The Exterminators

by Bill Fitzhugh

  “And when they do,” Bob said enthusiastically, “they kill everything in their path.”

  “Interesting.” It was the first time that morning they had seen a smile on Treadwell’s usually cheerful face.

  “You should see it,” Bob said as if describing a lurid work of art. “Like a stream of bloody oil, reddish black, five inches wide, flowing across the ground. Twenty million ants, blind as bats, communicating via scent pheromones.”

  Intrigued, Joshua Treadwell said, “They can kill humans?”

  “I suppose they’re capable,” Bob said. “But it’s not likely a human would stand still long enough. Frogs, rats, insects on the other hand are small enough that the ants can overwhelm them before they can escape.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Treadwell said. “If they don’t kill people…” He raised his hands in curiosity.

  Bob smiled. “We think they might be useful for how they recognize prey.”

  “You say they’re blind?”

  “Yeah, they sense their prey’s carbon dioxide.”

  “Insects emit carbon dioxide?”

  “Yes,” Bob said. “But not nearly as much as humans, obviously. And one of the issues we’re dealing with is how to get the assassins to hunt humans instead of their natural prey. So we’d like to sequence siafu DNA, see if we can isolate the genome that allows them to detect CO2 and then transfer it to the assassins.”

  Treadwell scratched his head, then smoothed his hair back into place. “Don’t all mammals emit CO2?”

  “Yeah, that’s an issue,” Bob admitted.

  Treadwell sat back in his chair. “I mean I can see how that might work if you’re fighting in the desert where there are fewer animals, but if you release something like that, say, in an urban warfare situation, I mean that’s a target-rich environment in terms of insects and larger animals like rats, possums, dogs. Won’t they get, I don’t know, confused about what to kill?”

  “We think we’ll be able to get the assassins to hunt whatever emits the largest amount of the gas. But that’s just speculation at this point.”

  Treadwell thought about it for a minute before he pointed at Bob. “See? That’s what I like about you. Always thinking ‘what if’? I think it’s an idea worth pursuing,” he said. “Good job.”

  Like a child receiving the approval of a parent, Bob seemed to stand a little straighter at the words. Treadwell’s relentless positivism always seemed to give Bob a boost.

  “Now, how are we doing with these bad boys?” Treadwell gestured at the two jars Klaus had put on his desk earlier. Each contained one of the two transgenic hybrids. Something caught Treadwell’s eye and he leaned in for a closer look. “Are these bigger than they used to be?”

  “Yeah,” Bob said. “About 30 percent larger. It’s a phenomenon known as hybrid vigor. This is probably as big as they’ll get, though, given the respiration issue.”

  Treadwell slowly turned the jar holding the transgenic spined ambush assassin. An awful creature, glistening greenish-black exoskeleton, spined and menacing. The bulging muscles of the forelegs, like Popeye the Insect Man. As the jar turned, the insect’s disturbing orange eyes rotated to keep the men in sight. Its clubbed antennae constantly tapped the glass, trying to learn more from whatever was in the air. Treadwell lifted the jar to see the underside. The bug’s sharp, piercing beak throbbed like a knife with a heartbeat. When Treadwell put his hand on the lid, Bob said, “I wouldn’t do that.”

  He paused. “No?”

  Bob and Klaus shook their heads.

  Treadwell set the jar down gingerly. “So what’s the status with these?”

  “I think the term you guys use is ‘fully weaponized,’” Bob said with a boyish grin. “After testing the toxins of the different venoms we found a component of the Sydney funnelweb’s to be the most efficient.” Bob glanced at his report. “Robustoxin is a protein, 4854 D, forty-two amino acids, a presynaptic neurotoxin that interferes with neuronal transmission, causing cardiovascular disturbance, pulmonary edema, severe acid base disturbances, and intracranial hypertension.”

  “According to the literature,” Klaus said, “envenomation leads to a complex multisystem crisis involving the central, peripheral, autonomic, and neuromuscular nervous systems.”

  Treadwell looked up with disappointment, or maybe disbelief, on his face. “According to the literature? You mean you haven’t tested it?”

  “Yes and no,” Bob said. “The venom doesn’t effect standard lab animals, but previous data shows an astonishing sensitivity in primates, especially man.”

  “Something on the order of fifty to a hundred times more sensitive,” Klaus added.

  “How do you know the assassins carry the toxin?”

  “We milked them,” Bob said. “But we can’t test how well the envenomation mechanism works on, uh, military targets. Because, obviously, the best subjects would be, well, people.”

  “We can get around that,” Treadwell said with remarkable nonchalance. When he noticed Bob and Klaus exchanging a look of disbelief, he hardened a bit and said, “This is military research. Not a place for the squeamish. We’ll find a way.” Treadwell tapped the report again and said, “This is good stuff. I’m pleased with the progress.”

  “You want us to get working on the control issue?”

  “No need,” Treadwell said. “The boys in nanotech are way ahead of you.” He glanced at his computer screen. “First test is next week.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Beverly Hills, California

  Leon walked into the Polo Lounge as if he owned the place; at least, that was the thought that crossed Lauren’s mind. She was on her cell phone and, before she finished her thought, she said, “I’m going to call you back.” She flipped it shut and thought, Who is that man?

  He was wearing a suit that would have worn lesser mortals. He had the look of assurance that, in Hollywood, usually came with gross points and a forty-million-dollar opening weekend. But she knew everyone who got gross points and he wasn’t one of them. He crossed the room, not bothering to look around to see who was there. He was there and that was all that concerned him at the moment. He went to the bar and ordered a drink. A double from the looks of it. Whiskey.

  She was watching him over the lip of her martini glass when someone said, “Lauren?” She looked up. It was her meeting. A young writer with a hot script. She smiled and gestured for him to join. The kid said there was interest in his script at Paramount and Fox and that a certain unnamed star would attach if the right director was involved. Lauren gave every appearance that she was not only listening but keenly interested and able to get a green light.

  But she never lost track of the man at the bar. He ordered his second drink at the same time they did. He glanced at the bar menu. There was a woman on his left, drinking champagne. He didn’t speak to her.

  Eventually Lauren reached across the table and touched the script. “This is, without question, the edgiest, most original thriller I’ve read in years. I would love to put it into the hands of the right director. If you would let me.” She would get him associate or coproducing credit and wanted him involved in everything from casting to locations, because he had such an incredible eye for character and setting. And so forth.

  He insisted she was the only producer who understood the depth of the material and that her previous films proved his point. And when the mutual masturbation portion of the meeting was finished, the only surprise was that the script had no stains on it. She said she was having dinner with the perfect director later in the week, though she wasn’t at liberty to say his name. The writer said he was off to talk to a hot young actor about a supporting role. They agreed to do lunch, and he was gone.

  She quickly flagged down her waiter and sent a drink to the man at the bar. When it was served, the bartend
er leaned in and said something. Leon turned. She smiled an invitation. He accepted. As he crossed the room she scooted further into the booth, revealing expensive shoes at the ends of athletic legs.

  “Hello,” he said, arriving at the edge of the table.

  “Join me?”

  He did.

  “I don’t usually buy drinks for strangers,” she said.

  “But?” He had an accent she couldn’t place.

  “You’re different.” She lifted her glass and with a sly arch said, “Bottoms up.”

  Smiling at her tone, he touched his glass to hers. Leon had seen a lot of women, but this one would never escape his mind. A dangerous mouth, and eyes somewhere between English royalty and East German secret police, desirable in a ruthless sort of way.

  “Different how,” he asked.

  “You tell me. What do you do?”

  “I’m a consultant.” A half-truth he’d told a million times.

  She studied the olive in her glass. “That covers a lot of ground.”

  “All right, security consultant.”

  A slight squint and she said, “You sell burglar alarms?”

  “Not exactly.” Keeping things cool. “What about you?”

  “Producer.”

  “Of?”

  A quick smile. “You’re not from here, are you?”

  He shook his head. “Paris.”

  “Films,” she said. “I’m a movie producer.”

  “Good films or popular ones?”

  She pulled the olive from her drink. “They can’t be both?” She popped it in her mouth.

  “They usually aren’t.” He glanced at the script on the table. “Is that going to be one of your movies?”

  “It might be.”

  “Any good?”

  She smiled again and said, “There’s an old joke about a producer talking to an agent. The producer holds up a script that the agent sent him and says, ‘This the worst script I’ve ever read, unless DiCaprio is attached.”

  “Attached?”

  “Agrees to star in it,” she said. “See, producers don’t make movies, we make deals. Directors make the movies. Producers make the deals necessary so they can make the movies. And making deals is about gathering the elements.”

  “Like earth, wind, and fire?”

  “Sort of. A star, a director the studios want, that sort of thing.”

  “The script doesn’t stand on its own merits?”

  “Maybe in Paris. Nobody goes to the movies to see a script. They go to see the stars.”

  Leon spun the script around and looked at the title page. ‘Killing Machine.’ He said, “A love story?”

  “Political thriller. Rogue CIA agent turns assassin.”

  Leon gave a nod. He understood. “They always get things wrong in those.”

  She looked up from her martini. “And you would know…how?”

  “I told you.”

  “Oh, right.” Using her fingers for quotation marks, she said, “Security consultant.”

  “Don’t believe me?”

  “You’ve given me no reason to,” she said.

  He moved closer, touching her hand as he did. “Our secret?”

  She crossed her heart as she studied the lines in his face.

  He took a slow sip from his drink before he lowered his voice and said, “I kill people for a living.” He loved saying that, loved the reaction it got. And he said it so genuinely people usually had to take a moment to decide how to respond.

  But not her. She just smiled as if she not only believed him, but liked the idea. And him too. She said, “Rogue CIA?” Again with the arch tone.

  He shook his head. “General Directorate for External Security,” he said.

  “Should I know them?”

  “French Foreign Intelligence.” He ducked his head a bit and shrugged. “Although I am allowed to freelance now and again.”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Ahh.” She finished her martini and said, “Ever thought about writing your story?”

  It took him a moment. “What, a script?” He looked at the one on the table.

  “Sure,” she said. “Get things right for a change. Tell the story only you can tell.”

  He looked away, intrigued by the idea. “Never crossed my mind.”

  “It’s not as dangerous as your current job.” She gave him a wink. “No one shoots back.”

  He smiled. “No one shoots back now. How does it pay?”

  “Depends on the script.”

  He pointed at ‘Killing Machine.’ “How about that one?”

  “No one’s bought it,” she said. “But it could go for a million, maybe a million five.”

  “That’s not bad. I might have to consider it.”

  “I could help,” she said.

  “I’d like that.” As it happened, Leon had some time on his hands. So far all he knew was that Bob and Klaus were somewhere in Los Angeles. He was waiting on a couple of local contacts, one to get more specific information on the whereabouts of his targets, and another for his weapon. “By the way, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Lauren,” she said, extending her hand. “Lauren Carneghi.”

  He kissed just above her knuckles. “As in Carnegie Hall?”

  She shook her head. “Spelled different, g-h-i instead of g-i-e. And you are?”

  He sipped his drink before he said, “Mysterious.”

  She was laughing when her phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and muttered something underneath her breath. “Excuse me,” she said. “Got to take this.” She flipped it open. “Hey, I’m stuck in traffic but I’m on my way. God-damn 405.” She holstered the phone. “I have to go.” She handed Leon her card as she got up from the booth. “Call me.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Bob and Klaus each carried a container of the transgenic, venomized assassins as they crossed the parking lot at the DARPA labs. Joshua Treadwell pointed to a Hummer and said, “I’m right over there.”

  As they approached the thing, Bob couldn’t help but wonder why a guy whose job was to help protect the country had gone so far out of his way to support OPEC. Bob suggested they take his car but Treadwell wasn’t having any of it. “Nah,” he said. “Let’s drive over there like big boys.”

  Ignoring them, Klaus casually looked for vanity plates, the deciphering of which had become a hobby since moving to Los Angeles where vanity had long been considered not just acceptable, but a competitive sport. Most of the messages were clever, if obvious—the urologist with UP4ME; the actress-model with 26E4U; the surfer with NDLSMR—others were so abstruse as to be indecipherable without knowing more about the driver. This was the category into which Joshua Treadwell’s message fell. At first Klaus hadn’t even noticed it was a vanity plate, it so closely adhered to the DMV’s standard format of a number followed by three letters followed by three numbers. But no matter how he pronounced various combinations of letters and numbers, G1V2628 (Give to six to eat?) didn’t become any word or phrase Klaus could think of.

  Ten minutes later they arrived at Van Nuys Airport where the DOD maintained a couple of hangars, one for the maintenance of visiting aircraft, and one for experiments requiring more space than their labs allowed. Treadwell led them inside where some workers were putting the finishing touches on a 1:10 scale model of what looked like a small Middle Eastern city on the edge of a mountainous desert. The rectangular set was two hundred by one hundred feet of rolling hills dotted with cacti and boulders. At one end of the desert was what looked to be the outskirts of Kabul or maybe Kandahar. The entire thing was surrounded by a ten-foot-high plexiglass wall.

  “It’s like a sound stage,” Bob sa
id. “You guys built all this for the test?”

  “Nah.” Treadwell shook his head. “Bought it from one of the studios. It’s from some war picture set in Afghanistan.” He pointed. “But if you ask me, those brown humps over there look more like Granada Hills than the White Mountains.” He shook his head. “Hollywood.”

  From across the hangar a man called out, “Hey! Are you the bug guys?”

  Treadwell led Bob and Klaus across the building where several men were gathered around some crates and a work bench. When they were ten feet from the men something scurried out from between two of the crates. Someone pointed. Bob looked and was shocked to see one of his assassin bugs. He nearly dropped his box. “Shit! Look out!”

  The men all stepped back, looking down at the insect. One of them said, “What the hell is it?”

  “A venomized transgenic,” Bob said. “Extremely poisonous.” He checked his box to see if he’d sprung a leak but it was sealed tight.

  The bug turned and charged toward Bob. Another man said, “Get it!”

  Bob went to step on it but every time he got close, the thing would turn and scoot away. Bob looked closer at the thing. Something strange about it. The bug wasn’t moving right. Bob looked at Klaus and said, “What are you grinning about?”

  Klaus nodded in the direction of a guy holding a radio remote control. Bob looked down and saw the insect doing figure eights corresponding with the movements of the joy stick.

  Treadwell chuckled and gave Bob a clap on the back. “We call it a Ro-bug,” he said as he turned to make introductions.

  Two of the men were from RUR-FX, a Hollywood special effects company, specializing in small robots. They had designed exact fiberglass replicas of the exoskeletons of Transgenic Assassins One and Two, down to the finest detail of their antennae. “The leg movement was the only thing we couldn’t replicate,” one of the men said. “It’s a very complex pattern.”

  “But we don’t think that’s going to matter.” This was one of the two men from DARPA’s nano-technology group. He picked up the Ro-bug and unsnapped the exoskeleton. “Check this out.” Sitting in the palm of his hand was a sleek carbon fiber chassis on which were mounted a pair of tiny cylindrical tanks. “They hold synthetic pheromones,” he said. “One will get your bugs to follow, the other makes them attack whatever we paint with it.” He looked at Treadwell and smiled. “At least we hope that’s what happens.”