought, secured with a small padlock, and stepped onto the mainland. He walked north to Pier 54 and the Seattle Aquarium. He crossed the road and the street car tracks, heading for the base of the Pike Hill Climb. He paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked up. This, he assured himself, would be the last time he climbed these stairs. Michael Jordan might come out of retirement twice, but not the Mongoose. Once would be enough.
As he climbed, he found himself counting the stairs. He was in good shape for a man of fifty-eight but he was winded after he’d counted eighty-two steps. He paused to catch his breath, then continued toward the top. 153…154…155. His heart was pounding when he reached the top. He liked how it felt as the blood pressed against the walls of his veins and arteries. The stairs delivered him to the heart of the famous Pike Place Market, a thriving, bustling farmer’s market and vast warren of shops selling everything from magic tricks and jade products, to brilliantly colored produce, flowers, spices, and seafood.
Breathing heavily, taking in the smells, he passed between All Things Lavender and Baja Bath Salts, with its polished silver bowls filled with a rainbow of colored salts on display. The place was cheek-to-jowl with tourists. There was a noisy crowd around the Pike Place Fish Company where the fish mongers played to the throngs by tossing twenty-pound king salmon from the market floor over beds of cracked ice and stacks of crabs and into the waiting hands of a partner who caught the slippery silver fish with the greatest of ease. The crowd loved it, cheering louder with each throw.
Richard Mills slipped unnoticed through the crowd with his locked duffle bag and walked out under the big red Pike Place Market sign, heading for Second Avenue. He passed an ad hoc kiosk with an overhead sign that read, “Are you a good person?” The guy manning the booth held out some literature and said, “Take the test?”
Without stopping, the Mongoose shook his head and said, “I already know the answer.”
He turned right on Second Avenue. Half a block down, between Ghengis Khan Chinese Restaurant and Check Masters Check Cashing was a pawn shop called Palace Loans. Displayed in the window was a pile of hocked jewelry, a set of bongos, and a vast array of folding knives. Richard Mills pushed through the door, triggering an electronic beep. He stopped and looked around. Straight ahead, a desperate musician was negotiating to sell his guitar. A fat, black dog was asleep in the corner. In the back of the shop a sign hung from the ceiling. “Loan Desk.” Under the sign and behind the counter was a large, bearded man, looked half Arab, half Samoan. Impassive of stare, swarthy of complexion.
As he approached, Richard Mills and the man exchanged a mumbled greeting and a nod, like this wasn’t the first time. Mills placed the duffle bag gently on the counter along with two hundred dollars, the price of no-questions-asked on this stretch of Second Avenue. The man slid a ticket across the counter in return. Richard Mills slipped it into his pocket and said, “It won’t be long.” The man didn’t seem to care. He just nodded and put the duffle bag under the counter.
Richard Mills walked out of Palace Loans and checked his watch. His train didn’t leave for several hours. He decided to return to Pike Place Market for lunch, perhaps some fresh salmon.
He took his time, wandering around the market, looking at the menus posted outside the restaurants, just waiting for something to strike him. What was he in the mood for?
Just behind him, the crowd in front of the Pike Place Fish Company let out a roar as one huge salmon after another flew through space, only to be snagged out of mid-air by a guy using butcher paper like a catcher’s mitt.
Richard Mills stopped at the top of a flight of concrete stairs to let an elderly couple come up. While he waited, he looked down and saw the brown, six-sided tiles that covered the market floor. One of those fund raiser things where people buy tiles with their names on them. “Crissy.” “Don Dicky.” “Zac and Lizzy Albert.” He noticed a small crack in one of the tiles.
What he failed to notice was that, about twenty feet away, by the Pike Place Fish Company, the larger of two severely tattooed and pierced teenagers lurched out of the crowd in an alcohol-and-weed induced fashion. He plunged his hands into the icy fish display, grabbing the largest salmon he saw. Twenty-six pounds worth of king.
Some in the crowd wondered if this was part of the show.
With ice under his dirty fingernails and a row of ants tattooed crawling across his face, the kid turned to his equally inked
and inebriated buddy and said, “Like, go long!”
The second kid, skinnier than the first, started moving backwards, shouting, “Hit me! Hit me!” as his friend reared back—underhanded with both hands—to toss the big fish.
“Hey!” The guy from the Fish Company couldn’t get there in time to stop the throw.
The ant-faced kid heaved the huge, oily salmon. The crowds’ eyes followed the arc of the slick fish wiggling slightly as it soared overhead, as though swimming upstream for one final spawn.
The skinny kid never had a chance to catch the thing. The heavy salmon shot through his fingers like twenty-six pounds of greasy eel, hitting Richard Mills squarely in the head just as he was taking his first step down the stairs.
The mass and velocity of the flying salmon knocked him wildly off balance. He knew in that instant that he was going down. Time slowed to a crawl. He reached for the handrail but missed in a long, looping grab. Then, for just a moment as he began to tumble down the stairs, Richard Mills found himself looking up at the ceiling and the green and white neon restroom sign pointing down the concrete stairs. Pointing down to Hell. Pointing at him.
Then things went black.
Chapter Nineteen
Father Paul Anik was a dedicated, unpretentious man in his early sixties. Every Friday afternoon he sat in the same hard plastic chair in the hospital’s waiting room, elbows on his knees, reading the paper. There was a cushioned sofa nearby but, in a typical act of self-abnegation, Father Paul chose the discomfort that only injection molding can provide. Shifting in the hard seat, his arthritis reminded him that rheumatology was just three floors up, tempting him with pain-relieving hip replacement. But, preferring the self-discipline that came with suffering and the possibility that it offered insight into the nature of God, he quietly endured.
Father Paul was a volunteer. After completing his weekly duties at St. Martin’s, he came to visit the sick and the elderly, to offer the sacraments and whatever comfort he could. With silky white hair and blue eyes serene as tiny mountain lakes, his soft, jowly face conveyed a welcome serenity.
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