There were the packages. Twenty pounds of high explosive at either end of the bridge, to be triggered by . . .
She focused again, and breathed a sigh of relief. A slender radio aerial rising from a package next to the explosives. Just as Quint had said in the briefing. Radio controlled. Probably a manual backup.
"Ready," her earphones whispered. "Blackout in forty seconds."
Marina lay back against the hill for a moment, breathing hard and gathering her nerves into a usable bundle. They would only get one shot at this, and that would be it.
Thirty seconds.
Marina was five feet and ten inches of wiry, Arizona-raised Latina. She had covered every nasty job that Sterling DeLacourte's TriNet handed her, working for six years for an opportunity like this one. When she closed her eyes she could see Cronkites and Pulitzers dancing a fast waltz.
Movement.
She focused in on the limousine.
She could see only the barest outlines, but a moment later the computer identified the profile, flashed online with a name and a short bio. There was Larusa, the Canadian mercenary, and there Lancaster, from Newfoundland. And there . . . that profile. There was too much shadow, too little detail, and the computer couldn't make it.
Insufficient data.
Aguiyi, officer in charge of the Nigerian Liberation Front forces, strained to pierce the darkness. Every muscle was knotted, and burned with tension. His stomach was an acid ruin.
Only two years before he had been a colonel in the regime which had cemented shattered southern Africa into one of the most powerful forces in the world—one which certainly intimidated the hell out of the West. When Swarna's covert operations division drummed him from the army and set up a new identity as a terrorist, he had been uncertain of his willingness to serve in this new and unique capacity. But in the past twenty-four months he had lived in a shadow world, with its attendant terrors and dark rewards. He had discovered things about himself that he had never admitted before.
If a message did not come over the radio in five minutes, he would be allowed, no, expected to go to work on one of the prisoners.
This he hoped for. The three men and one woman who composed the party from Union Carbide and International 108 were as docile as whipped dogs. The woman. Now, she seemed interesting. He heard her muffled cry from within the car: Carter was amusing himself with her even now. Perhaps, as the Englishman claimed, she was secretly excited by the kidnapping. Perhaps she hoped that she would have something to exchange for her life.
Well, he and his men would take her up on that. After- ; ward, of course, they would pull her tongue out with fishhooks and laugh as she choked on her own blood, but why let that spoil their fun?
There were two men at either end of the bridge at the moment, and they paced constantly.
There had been rumors that the Americans would try a rescue effort, but he laughed at that. The Americans were crippled giants, holding no true world power. They dared not wage open war against Swarna—the mineral resources of the African continent were coveted by the Soviets as well, and it would take little to push the PanAfricans into the Soviet orbit.
Oh, there had been a few abortive military actions, but no official American military forces had been engaged. Only Gorgon, with its odd paramilitary status, had been employed, and that in an indirect manner.
No mind. This situation would resolve on the diplomatic level. He sincerely hoped Harris would refuse to meet with Swarna, and that no other release arrangements would be made. At least for eight hours. It would give them a chance for the woman . . .
Nandela, the communications man, squatted near the car with his radio unit on, scanning. He looked over to Aguiyi, his broad, dark face impassive.
"Soon. Another rumor, though. A Swiss shuttle made an irregular landing at an airfield thirty miles from here twelve hours ago."
"And?"
"I merely find it . . . interesting. We were not able to match the registration with any Swiss vehicle. It may mean nothing, or . . ."
"Five minutes, my friend ..."
Nandela frowned. "I can't get the rest of the broadcast." He jiggled a switch on the ancient apparatus. "That's funny, I'm not getting any station at all."
"Try—"
With a sharp crack, the car window spiderwebbed with cracks, a neat bullet hole in the center. Carter's hands slapped over his face. He screamed wetly and slid down out of sight.
"Damn!" Aguiyi screamed, furious. Nandela peeked up over the railing. "I—" His head snapped back violently and he fell back, a round hole punched neatly between his eyes.
Bastards! Bastards! He had warned them, he had warned them all. So be it. Let the consequences be on their heads; if they couldn't pay the ransom he demanded, they would get back charred corpses.
He screwed down the safety knob on the transmitter, mumbled a prayer to gods unacknowledged since childhood, and pressed the button.
Nothing.
He screamed now. Bullets spattered around him, but it was merely a covering fire to keep the rebels pinned. The real action would take place within a few moments.
Well, he could still take those goddamned executives with him. He turned, and began wiggling toward the car on his belly. From where he was now, he could see two of his men at the far end of the bridge, facedown, unmoving.
Damn! Damn! What had gone wrong?
Only a few more yards . . .
Then with barely a sound, a figure flowed over the lip of the bridge railing, a solid shadow, night-black and almost invisible in the dark. The shape was almost six and a half feet tall, impossibly massive.
Aguiyi recognized it. No one who had been exposed to American Omnivision—even if it was only flatscreen monochrome—could fail to identify the figure.
Gorgon. A leering Gorgon gas mask obscured face and throat, its machine pistol aimed directly at him. A second Gorgon appeared next to him, moving silently. The two stood very close together.
Aguiyi's machine pistol was aimed at the fuel tank of the limousine. Even in death, his finger could contract, spewing tracer rounds into the tank, a fireball into the air.
Very well. He knew these Gorgons. He knew their weakness. The man Quint, their leader, was insane. Aguiyi might yet survive.
He bent, and laid his pistol on the ground.
The larger Gorgon's machine pistol remained aimed at him, and to Aguiyi, its bore seemed larger than the moon, than the sun, was a gaping maw swelling to swallow him.
Could he have been wrong? No. It was . . .
The Gorgon turned, and handed his gun to the other man.
Gorgon took no prisoners, but Quint was said to be a fanatic about physical combat.
Aguiyi drew his knife, waiting. Smiling.
"Come, sissy boy," he hissed. "Come and die with a man."
The Gorgon was impassive, unmoving.
Aguiyi hurled himself, knife first. Aguiyi saw the blade appear in his opponent's hand as if by magic, but there was no time to change directions or adjust. The edge of Quint's left hand smashed into Aguiyi's forearm, shattering the ulna and radius like glass rods. Quint's right hand flickered.
Pain blossomed in the terrorist's throat. His lungs spasmed, fighting for air and sucking blood. He collapsed, feeling his life pumping from a pierced trachea, trying to seal the hole with his fingers, knowing the horror of certain death.
The two Gorgons exchanged a quick handslap.
Aguiyi's lips moved, but the only sound was a wet hiss.
"Kill me."
The larger Gorgon looked at him, face and emotions hidden behind the mask. He bent down and wiped his blade on Aguiyi's shirt. "I already have," he said calmly, and he moved on.
The enormous dark shadow detached itself from Aguiyi's collapsing body and strode to the door of the limousine. Even as he did, other shapes were moving onto the bridge from both sides.
Silently, efficiently, the shapes disarmed the explosives, and checked the bodies of the dead.
On
e counterrevolutionary was still alive, crippled by a bullet in the shoulder. The second Gorgon bent and neatly sliced her throat. Her body flopped around for a few seconds before quieting.
The big man opened the door carefully. The four hostages—arms bound behind their backs, eyes glazed with surprise and gratitude—looked up at him. The Gorgon paused, then pulled his face mask away. He had the eyes and golden beard of a Jesus, utterly at peace.
"I'm Quint," he said, his voice giving the lie to his face: it was without inflection, the voice of a dead man. "You are free."
Friday, May 26
"Incredible." DeLacourte clucked softly as the images faded into transparency.
He sat back, and looked carefully at the dark-haired woman seated across the stage from him. He drew a thin, yellow-wrapped cigar from a coat pocket and clipped off the tip.
"The new portable units are almost beyond belief. I assume ..."
The woman seated across from DeLacourte measured her answer carefully. "Life-eye cameras on four of the Gorgons, including their leaders, Quint and Ibumi. Ibumi killed the woman. Sound and image equipment on the hill over the bridge. The rest was reconstructed by computer animation. My guess is that you can't tell where the real image ends and the computer takes over."
"What is your impression of Quint?"
She closed her eyes, thinking carefully. "Fanatic. Does things by the book, but then, he wrote the book. Walks around like two-legged death. He's too close to this Ibumi— even for lovers. It's like they're Siamese twins. Make a show out of groping each other in public. I think he's addicted to Ibumi's body, or something." She opened her eyes again, and they were clear as tinted glass. "Brilliant tactically. Utterly ruthless."
DeLacourte nodded approval. "Marina has done extraordinary work." Jack Hands lit his boss's cigar, then leaned over to whisper into his ear.
The tall, slender reporter sat quietly, waiting. She was pretty but not beautiful. Her mouth was generous, naturally pink, and offset the gray-blue of her eyes. Her freckles were darker, cheeks peeling a bit due to her recent exposure to the sun.
Finally, DeLacourte straightened and templed his hands together. "Ms. Batiste. I hope that you realize that due to the nature of your contract with us, we retain the right to decide what is to be done with this . . . admittedly remarkable account."
"I voluntarily signed an exclusive with you, Mr. DeLacourte. I keep my agreements—"
"I know you do," he injected paternally.
"But the public needs to see this." The latin inflection was a light, sweet syrup in her voice.
"Recent information actually . . . ah . . . links Gorgon with Swarna's terrorist attack itself. We were hoping that your operation would help to document such a connection."
She laughed. "That's a joke. You're seeing three mira-i les here. One, that the people from one-oh-eight got away with their lives. Two, that Gorgon would let a cameraperson wire them for the assault to make a coherent record of it. Three, that they would let a woman be a part of the effort. Miracles."
Marina paused. The tension in the air was palpable. When after twenty seconds there was no sound, no comment, she spoke again. "I see. The disk doesn't give you what you wanted. Christ—everybody knows that Gorgon was used as a tool to attack Swarna twice. If it hadn't been for that leak to the Washington Post, the second attempt would have blown him into as many pieces as his half brother. There's no evidence of collusion. It's a good disk, Mr. DeLacourte. The best I ever got, and you know it."
"You've had excellent stories in the past, Marina. Moonman, for instance."
"I got the story. I found Moonman, and interviewed him."
"I would have appreciated an opportunity to . . . speak with him."
"You wanted Moonman in prison, and that wasn't part of our deal."
"Yes. Well, it was never stated that your new tapes would be broadcast. Just paid for.''
"You bastard," Marina said under her breath.
"And what you need to know is—is it going to make it onto the air?"
She nodded. The flame in her eyes was carefully screened.
"As you know, I am the head of TriNet. I would certainly never suppress an important, newsworthy story."
She waited, unimpressed. "But."
He nodded. "I think that you can have a grasp of the problems that I face. My career as a communications executive, my ambitions, obligations . . . indeed, even my own life is secondary to the needs of my country."
He drew on the thin cigar. Its coal flared in the dark like a glowing third eye. "I hope that you can see that."
"It's the truth," she said. "What I brought back for you, what I risked my life for, is the truth."
"Truth, Miss Batiste, is not always contained in facts. I'm sorry. Your contract will be paid in full. In fact, there is a generous bonus in this for you."
She stood, eyes alight. Her mouth opened. Keep it. Keep your damned bonus. . . . Then she looked again at DeLacourte's expression, vacant and empty as a moonlit pool, waiting without commitment for her response. Suddenly she felt a chill at the back of her neck, and knew that the last thing in the world she wanted was to anger this man.
"All right, Mr. DeLacourte." She put on a show of letting the air out of her lungs in a hiss. A beaten woman. "I . . . guess maybe I'm just stressed out. Hell, I could use a vacation. Now feels like a good time." She grinned at him, a carefully calculated smile containing just the right portion of yum-this-shit-tastes-good. "I think that bonus is just what I need."
She paused, as if embarrassed, and then backed out of the room.
"Weakling," DeLacourte said quietly. "That's why there has never been a woman in the White House. And never will be."
"Mr. DeLacourte, we need to begin work on the dives-1 titure plan."
"Yes . . ."
Jack Hands flicked a toggle on his briefcase. A branching schematic overview of DeLacourte Enterprises appeared in the air before them. "All of the entertainment and communications arms must be modified. You can maintain u controlling interest in any of them, but not sit on their board of directors. And if you are elected, you won't be iible to keep an active seat on the L-5 engineering plant. Too many government contracts. TransCon Shuttles is different, and we are still investigating. It is recommended (hat you discontinue your holo lecture series, and of course the Sunday services. You would be entirely too vulnerable to an opposition demand for equal time."
"Damned lot of nonsense. If a man has built up an empire, and controls it, isn't it reasonable for him to be more capable of running a country? That kind of thinking not us into the stinking hole we're in today."
"Yes, sir. I've been preparing a statement for you to deliver next month. I want you to approve what we have so far."
DeLacourte's eyes were open, but his mind wasn't in (he room with Hands. It was somewhere else, dealing with another issue already. "I'm sure that everything is line."
"In it," the aide continued, "we deal with the rumor about the 'Oath.' There have been whispers that if you are elected, you will never live to see the Oval Office."
"Fools." DeLacourte's eyes were half-lidded, almost as though he were drugged. "I don't care about that. I don't rare about anything but this filth. It's all around us. It must be rooted out without hesitation. Without ..."
For several seconds DeLacourte's mouth worked soundlessly, his large, dark eyes fixed on something in another place and time.
Hands cleared his throat politely. "Without mercy?"
"Yes. My wife is with me, and the American people are with me. Killing me will only strengthen their resolve. It will not matter. All that matters is the filth."
He turned and glared at the aide, and his eyes were lever-bright. "This sickness has rotted our core, and it must die. The waves of addiction and perversion that sweep our country—this must be the thrust of the speech, not my own miserable life. Mushrooms. The damned abominable mushrooms, promising paradise and delivering dam- i nation . . ." He slammed the side of his fist
on the seat' arm. "How many souls lost? How many? Well, no more. There is an end. An end to it. And it comes now, I tell you."
He pushed a button on the seat, and the branching outline delineating his holdings and the structure of his empire faded, and once again Quint's face appeared. Utterly defiant, as alive as if he stood there, knife in hand, challenging, daring.
"It ends," DeLacourte repeated.
The aide slowly closed his briefcase and stole from the room. Behind him, in the darkened theater, DeLacourte watched the rescue tape in reverse.
Chapter Twelve
Dreams
9:23 a.m. Monday, May 29
The man in the pool was hideous, his body grotesquely inefficient, but Medusa-16 had no choice but to listen, and obey. Those were the orders, and the orders were to be obeyed. Could not even be questioned. Quint stood silently the pool, gargantuan arms folded, blue eyes piercing and watchful. Next to him was his lover, Ibumi, black and Implacable and always, always touching Quint.
The man in the pool smiled up at them, at the twenty Medusas who sat cross-legged upon the floor, watching with identical expressions of rapt attention.
They were of many races, but only one breed: healthy, strong-looking boys between the ages of ten and thirteen. Boy Scouts perhaps, with eager smiles and ready hands.
McMartin grinned mirthlessly at them, but 16 could not M!e the smile. He saw the teeth behind the smile, the Impossibly huge body, the small black eyes, and was lightened.
"After the Fourth of July, you will be hunted," the fat man said. His black-marble eyes scanned the row of Medusas, and something that 16 registered only as hunger flickered in them. "And there is only one woman who can connect you with the NewMan Nation. Ariane Cotonou can destroy you, so you must destroy her first. This will be your first time away from each other. Your first time away from the Nation—"
And now Quint, giant, irresistible, spoke. The Medusas, sitting in their four rows, turned to him, their eyes worshipful.
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