Fire Eaters

by Don Pendleton

  The coded answer had been sent to Moscow two months ago. It had earned him a vacation cottage on the Black Sea, though they had not yet let him come home to enjoy it.

  He was too valuable here, they'd said. Especially now. Especially with what was going on at Ridgemont Academy.

  "We are almost there," Mikhail said.

  "What time is it?" Godunov asked. He had left his watch on the dresser, along with his wallet and breath mints. He could use the mints now, he thought, the aftertaste of stale wine lingering in his mouth.

  "Twenty minutes after two," the driver said. "In the morning."

  Godunov chuckled. "Yes, Mikhail, I know it is morning." But Vladimir Godunov understood the subtlety of his chauffeur's comment. It posed as an innocent observation, but it was a probe, a warning, like a pocketknife with the blade folded but with the threat of its release always there.

  Mikhail was saying you are old, perhaps too old in your rumpled suit with the pajama pants hanging out of your cuffs, your sockless feet in leather shoes. Smelling of wine. Be careful of every move, Vladimir, for I have my eye on you. Indeed, Godunov looked up and saw Mikhail's eyes framed in the rearview mirror, staring at him. Instantly, they flickered back to the road.

  Godunov shook his head sadly. Mikhail Petrov was not only his direct assistant, he was also the KGB spy sent to keep an eye on Godunov. Another «secret» Godunov had uncovered over smuggled California wine with an old KGB friend in Moscow. Wine was the second most important tool of espionage.

  The limo was stopped at the gate by armed security guards.

  "Marcus Insurance," the driver told the guard.

  The young man checked his clipboard, nodded and waved them through.

  "Do you think he found it surprising that an insurance investigator arrived in a limousine?" Petrov asked.

  "Not at all. He is more concerned with not losing his job over the break-in." Godunov leaned forward and patted the driver's broad muscular shoulder. It was like slapping stone. "You must not look for conspiracy everywhere. Or else you will find it where it isn't." Let him chew on that bit of nonsense awhile, Godunov thought as he climbed out of the car.

  Dysert and Fowley met the Soviet agents almost immediately, bracketing them like bookends and leading them into the building and up to their office. Nothing was said.

  Once they were safely inside the office, Dysert smiled brightly and shook Godunov's hand. "Glad to see you, Vladimir. What seems to be the problem?"

  Godunov smiled. Dysert was very cool. It was Fowley with the stained teeth who was nervous. Already he was lighting up a cigarette. "Do you mind?" Godunov said to Fowley. "Those things upset my stomach."

  Fowley scowled but tamped out the cigarette.

  "Up kind of late, eh, Vladimir?" Dysert said.

  "I heard you had some trouble here tonight."

  Dysert shrugged innocently. "A couple of vandals. Kids probably. Look what they did to the walls."

  Godunov saw the giant obscenities spray-painted on the wall. Demonic incantations. The number 666. "Interesting," Godunov said.

  "Rock and roll," Dysert explained.

  Petrov walked over to the wall, his hands behind his back. He examined the words, studying them closely like an art critic about to evaluate a work of doubtful authenticity. He reached out and dabbed his finger against the paint. "Sticky," he said.

  "So?" Fowley said. "They forgot to bring their blow-dryer. So what?"

  Petrov sniffed the air, looked over at the open windows. "Should have dried very quickly. I can still smell the fumes."

  "Careful, Mikhail," Godunov said, raising his hand. "Remember what I told you about conspiracies. You must forgive my associate, my friends. He is paid to be suspicious. And in that capacity, he might suspect that this…" Godunov gestured at the graffiti"…is merely a fabrication to hide something more serious."

  Dysert laughed. "You think we'd spray-paint our own office?"

  Godunov smiled, but said nothing.

  "Why are you here?" Fowley said quickly. "You're the one who said we should never meet here."

  Godunov tugged at his pants, unbunching his pajamas. He sat down with a deep sigh. "The situation has changed, my friends. I am here to protect our investment."

  "You're compromising our security by being here," Fowley snapped.

  "Look around. It is already too late for that."

  "Nothing we can't handle."

  Godunov looked him in the eyes. "Prove it."

  Fowley's eyes darted nervously. He looked at Dysert.

  "Okay, let's cut the bullshit and level," Dysert said, sitting opposite Godunov. "Yeah, we did a little artwork on the place, mostly to satisfy the insurance company and police. We don't want any continuing investigation around here."

  "Who broke in?"

  "Two people. One was a woman who works here."

  "Her name?"

  "Denise Portland."

  Godunov nodded to Petrov, who wrote the name in a small notebook.

  "We've already taken care of her," Fowley interrupted. "She's history by now."

  "And how was this history made?"

  "The usual way. We sent someone."

  Godunov smiled benignly as he pulled a scrap of paper from his jacket. "Not a young man named Leonard Harwood, son of U. S. Senator Harwood?"

  Dysert and Fowley exchanged shocked looks. For the first time, Dysert looked worried. "How do you know?"

  "He washed up on the beach less than an hour ago. He was wearing swimming trunks and his leg was attached to his surfboard. Police report indicates he must have crashed on some rocks. Most of his bones were broken."

  Fowley paled. "Sweet heaven."

  Petrov, still standing, flipped through his notebook. "Police will be contacting you in a couple of hours. Our friend in the department will be able to hold up the paperwork for that long."

  "That doesn't give us much time," Godunov said. "Tell me what happened."

  Dysert slumped. "I don't know. I mean, I know that we administered the drug to the Harwood kid because we figured he'd get easier access to this Portland woman. We gave him his orders to kill her and then escape."

  "And?"

  Dysert looked up. "We didn't want any repetition of the Danby thing, so we programmed him that in the event of failure, he would kill himself."

  "Apparently he failed to kill Denise Portland."

  "How'd he get to the beach?" Fowley asked.

  "Ms Portland is obviously more competent than you gave her credit for being."

  "And possibly has connections," Petrov said.

  Godunov nodded. Things here were a mess. These two Americans had stumbled upon a valuable discovery, and for many months now Godunov had paid handsomely for the results. He'd known from the beginning it was only a matter of time before the two of them would mismanage affairs.

  It was the entrepreneurial syndrome so common among Americans. Everyone in the country wanted to go into business for himself. The secret of the successful business, Godunov realized, was to wait for the businessmen to get in over their heads, then buy them out for ten cents on the dollar. Capitalism was, perhaps, the most important tool of espionage.

  "I think the time has come," Godunov said solemnly, "to reevaluate our position."

  Dysert looked at him with a nervous expression. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that now that the risks have become greater, I need to assure my superiors that our money is being well spent. We have budget considerations, too, you know."

  "What do you want?"

  "I want to see this miracle drug in action. Right now."

  Fowley jumped up. "What the hell for? You get your information, that's all you need to know."

  "No longer, Mr. Fowley. Now that there have been break-ins and deaths, I need to be assured that the risks are worthwhile. And you need the money we pay you. So let us not waste any more time. Let us proceed."

  Dysert stood up, walked to the telephone, punched in a number. "Drysdale? We found som
e evidence in my office. A room key belonging to Billy Dornan… right… I want you to bring the boy here to my office. I'll question him myself." He hung up and looked at Godunov. "Get ready, Vladimir. You're about to see something that'll blow your socks off."

  Godunov looked down at his unsocked ankles and frowned.

  * * *

  Billy Dornan lay flat on the lab table. His eyes were closed. His right sleeve was rolled up past his elbow. A rubber hose was tied around his upper arm. Dysert was tapping the crook in the boy's arm, bringing up a vein.

  "Don't worry," he was saying. "Afterward he won't remember anything. Not the chloroform, nothing. Except that he was called up here and questioned."

  "Get on with it," Petrov said, wincing as the thick needle was stabbed into Billy's arm.

  "I'm surprised, Mikhail," Godunov said. "You never struck me as the squeamish type."

  "I hate needles, that's all."

  Godunov chuckled to himself. He had seen the GRU agent kill several times, had seen him crack a man's skull with a hammer. Once he'd watched as Mikhail snapped a man's neck, then, after the man was already dead, snapped his spine, too, just for practice. That he dreaded needles was strangely amusing. Also, something to file away for possible use.

  Godunov watched the two American «educators» as they fluttered about the boy. Dysert had regained his composure and was working with smooth efficiency, smiling charmingly. Fowley remained shaken, his hands quivering, his desire for cigarettes obvious. Several times he'd unconsciously reached for his pack, only to be cut short by a glance from Godunov.

  "I discovered this variation while whipping up a few batches of PCP. One of my students, unknown to me, had spilled one of the key chemicals during a classroom experiment, and filled the bottle with a look-alike chemical, hoping I wouldn't know. Well, I could tell from the chemical reaction that something was wrong. Still, I had orders to fill and figured the little bastards wouldn't notice. Reports filtered back to me of strange behavior. Fowley and I did a little investigating, a little experimenting, and came up with this baby." He tapped the empty syringe. "High octane stuff."

  "What do you call it?" Petrov asked.

  Dysert grinned. "Broth. We call it the 'broth. Nothing fancy." He looked at his watch. "In a couple of minutes, the broth is going to hit his system full force, and this kid will not be like any other kid around."

  Fowley began buckling the table straps across Billy's chest and lap. By the time he was finished, the boy began to stir.

  "This is the point where we usually begin the hypnotic process," Dysert said. "But since you wanted to observe the drug's effects, we'll wait."

  Billy's eyes fluttered, then snapped wide open as if a jolt of electricity had just passed through him. He struggled against the straps. They cut into his arms and wrists. The skin rubbed raw and blood began to seep.

  "He's hurting himself," Godunov said.

  "Technically," Fowley said, "but he doesn't feel any pain."

  "That is typical PCP response," Petrov noted. "I have seen the same on television."

  "Wait," Dysert said.

  Billy Dornan was twelve years old and five feet four inches tall. He weighed 125 pounds. But his body was bucking and arching and thrashing like a giant. He snarled at them. Blood from his wounds splattered onto his sweatshirt.

  Then one of the straps snapped.

  Billy sat straight up, the chest strap broken in half. He was clutching at the leg strap when Fowley and Dysert clamped the chloroform-soaked handkerchief over his face. Billy sagged into unconsciousness.

  "His strength isn't actually increased," Dysert explained, laying Billy back down on the table. "But because his nervous system is blocked and he feels no pain, he can do more."

  Godunov waved a dismissing hand. "So far you have shown me nothing our own scientists or drug addicts can't duplicate."

  "Watch." Dysert leaned over the boy. He spoke softly, his deep voice friendly but insistent. After a minute the boy opened his eyes, but he did not move. "He's ready for some hypnotic suggestions now."

  Godunov stood up, feigning great anger. "Enough! Drugs. Hypnosis. This is nothing new. Every government has been doing this for thousands of years. You have not shown me anything worth continuing our investment."

  Dysert's smile widened. He turned to Billy. "Billy, repeat every word you've heard from this man."

  "Enough!" Billy said, echoing both Godunov's accent and intonations. "Drugs. Hypnosis. This is nothing new. Every government…"

  Godunov listened to him finish the speech without error. He sat back down and watched.

  "Now, Billy," Dysert said. "Look at this diagram."

  Billy sat up, looked at the architectural blueprint of Ridgemont's administration building.

  Dysert took the diagram away after only ten seconds. "Here's some paper and a pencil, Billy. Draw that diagram."

  Billy did not hesitate. Without expression, he began drawing an exact replica of the blueprints. Godunov stood and watched. Petrov leaned over behind him.

  "Amazing," Ivan said.

  "So this is how you got all that information," Godunov said. "Through the children."

  Dysert nodded. "I will go through this process with one or two special students just before they go home for a visit or vacation. Once I release them from this state, they act completely normal, except that they are programmed to look through papers, listen to conversations. When they return here, I put them back under and they recount everything they heard or saw."

  "So the drug stimulates memory," Petrov said.

  "Exactly."

  "Then this could be used on trained adult agents. This would reduce the need for cameras or messages."

  Fowley lit a cigarette. He sensed that he and Dysert now had the upper hand. "It doesn't work on adults," he said, taking a deep drag.

  "Why not?" Godunov asked.

  "I don't know," Dysert said. "We've tried it on ourselves, thinking we could go to Vegas and do some card counting at the blackjack tables. All we got was headaches and nausea. We couldn't even walk."

  "Have you tried to change the formula?"

  "Of course. But nothing works. It still only works on kids, usually under the age of seventeen."

  Godunov tugged at his trousers. The pajamas had begun to ride up. "What about the children? Any side effects?"

  "Some," Dysert said. "But it's hard to tell. We don't do it too often. We're very selective. Only the children of those who can provide valuable information are selected. How do you think we gave you the details of the microchip studies at Computech, or the transcripts of the conversation between General Garland and the contractor for that new tank. Children, my dear Vladimir."

  "Just out of curiosity," Godunov asked, "what are these side effects?"

  Dysert shrugged. "As far as we can tell from our limited studies, there's some internal bleeding, increased allergic reactions to certain foods, a general wearing down of the immune system. An almost pre-AIDS condition."

  "So these children are only of limited use?"

  Dysert sensed a trap. "The symptoms are minor."

  "The symptoms are minor," Billy repeated, mimicking the anxiety in Dysert's voice.

  "Put him out, goddamn it," Dysert hollered at Fowley.

  Fowley immediately pressed the chloroform-soaked handkerchief against Billy's nostrils. The boy passed out.

  "Let's cut the bullshit, Vladimir," Dysert said. "What are you getting at here?"

  Godunov rose. He took a deep breath. No need for speaking too soon and betraying his excitement. The potential for this accidental discovery was enormous. These two idiots had only begun to tap its possibilities. Card counting in Las Vegas! What simpletons. Their scheme with the children was more inventive. But imagine what Soviet scientists could do with a sample of this drug. How it might be refined, the side effects removed. There was no limit to what could happen then. And Godunov would have cemented his position for life.

  No more of the suspicions becaus
e his last name was the same as that defecting ballet dancer. A thorough check of his background had been conducted at the time of the defection, August, 1979. It was the first defection in the Bolshoi's history. No relationship to Vladimir Godunov had been discovered. Still, suspicion persisted.

  Once a suspicion existed, it was never dispelled.

  But this «broth» might provide the exception for Vladimir Godunov. Of course, that meant getting rid of these two fools.

  He looked at Dysert. "We are no longer interested in doing business with you, gentlemen. You have proved incompetent." He marched toward the exit of the lab. Petrov was startled by this announcement but followed his superior's lead.

  "Wait," Fowley said, scurrying after them. He puffed furiously on his cigarette. "What kind of crap is this? We've been doing pretty well for you guys so far."

  Godunov stopped. "So far. But you two have no head for business. Look how you've bungled everything. The Danby boy…"

  "Nothing could be done there," Dysert said. "He was checking out some of the stuff on his father's desk, looking for anything to do with codes. His father found him. He was programmed to do what was necessary to escape."

  "Yes, well, that was your mistake. All he had to do was say he was looking for some baseball cards or something, whatever kids look for nowadays."

  Fowley puffed out a long stream of smoke. "Yeah, we were a little overcautious. We realize that now."

  "Unfortunately, your realization comes too late. His death has brought an investigation. That Portland woman is a cop, either of the FBI or the CIA. Now that you've tried to have her killed — and worse, failed — she will double her efforts to uncover your participation in Danby's killing."

  Godunov walked out into the hallway, considering having Petrov kill them both and take the syringe they'd used to inject that boy. Surely there would be enough of the drug left in the syringe for the formula to be reconstructed. But what if there wasn't? And what of the other batches of «broth» they had that would be discovered by the authorities? It was important that the Soviet Union was the only one to possess this wonder drug.