Operation Doomsday

by Paul Kenyon

  Farnsworth nodded automatically. Absently, his hand reached for the Scotch.

  The TV screen was showing a close-up of a capsule strapped to the Lunokhod's back. Stenciled on it was a Russian word that looked like KaMeHb and the number 6.

  The voice went on. "We've got to stop the Russians from opening that capsule." The voice choked. "If they do, it means the end of life on earth."

  Farnsworth arrested his hand. He frowned. The Director wasn't usually given to making melodramatic statements.

  "So that you can understand what's at stake, I'm going to show you some films that were taken in Houston in 1972…"

  On the screen there was an opening shot of the exterior of a building. An establishing shot. The camera zoomed to a close-up of a plaque reading Building 37, Lunar Receiving Laboratory. Then it showed some scientists in white smocks and surgical masks feeding a container through an airlock into a sealed, glass-walled chamber. One of the scientists stuck his hands into a pair of glovelike waldos. Inside the sealed chamber, a pair of mechanical hands began to unscrew the container.

  Then the horror began.

  The briefing took an hour. When it was over, Farnsworth picked up the glass of Scotch and drained it in one gulp. He was sweating.

  He recovered quickly. In Farnsworth's trade, you had to have steady nerves. If you didn't, you didn't live very long.

  What part of the world was Coin in at the moment? Farnsworth walked over to the TV set again. This time he punched a digital code into the brightness knob.

  An electronic signal pulsed through a roof antenna. It spurted into space and tickled a relay in the MESTAR satellite that was currently hanging three hundred miles over the Atlantic. MESTAR talked to one of its brothers. For a fraction of a second, millions of electronic fingers probed the outstretched body of Europe. One of the fingers felt something: a pea-sized transponder hidden in a very special wristwatch.

  On Farnsworth's TV screen, a map of Europe took shape. An arrow of light appeared, pointing at a spot on the Riviera.

  Monaco. Coin was in Monaco.

  Farnsworth snapped his fingers. Of course! It was the day of the Grand Prix. Coin would be racing.

  Farnsworth remembered the pictures from Houston. Grimly he leaned forward and punched his instructions into the set for transmission to MESTAR.

  Grand Prix or not, this couldn't wait. The world was in a race, too. A race against doom.

  Chapter 2

  "Son of a bitch!" growled the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini.

  She glared savagely at her skinned knuckles. Then, her exquisite jaw set with determination, she picked up the heavy crescent wrench again and attacked the stubborn nut with redoubled ferocity.

  "It's frozen," said the big, bent-nosed man standing behind her. He looked like a cigar-store Indian in mechanic's coveralls. "You'll never get it off without a hacksaw."

  "The hell I won't!" said the Baroness.

  The cords stood out on her long graceful neck. Her body strained like a bow. Her stunning face, with its enormous green eyes and sculptured cheekbones, contorted with effort.

  The spectators gathered around the pit watched the little drama with interest. One of them, a French journalist, raised her Rollei and snapped a picture.

  Even with a smudged face and grease on her white coveralls, the Baroness was a knockout. She looked like a Vogue cover — and had been: a dozen times so far. And her bat-winged red Ferrari, with its rumored modifications, was the talk of this year's Grand Prix racing circuits.

  The spectators leaned forward as the Baroness put her magnificent shoulders into the effort. There was a tiny squeal of tortured metal.

  "Goddamn!" the Baroness yelled. The wrench slipped, taking more skin off her knuckles. But the nut had turned a minute fraction.

  Grinning broadly, she finished unscrewing the nut with thumb and finger, and tossed it carelessly into the big Indian's hand.

  "There you are, Joe," she said. "You and Paul can lift the engine out now. And hurry, darling. It's almost starting time."

  "Crazy!" Joe Skytop rumbled. "We're out of our mother minds, changing engines an hour before a race. You've never tested it."

  "Tom Sumo says it'll work, and that's good enough for me," said the Baroness.

  Sumo smiled, looking embarrassed. He was a boyish, frail-looking man with Japanese features. But if you looked closely at his hands, you could see the hard, stiff edges of a karate master. What you couldn't see was the nimbleness of touch that contributed to his wizardry at anything mechanical or electronic.

  Paul was already fitting the hooks of a block and tackle to the engine. He was a slim, elegant black man who wore his mechanic's coveralls like a fashion plate. And he was. He was one of the top male models in the Baroness' organization, International Models, Inc. He was also an ex-street fighter and guerrilla warfare expert.

  "Right on, Baroness," Paul said, a smile creasing his handsome mahogany face. The engine swung up and over, and he and Skytop wrestled it into the cradle.

  The spectators nudged one another, buzzing with curiosity. The French journalist was bending over for a low-angle shot with her Rollei. Skytop pinched her bottom, and she yelped with indignation. "Allez vous-en!" she snapped. The spectators laughed.

  It was a fine day in Monaco. The crowded tiers of buildings gleamed in bright sunlight, against a sky as deep and rich as blue beryl, and you could smell the salty tang of the Mediterranean even through the gas fumes of the pits. People were already crowding the barriers along the winding course and the terrace of the Hôtel de Paris, waiting for the race to begin.

  The clustered onlookers surrounding the Baroness' pit gave way as a tall, lean, square-jawed man in racing gear pushed through them. "Hullo, Baroness," he drawled. "Having engine trouble, are you?"

  The Baroness was wriggling out of her baggy coveralls, the generous curves of her body molded by a skintight white Nomex outfit with an azure stripe down the arms and legs, and the Orsini family crest emblazoned above her left breast.

  "Good morning, Basil," she said with dangerous sweetness. "No, I'm not having any trouble. I just thought I'd throw the other engine away. I've already used it twice."

  The French journalist scrambled for a picture of the two of them talking. The tall man was Basil Quarks, the fabulous driver who had already carried away honors at the South African and Spanish Grands Prix. The press was having a field day, playing up the rivalry between Quarles and the equally fabulous Baroness Orsini on the track, and their rumored tempestuous affair off it.

  Quarles squatted beside Paul for a look at the new engine. It was a twelve-cylinder job with a complex arrangement of tubes replacing the carburetor venturi.

  "Looks like a plumber's nightmare," he said. "How're you going to keep those two homemade turbochargers from interfering with one another?"

  "I've got a little homemade computer about the size of a poker chip built into it, Basil darling."

  "Hmm…" Quarles' manner was casual, but he looked the Baroness' car over with meticulous care. Like most Formula 1 racing cars, it had a flattened devilfish shape, with wide rear tires like beer kegs. But the delta-shaped front fins looked as if they belonged on a jet plane, and the big rear wing was a graceful batwing equipped with what looked like independently maneuverable vanes.

  "… I suppose you have a little computer controlling those, too," he said.

  "As a matter of fact I do, darling. It tells the wing which wheel needs the most weight on it at any given time."

  "It'll never get off the ground. Baroness. Or…" He laughed. "…it jolly well will get off the ground and take you out of the race."

  "We'll see, darling."

  He hesitated. "Is it true that you've invested $200,000 of your own money to modify that freaking thing?"

  "Word does get around, doesn't it?"

  "We're an incestuous group, here on the Grand Prix circuit." His expression grew serious. "But darling, you haven't a chance — little computers or not. The Fr
ench Matra team has the whole bloody government aerospace and missile industry behind them. They pulled engineers off the Concorde program for this year's Matra entry."

  "You beat them in Spain last month."

  He grinned. "That's different. I've got balls."

  "And I've got ovaries, darling. We women get just as much mileage out of them, you know. Where the hormones, there moan I."

  He laughed. "Very good. Speaking of hormones…"

  She pursed her lips ironically. "And since the Grand Prix circus is so, how did you put it, incestuous… Basil, darling, whatever in the world can you be trying to work up to?"

  "Why not, Penny? We might as well. The press is giving us credit for it anyway."

  He hooked a thumb at the French journalist, who was trying frantically to get past Skytop's broad shoulders for a close-up picture of Quarles and the Baroness.

  Penelope gave Basil an enigmatic smile. "I'll treat you like a sister, darling."

  "How shall I take that, Penny?"

  "Ask me after the race."

  "Are you trying to bribe me to lose?"

  "I'm trying to bribe you to win, darling. Or do your best to win, at any rate."

  "Ovaries against balls, is it?"

  "Ovaries against balls."

  He stuck out a big hand. "It's a bet." They shook hands solemnly.

  The French journalist had dropped to her knees, and was clicking away with her camera from between Skytop's legs. The big Indian reached down and hauled on the collar of her khaki fatigues. She ended up with her neck clamped firmly between his thighs, looking like a prisoner in the stocks.

  "Cochon!" she screamed. "Au secours!" She dropped her camera and beat ineffectually at Skytop's treelike legs.

  The Baroness laughed. "Let her up, Joe. She can take all the pictures she wants… of the car."

  The journalist picked herself up and began dusting herself off indignantly. She retrieved her Rollei, but didn't try for any more close-ups of the two drivers.

  Over in the grandstands, the spectators were stirring. Princess Grace and Rainier, with their three children, were entering the royal box, surrounded by members of the palace guard in their white uniforms. The band began to play the Monegasque anthem.

  "I'd better get over and see to fueling my car," Basil said, looking over his shoulder. "We'll be forming up for the drivers' parade soon." He cocked his head at the Baroness' Ferrari. "Good luck, Baroness. I hope you get that thing assembled before the race starts.

  Paul made a final adjustment with a wrench and looked up. "All set, Baroness," he said.

  Penelope climbed into the narrow cockpit and strapped herself in. Her long legs stretched out almost level from the thin pad that passed for a seat. Her head was no more than three feet above the ground.

  She twisted the ignition. The new engine let out a powerful roar. She listened to it critically. It sounded fine. Her foot on the brake, she took it through all the gears, letting out the clutch for each one. There was no sticking of the gearshift, and it seemed to engage properly for each one.

  "It'll do," she said. Tom Sumo beamed proudly. Paul came over, wiping his hands on an oil rag.

  "Cream 'em, Baroness," he said.

  She fretted restlessly during the parade of drivers, impatient for the ceremonial nonsense to be over and the race to begin. But nobody in the stands could have guessed at her impatience.- She always gave them a good show. She was the legendary Baroness Orsini — model, multimillionairess and jet set beauty whose doings you read about in the gossip columns and glossy international magazines, risking her life and good looks on Europe's most dangerous racing circuit. Some of them doubtless were reminding themselves that her second husband, the dashing young Baron Reynaldo St. John-Orsini, had died in a flaming crash on this same circuit during the Monaco Grand Prix a couple of years ago.

  The Baroness flashed her dazzling smile at the crowds, keeping her protective helmet in her lap until the last minute, so they could see her famous features and mop of glossy black hair.

  When she inched her car past the royal box, Princess Grace gave her a small correct smile and an imperceptible nod, not wanting to seem to favor her above the other drivers. The Baroness gave the Princess a tiny nod back. Her family had known the Kellys back in Philadelphia — it was hard to avoid them when you had one of the Main Line's most socially prominent names. Penelope Worthington — that's what she'd been then: a grave little girl of twelve, when Grace made headlines by marrying the Prince. Penelope's father, Arthur Worthington, had considered the Kellys to be arrivistes and nouveau riche. "But Grace is a nice girl," he'd said. "I hope this thing with this Rainier fellow works out."

  She was on the starting grid now, her eyes on the flagman. Around her, the other cars were revving up. The engine noise was deafening, and she was surrounded by choking clouds of gasoline fumes. In the car to her left, Basil Quarles caught her eye and waved to her with a grin. His lips formed the word, "Balls." She gave him the finger and mouthed a silent "Ovaries" back at him. She wondered if the gesture had been noticed in the royal box. Princess Grace would have been shocked.

  The starter dropped the red and white flag, and the Baroness let her Ferrari loose. She shot forward in a haze of tire smoke. Stewart's Tyrell Ford was in the lead, followed closely by Barry's triple-winged Lotus. The Baroness urged her car uphill in third, toward the first fast corner. Her tach said 9000 rpm. She slid easily past the French Matra, a slow starter despite its jet-plane nose.

  Her wheels clipped the curb at Ste Devote at ninety-five miles per hour — the only way to get into position for the steep climb toward Casino Square. Then she was pushing the Ferrari at top acceleration, shifting to fourth gear halfway up the hill.

  She risked a quick backward glance. Basil was crowding her, his goggled face turned into a weird, widened mask by the wind that was forcing its way through his lips. She wondered what her own face looked like at the moment. The sting of the airstream was like a rare, exhilarating tonic.

  And then she was whizzing over the crest of the hill, instinctively giving the brakes the precise touch needed to steady the car for the next curve. The car was very light now, and the big bat-wings spread automatically to push her rear wheels into the road. The Baroness felt a flash of triumph. Her gamble had worked! The computer-controlled vanes were doing what Tom Sumo had hoped they would.

  There was a flag marshal, waving a blue flag at her. Someone was coming up fast behind her! It was Jacky Ickx. She could see his homely-sexy, bent-nosed profile as he passed her at 120. He always reminded her of Jean-Paul Belmondo. She cursed. He had taken the one slot in that low wall of racing cars stretching across the road ahead.

  Just before Casino Square there was a break in the lineup as Jacky pulled ahead again. The Baroness gunned her car into the slot, crowding the cars on either side. She felt the familiar thrill that comes from gambling with death; a momentary loss of control by any of the drivers would mean flaming disaster.

  Now she could sense the blurred facade of the Hôtel de Paris at her left, and she'd managed to get over to clip the curb again. The cars ahead of her had their wheels off the ground: it was another spot where the cars became light. But the bat-wings worked again as she went over the hump by the gardens. She flew past the row of nightclubs, gaining steadily.

  She braked heavily at the next sharp corner, shifting to second. Her whole body snapped forward, straining against the straps. She goosed it down the hill toward the hairpin curve ahead.

  Somehow Basil was ahead of her. He gave her the finger as he passed, taking one hand off the wheel like a damn fool. She laughed aloud, amused in spite of herself. She had to brake hard at the hairpin, once more dropping to second gear. She'd catch him again on the straightaway further ahead.

  She hurtled under the railway bridge, and her front tires suddenly touched the curb beside the seawall. She wrestled with the wheel, feeling the strain in her shoulders and chest, getting back onto the road. This was the place where Rey
naldo had died. Unbidden, the mental image came to her: his red Ferrari slamming into stone, breaking apart like a badly made toy, bursting into flame while she watched. They'd had two good years; it all was good — the sex, the excitement, the pulse-quickening danger of the sports that she and Reynaldo sampled together. And then the blackened mummy they'd pried from the wreckage, and the huge villa in Florence for her to rattle around in after that.

  She hadn't rattled very long. Another set of mental images came to her: the bland-faced CIA man who'd summoned her to the Embassy and appealed to her as an American citizen to do courier chores; the border officials who'd looked through her well-thumbed passport and passed her through with a smile, dazzled by her wealth and beauty and connections; the discreet, powerful man in Washington she'd inveigled into creating the elite, secret espionage organization she headed, buried somewhere in the budget of the National Security Agency; the long year of incognito training at Army and CIA and NSA bases that had turned her into the deadly, efficient agent known as Coin.

  And the rest of it: the parties and the lovers and the excitement of the fashion and film worlds and the dangerous sports like skydiving and auto racing that Reynaldo had introduced her to, and which she continued to practice almost as a religion.

  Especially the auto racing. She was going to win this one for Reynaldo! Death had cheated him of the Grand Prix. She was going to collect the debt.

  She was flashing out of the Tunnel now, the sudden bright light blinding her. She consulted the precise photograph in her memory to avoid hitting the curb — this was where so many drivers clobbered the exit barrier — and then she was going like a bat out of hell down the fastest part of the course. 165 mph. She laughed aloud with the sheer joy of the speed and danger.

  The little car shot ahead in top gear, a flat spearhead skimming the paving stones. The Baroness was a part of it. The engine noise deafened her; the wind clawed at her face and tried to tear off her helmet. The machine was her and she was the machine: a hurtling bomb of steel and rubber and flesh, throbbing with power, made for this suspended moment of blind speed.