“Expanding?”
“To enemies of, say, the sitting administration?”
“The President must approve each name, Mister Walker.”
“My point exactly.”
Strang frowned. “Yes, sir, but the people who are involved in developing the list come from across the whole political spectrum. Some are appointees, but most of them are longtime senior civil servants who’ve lived through both parties being in power. Plus, they are completely excluded from the subsequent clandestine operations to carry out the executions. DMX is a process, a very convoluted and even controversial process, admittedly, but unlike most of the CT world’s efforts, this one produces a tangible scorecard.”
“Do these senators have any allies on the DMX itself?” Hiram asked.
“It’s possible,” Strang said. “As I said, the members of the committee are, for the most part, senior executive service bureaucrats—career civil servants, with a few political appointees thrown in at the assistant secretary level. The DMX is no place for mere deep-pocket campaign contributors. That’s another reason why the senators are going after the actual means of execution—civil servants can’t be touched.”
“So,” Hiram said. “What do you want from me and my colleagues?”
“We want your society’s help,” Strang said. “Actually, sir, I think we want some of your plants.”
“Who’s ‘we,’ Mister Strang? Carl Mandeville?”
“Yes, sir. He is a very—determined man. He’s looking way ahead.”
“To what end, may I ask?”
“To be able to continue the work of the DMX should its opponents succeed, of course.”
Hiram thought about that for a moment. If Mandeville was the driving force behind Strang’s visit, then someone on the DMX knew far too much about the society’s research. He may have surprised Strang with his unexpected knowledge of the DMX, but Strang had just surprised him back. Then something occurred to him.
“It seems to me, Mister Strang, that there’s a hole in that Chinese wall. Assuming you’re on the execution side, why are you and Mister Mandeville working together?”
Strang nodded. “I know what it looks like, Mister Walker. The thing is, Carl Mandeville’s in charge of the whole thing. Think of him as standing astride that wall. Once the President signs off, it’s Mandeville who actually puts the name on the Kill List and designates the action agency. After that, of course, he’s no longer involved.”
“So you’re saying that he wants some of my botanical toxins as a backup for the assassination methods in play right now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me think about that, Mister Strang,” he said. “The toxins we’ve discovered, or accidentally created through mutations, are merely scientific curiosities. To weaponize them, as it were, is a major departure from the realm of scientific research.”
“The U.S. signed the biological weapons convention a long time ago,” Strang said. “We don’t want to weaponize the toxins—we want to study them so that we can develop defenses against them.”
Hiram gave Strang a skeptical look. “And that’s your story, and you’re sticking to it, right?”
Strang gave a hint of a smile. “Yes, sir.”
Hiram sighed. “Okay,” he said. “I will need to consult with my colleagues in the society. On balance, and if they agree, we might be able to help you.”
* * *
Thomas entered the library room bearing a tea tray along with Hiram’s noontime medications.
“Thank you, Thomas,” he said. “I’m going to need a video teleconference with the society tonight.”
“Very good, sir,” Thomas said. “I’ll sort out the time zones.” Then he withdrew.
Or what’s left of the society, Hiram thought, once Thomas had left. Like all too many familiar things these days, the Phaedo Botanical Society was beginning to fade from view. He poured a cup of tea. He looked over the pastries and decided not to indulge, hoisted himself upright, and then went over to the tall windows overlooking the south gardens, which presented the only formally sculpted features on the estate.
God, but he loved it here. The serenity of the grounds, the security provided by that all-excluding wall and what lay just inside it, and the knowledge that anything he wanted could be summoned at his every whim. His father had been right: you were destined for a secluded life, Hiram, he’d said, but that doesn’t mean you need to be imprisoned. He could indulge in every aspect of the world except travel, and, for enough money, the world would willingly come to him. He’d lived on this estate for twenty-six years, and by now he’d learned that money could indeed buy most anything except sincerity and love.
The rise of the Internet had made life even more interesting, and that had been his entrée into the Phaedo Botanical Society. He’d published one paper in the American Journal of Botany about his research on the genetic capabilities of weeds two years after moving onto the estate. Weeds had fascinated him since the days of exploring his father’s estate gardens. Weeds: annoying, omnipresent, and yet seemingly capable of resisting every modality humans used to attack them. Spray them, they die—and then move. Root them out of the ground, they come back. They grow in the cracks of cement sidewalks and in oil-spattered railroad beds, no matter what humans do to inhibit them. That was the first time he’d broached the notion that plants, and especially weeds, might have something analogous to a brain. His paper had been well received, by and large, except for one dissenting commentary that had arrived by e-mail, along with an invitation to confer with some strangely named garden society.
Only four of the original ten left now, he thought. Besides Hiram, there was Hideki Ozawa in the Sendai prefecture of Japan, Archibald Tennyson in Kent, England, and Giancomo de Farnese in the Toscana region of Italy. Four rich old men who probably held the world’s most comprehensive reservoir of knowledge on botanical toxins. Each of them had different interests, with Hiram’s being on the amazing resilience of weeds and his growing conviction that so-called weeds acted as if they had brains. He had become an expert in the field of botanical mutations to see if he could replicate the natural abilities of weeds to mutate for survival. Ozawa was actually a medical doctor who researched the applicability of some of Hiram’s plant toxins to cancer. Tennyson’s specialty was the natural mutation of plants to produce useful toxins instead of man having to modify them chemically for medicinal use. De Farnese was a toxicologist who was assembling a database of the markers left behind by plant poisons in homicide cases where poisoning was suspected, a natural enough avenue of research for an Italian born in Florence.
Thomas came back with the best time to make the conference call. Hiram nodded. He began to think about how he would present Mr. Strang’s request.
ONE
Francis X. McGavin, principal deputy undersecretary for interagency coordination in the U.S. Department of Homeland Security arrived at a small French restaurant on Connecticut Avenue. He was there to have lunch with the woman he was hoping to make his newest conquest. McGavin was in his mid-fifties, conservatively suited if a little on the rotund side, with the self-satisfied expression of an upper-level bureaucrat who is comfortably important but not so senior as to ever be at risk to any career-killing excursions in the world of public policy. He was married, but with no children. His wife, a Georgetown heiress eight years his senior, dismissed his peccadilloes, considering his relentless pursuit of yet another younger woman as a blank check to lead her life precisely as she wanted. They were actually pretty good friends and sometimes even discussed his latest adventures over morning coffee. For McGavin, his philandering ways were just a pleasant game. For her, they were a great relief.
McGavin drove a four-door Jaguar that he parked carefully in front of the bistro, arranging the spacing so that no oafish cabbie could get close enough to the car to mar its gleaming finish. He was not surprised to find a parking place so close—little things like that often worked out for him.
His latest quarry—it was a hunt,
after all—was a thirty-something beauty with flashy legs who supposedly worked in federal law enforcement, although precisely where was still a little vague. He didn’t care—he wasn’t interested in her career. He’d met her while serving on one of those hush-hush government committees that seemed to be proliferating like weeds around town. They’d met for lunch twice after that, once in a group and then by themselves, but he hoped that today’s date was more in the way of an assignation. She’d given him all the right signals, even to the point of casually mentioning that her apartment was on Connecticut Avenue. She’d been unspecific about the where, but, in his mind, there could only be one reason for her to have said that. He’d picked the Bistro Nord because it was small, discreet, and not on the list of places where deputy undersecretaries usually went for lunch. He’d prepaid with his Amex card so that, if things went well, there’d be no interruptions to the smooth flow of an imminent seduction.
The Bistro Nord was a dimly lit, twelve-table affair, with a small mirrored bar in one corner and batwing doors leading into a somewhat noisy kitchen. There were tall potted plants positioned strategically to give diners even more privacy. The maître d’-cum-bartender was reciting the day’s lunch menu to a four-top in the middle of the room as McGavin came through the door. The maître d’ concluded his spiel and approached.
“I’m meeting Ellen Whiting?” McGavin asked.
“Oui, m’sieu.” He pointed to the far corner, and there she was, with those amazing legs canted diagonally out from under the tablecloth. She gave him a sly smile when he realized he’d been caught staring. Well, hell, he thought: wear a skirt like that, even a priest is going to stare. He smiled back, hoping it made him look younger, sucked in his gut, and threaded his way through the tables and into the chair opposite. She had a head start on him with a glass of white. He caught the maître d’s eye and signaled he’d have the same.
At that moment, a flower vendor stepped into the restaurant. He was an odd-looking man with a white streak running through his hair from front to back. He nodded to the maître d’, who frowned, as if he didn’t recognize him. He began making his way around the tables, concentrating on tables for two. His flowers were wrapped in layers of green tissue paper cones, just the right size for a lunch table. When he approached their table, McGavin gave a quiet groan and started to wave him away, but Ellen smiled at the man, who then whipped out a bunch of flowers and offered it to her.
“Perfect,” she said, peering into the cone of blossoms. She flashed a twenty and the deal was done before McGavin could object. The maître d’ appeared magically with a vase and McGavin’s glass of wine.
“There,” Ellen said. “What do you think of that, Mister Very Important Principal Deputy Under-whazzit?”
“Classy,” McGavin replied. “I like surprises like that.”
“Try the wine,” she said. “It’s a white burgundy. We may need a bottle.”
He sampled the wine and nodded. “Indeed we will,” he said. “That’s very good; you know your way around. Wines.”
He gave her a look that said there were lots of ways that comment could be interpreted. She gave it right back to him, arching a little in her chair to accentuate the rest of her charms. He took another sip. She put down her glass and said she’d be right back. She then got up, being a little careless with that silky skirt, and headed for the ladies’. He loved the way her dense, blond hair swung from side to side in time with her hips. It had to be a hairpiece—she’d been a brunette before—but the effect was exciting. He made a small noise in his throat and had another sip of wine. The maître d’, a roly-poly and entirely bald Frenchman, smirked when he heard that small noise and gave him a look. McGavin grinned back at him, one worldly wise man to another, fully aware that his high hopes were evident. He remembered to ask the maître d’ to bring the bottle. Then he leaned forward and inhaled an appreciative draft of the exotic scent rising from the fresh flowers. He sat back in his chair, reached for his wine glass again, then stopped and frowned.
The maître d’, returning with the bottle of burgundy and two small menus, was surprised by that frown. The flowers were beautiful, a small spray of vibrant color against the starched white tablecloth. The lady had overpaid, of course, but still. He stepped aside as the bistro’s sole waiter, a young man dressed in black pants and shirt covered by a white apron, backed out of the batwing doors and headed for one of the tables, bearing a tray of soup in one palm.
“M’sieu?” the maître d’ said.
“Cold,” McGavin declared.
The maître d’ was confused. It was a lovely fall day outside, not cold, not too warm, just right. The restaurant was most definitely not cold.
“Cold, m’sieu? What is cold?”
“I am,” McGavin said. “My wegs are cold.”
The maître d’ blinked. Wegs?
McGavin suddenly looked like he was going to cry. His eyes began blinking and his lower lip was coming out like a child’s. The maître d’ froze, alarmed at the transformation taking place in this man’s face. The flower man, who’d been working a nearby table, stopped his sales pitch and turned around.
“’Owld,” McGavin croaked, but now his lips were twisting into a weird grimace. The right side of his face began to droop and he leaned against the table for support. His eyes were abnormally bright—and, to the maître d’s horror, suddenly very red. He appeared to be trying to say something, but he couldn’t get it out. He made a strangling noise in his throat and began clawing at the tablecloth.
The other customers in the restaurant were staring now, aware that something serious was happening. The maître d’ reached to support McGavin but he was already tilting to his right and then toppling over in slow motion like a tree, falling sideways out of his chair and collapsing in a disheveled heap on the floor, pulling the tablecloth and everything on it down on top of him in a clatter of silverware and breaking glasses. The waiter hastily abandoned his tray and rushed over. Both the maître d’ and the waiter got down to prop McGavin up; he was still breathing, but only barely, and his face was now solidifying into a lopsided rictus of surprise. Then his eyes lost focus and he went very still.
The maître d’ looked over at his waiter, who was slowly shaking his head. They both stood up. This man was clearly beyond help. The other diners were looking at one another, as if asking, What do we do? Do we finish our lunch? Should we leave now? Oh. My. God. That man is dead. One man announced to the dining room that he was calling 911.
The maître d’ looked around, not sure of what to do next. Then he remembered the woman.
Where was the mademoiselle? The one with the shiny legs. Where did she go? Mon Dieu, does she know what has just happened? The chef was peering out over the batwing doors, his red face glistening with perspiration. The flower man approached, knelt down, and began to pick up the spilled blooms from the floor, putting them gently back into his basket and then covering them up with a napkin as if they were the real casualties. The maître d’ felt for a pulse in McGavin’s throat but found nothing. He picked up one of the folded napkins, unfolded it, and draped it across McGavin’s face. Some of the other customers gasped when they saw that. Others were beginning to back out of their chairs, their appetites thoroughly spoiled.
Then strobe lights began flashing through the curtained front windows. Blue ones for the police, white and red for the ambulance. The maître d’ hurried to the front door. A moment later, a uniformed District policeman led two EMTs into the restaurant, muttering something incomprehensible into his shoulder mike. The uniformed medics dropped to their knees beside McGavin, already deploying equipment. One removed the cloth napkin and felt for a pulse, while the other spread the defibrillator leads. They exchanged a look that told the tale: this was probably hopeless. This guy was gone.
“Okay, everybody,” the Metro cop announced in a bored voice. “I’m gonna need statements.”
TWO
Detective Sergeant Ken Smith, known as Av Smith in the Met
ro PD, had just managed to upset a paper cup of coffee onto his desk. He was trying to get it cleaned up before anyone else in the office noticed. He’d emptied an entire box of Kleenex onto his desktop to sop up the small lake. He held his hands over the mess, waiting for the lake to stop spreading.
“Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” Detective Sergeant Howie Wallace said from the adjacent cubicle. “When you gonna get a mug like the rest of us?”
“I’m not going to be here that long, partner,” Av said. The lake insisted on spreading. He moved more papers and then folded his blotter to concentrate the coffee. A small brown tsunami headed for his lap. “They told me this was temporary,” he said, pushing hurriedly back from the desk.
“They tell everybody it’s gonna be temporary, Av,” Wallace says. “We all still here, though.” Howie Wallace was six-three, with an impressive set of shoulder-length dreads, glaring black eyes, and a mouthful of large teeth. His unofficial nickname was Mau-Mau, the origins of which were shrouded in mystery. He liked to wear unconventional, almost costume clothes so that the criminal element would always make him for a pimp.
Wallace started laughing. “Look at that shit go.”
“Here” was officially called the Interagency Liaison Branch of the District of Columbia’s Metropolitan Police Department. The branch had been established at headquarters to deal with the explosion of federal agencies involved in counterterrorism and state security matters since nine-eleven. The federal War on Terror bureaucracy had become so large that a Metro District cop could hardly work a simple street mugging without seeing some feds watching from across the streets of downtown Washington. The ILB’s mission was: if what you’re doing involves feds, bring it to ILB, which would then try its best to move said problem into the federal bureaucracy’s ever-expanding lap. There was a second, unofficial reason for ILB’s existence: this was where the department assigned detectives who had exhibited either unconventional personalities or worse, much worse, independent attitudes. If someone had been ordered to walk the plank at MPD, ILB was the plank.
Cold Frame Page 2
