He was-what? At first she assumed he was on the verge of being sick.
"Dr. Smith, are you feeling ill?"
"What? No, I am just fine, Mrs. Mikulka. Would you bring us tea, please."
"Yes. Of course."
Mrs. Mikulka left the office feeling flustered. Dr. Harold W. Smith had been suppressing amusement. Not a laugh, certainly, and probably not even a chuckle. But as close to it as she might have seen in years. Why, Dr. Smith and Mark were sharing a joke.
You could have knocked over Mrs. Mikulka with a feather.
She felt like a silly old biddy for having wasted all those hours worrying that Mark was in Dr. Smith's doghouse. At the same time she was fervently curious.
What in the world could have been so funny to an old sourpuss like Dr. Smith?
What she wouldn't give to know.
"OH YEAH, REAL FUNNY, Junior," said the disgruntled voice out of the speakerphone.
"The Associated Press took a really nice photo, Remo," Mark Howard said, unfolding the newspaper when Mrs. Mikulka was gone. "The Rye Record's got it right on the front page. 'Who Smashed Digger-And Why?' Listen to this-"
"No, thanks."
"No, just listen," Mark Howard insisted delightedly. "'Digger the Dinosaur never hurt a soul during his short life. In fact, the purple dinosaur with pink spots was only six weeks old. Yesterday, however, his brief existence was snuffed out when vandals smashed the two-ton fiberglass figure to pieces in the parking lot of the Carefree Vacation Condominiums development in Pigeon Fudge, Tennessee."'
"Boo-hoo for the Carefree Vacation Condominiums," Remo said sourly out of the speakerphone. "There's more. 'The vandalism occurred yesterday afternoon, but police say they do not know how the dinosaur was destroyed. "He was so new he was still shiny," said Max Scheaffer, president of Carefree. "Who would have thought somebody could do such a heinous act."'"
"I know you think this is the most fun ever, but could we get on to business?" Remo grouched.
"This is business," Mark protested. "Your stunt turned out to be the curiosity-of-the-day in papers and newscasts around the country. You came pretty close to exposing the organization. Not to mention that it was just, well, a heinous thing to do."
Mark Howard stifled a chuckle.
One corner of Dr. Harold W. Smith's mouth twitched, very slightly.
"Hello?" Remo demanded. "Are there any adults in the room?"
"Remo, this could have been a real problem," Dr. Smith said, his voice almost, but not quite, as sour as ever.
"You're welcome. Thanks. No, really. Just doing my job."
"What are you referring to?"
"Tracking down the source of the poisoners? Remember? The job you couldn't do?"
"Yes, I assumed you would be able to do so," Smith replied. "But the little melee in Pigeon Fudge scared the islanders back home. A Union Island spokesperson claimed President Grom and his entourage were attacked by American ultranationalists. All the islanders were rounded up and flown out before they could be examined at the local hospital."
"They wouldn't let that happen because they've all have their brains melted, except maybe for the president himself," Remo said. "I think it's him, Smitty. That punk kid Grom. He's a sniveling, self-important little brat. I don't have to tell you about those kind."
"What evidence points to Grom?" Smith asked. "The same evidence that led me to this can of nuts in the first place. None."
"So why do you think it is Greg Grom behind all the outbreaks of violence?" Smith demanded. "We still don't know what he has to gain from any of it."
"You got me there," Remo said. "Maybe he's using some kind of mind-control potion. Maybe that's what got him where he is today."
Smith stared at the phone. "You mean, he drugged the people of Union Island to get himself elected? That's absurd."
"You wearing that butt-ugly green tie every day for forty years, that's absurd. Greg Grom spiking the coconut milk on Union Island, that makes perfect sense."
"If he did, then every resident of the island would be violently insane," Smith protested. "That's clearly not the case."
"Yeah. I don't have all the details worked out, but I do know Grom didn't get elected because of his charisma or his credibility. He doesn't have either."
"Maybe," Smith said. "We must consider the possibility that whoever is causing the poisonings had no connection to the islanders until he or she joined up with the group on the mainland. Which means we could see continued outbreaks in the South-Central U.S., even with the entourage back on their island."
"Nope," Remo said determinedly. "It won't happen. My gut says it's Grom."
Smith stared thoughtfully at the newspaper photo of fiberglass splinters. "I don't feel as confident, but going to Union Island is the logical next step until we have another occurrence. Mark?"
Mark Howard nodded. "I agree. Even without evidence it seems likely that whoever it was behind the poisonings, they were with the islanders."
"But we need hard evidence before we start assassinating the presidents of U.S. protectorates," Smith warned. "President Grom is off limits until proved guilty."
"Don't worry, I'll find proof," Remo said. "I won't snuff the punk until I have it."
"That would be heinous," Mark Howard said.
"Ha-ha-ha click," Remo said acidly.
Dr. Harold W Smith suppressed a subtle spasm in both corners of his perpetually sour mouth.
Chapter 29
The short buses were painted with parrots and palm trees. Tropical Transport was the name of the tour company. All the buses had a cardboard sign duct-taped to the front window with Chartered hand-lettered with a big black marker.
More cardboard-lots of it-had been used to cover the windows.
There was nobody inside yet. The four buses waited at the end of the Union Island International Airport's one and only runway. The bus lights were out. The runway lights were out. There were no flights scheduled to come in until the first morning tourist shuttle out of Miami at 6:00 a.m.
That was five hours away. Still, the lights of an aircraft appeared in the distance. They came closer, descending for a landing.
The runway lights blazed to life at the last minute, and the wheels of the chartered 747 touched down seconds later. It slowed fast, then came to a squeaking halt at the buses. The aircraft powered down at the same moment the runway lights faded to blackness, and there was nothing left except for a few yellow flashlight beams.
The Union Island Police Department wheeled the stairs into place and marched up to the aircraft doors. They had their billy clubs out. The doors opened and the police went in.
"Jesus Cheee-rist," Chief of Police Checker Spence grumbled. "It's a damn loony bin."
The aircraft was stuffed to the gills with lunatics. Most of them had the dead, sightless, unfocused eyes of a human vegetable. Their mouths hung slack, and when they turned to look at the police, their heads lolled from one side to the other, as if too heavy to control properly. A few of them were excited, yanking and pulling at their belts. Not one of them spoke.
Every man and woman had their hands cuffed behind their backs, which had to be a pretty uncomfortable way to fly. They all had their seat belts on. Otherwise the limp ones would have flopped to the floor.
"Hey, it's Alan from the tourism department!" One of the officers was aiming his billy club at a drooling, cadaverous figure in an aisle seat. The island government was tiny-everybody knew just about everybody.
"Hey, Alan, you feeling okay?" The officer leaned close.
Alan, from the tourism department, turned to face the officer. Spence could see the utter lack of vitality in the eyes, eyes that belonged in a corpse. He and his officer were both taken off guard when Alan from the tourism department bit a huge chunk of flesh out of the officer's neck. The officer went down screaming in the aisle.
"Jeesus!" Spence stormed down the aisle. He wasn't sure what he intended to do. For one thing, get the hunk of skin and muscle that wa
s dangling from the teeth of Alan from the tourism department in hopes it could be reattached to the officer who was now pumping blood onto the aircraft floor.
Captain Spence didn't let his shock slow him. "Get the ambulance!" he shouted back to his other officers as he dropped to the floor beside the wounded man and applied heavy pressure to the wound. He felt the spurt of blood against his hand like water from a garden hose, and he knew he was feeling an open carotid artery. How many pints of blood had his man lost in just the past few seconds?
"Captain, watch out!"
The warning came almost too late. He felt someone leaning over him and he twisted fast. A pair of teeth chomped down, locking on to the material of his shirt. Captain Spence retreated up the aisle on all fours, dragging the shirt free. It wasn't Alan from tourism but a woman on the opposite side of the aisle. Agnes. From the island public relations administration. She was in her late sixties and her dentures fell out and bounced on the floor.
Spence grabbed his wounded officer's ankles and dragged him to the front, out of the reach of the passengers, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the lunatic face of kindly old Agnes. She used to baby-sit Captain Spence's kids. They called her Grandma Aggy.
She had just tried to chew out his liver.
DIRECTOR OF TOURISM Dawn Summens never went to sleep that night.
She got her first clue of looming catastrophe when she checked her voice mail. There was a message from Grom. "It's me. We've had some problems at this end, and I think it's time to pull the plug on the tour. We'll be heading back tomorrow morning. Let's meet for breakfast and discuss our next move."
Summens had been taking off her earrings when the message started and she stood there now with one of them, a glimmering emerald stud, twirling in her fingers. Then she replayed the message.
No doubt in her mind. Grom was suppressing his excitement-or agitation. Had he achieved success? Or had everything blown up in his face?
Something told her it was bad news, not good. Grom was hiding something, which was a dangerous sign. Summens and Grom had an agreement. Greg was never, ever to hide anything from his right-hand man-bikini model-honesty was the key to their working and personal relationship.
Her apartment was a luxurious penthouse atop the Union Estates building. It was seven stories, the tallest structure on the island, and the surf rolled at its feet with a faint whisper. Summens strolled onto the balcony and regarded the moonlit waves carefully for a moment, looking for her answers there.
Something was afoot. She felt it in her gut. And she was going to find out what it was. Nobody screwed with Dawn Summens's well-laid plans and got away with it. Especially not that pudgy jerk Greg Grom.
She wheeled and headed for the desk in her bedroom. It looked like a very feminine dressing table, complete with a small mirrored tray of the world's most expensive perfumes. Summens sat at the frilly vanity chair, moved the tray aside and swung up the top of the desk. The levers inside lifted the keyboard to working height. She slid the top of the desk out of sight into its wall recess, revealing a twenty-inch flat screen monitor.
She snatched up the phone as she began her on-line search for information. Her first call went to her airport contact. She had a lock on at least one employee on each shift of the airport security staff. Her call automatically went to whoever was currently on duty.
"Ashecroft," he announced. "It's me."
Ashecroft's voice immediately lowered. "I was about to call you, Minister. We just got word about the president's flight coming in."
"What's their ETA?"
"Forty-five minutes," Ashecroft said. That lying son of a-!
"The police are here already," Ashecroft added.
"Yes?" Summens said. Why police?
"They look ready to go to war," Ashecroft said. "But they said they'll enter the aircraft with billy clubs. The guns and stuff are for emergency use only-you know, in case of real trouble."
Summens's mind spun in several directions, but she exercised great control when she spoke. "What do they expect?"
"They haven't told us a thing." The way he said it made it clear he wished Dawn would fill him in.
"Phone the minute you learn anything more. I'll be in touch." She snapped off the phone.
She had just accessed the flight plan for the inbound chartered 747, which was three minutes ahead of schedule and expected to be on the ground at Union Island International Airport before midnight.
She found her next set of answers in the on-line edition of the Knoxville News Sentinel.
Rampage In Pigeon Fudge, the headline read.
She scanned the story and made a quick conclusion. Grom dosed his own tour-bus staff with synthesized GUTX. That was a desperate move even for an idiot like him. He'd been in bad trouble-or thought he was.
But what else had happened? Why was he keeping it a secret from her? When Grom got in trouble, she was usually the first one he turned to. She was the brains behind this outfit; they both knew that.
What was she missing?
She quickly jumped to another conclusion.
Grom was scheduled to take delivery today of a new batch of GUTX synthetic distillates. There was an upstart pharmaceutical specialties lab in Minneapolis. It claimed to have a molecular mapping and replicating technique. Their scientists had promised their synthesis would be as close as was possible to the real thing. But it took a little longer.
Grom was making all the arrangements with the labs. He never entrusted Dawn with the original GUTX except in very specific cases, like the senator who visited in his absence. He wasn't about to entrust her with the synthetic GUTX, either. She never even knew where the deliveries took place.
What if the Minneapolis lab did the job as good as it said it would? What if Grom had tested the Minneapolis GUTX samples and found one that worked without side effects? Crisis averted, he'd start feeling cocky. He'd start feeling like he didn't need a business partner-not one with a will of her own.
That betrayal would violate the terms of their agreement, but the beauty of GUTX was that he could dose her-maybe spike her wine or her bottled water-then simply suggest that she thought he had done the right thing. Then she would agree.
She'd be his little pet. His puppet. She'd follow his every suggestion. She'd perform whatever act he wished her to perform and she'd like it-if he wanted her to like it.
The thought repulsed her.
If only she could have found his stash of GUTX, she could dose him first. As stupid as he was, he somehow managed to keep that one secret from her for almost two years. She had never seen the full supply, so it had come as a complete surprise when Greg announced that his stores were running low.
For months they had contracted all kinds of marine biologists and less scrupulous rare-animal collectors to search the waters worldwide for surviving members of a subspecies of the Blue Ring Octopus that had once existed in small numbers off the shores of Union Island, and, as far as they knew, nowhere else.
The Blue Ring was a small, poisonous octopus today, but the Union Island Blue, as it was known, had been as much as a yard in length and with a greater girth. One preserved specimen was known by the scientific community to exist today-an intact, desiccated mummy found on the island by President Greg Grom himself, back when he was an archaeological student working the local sites on a summer internship.
The truth was, he had found hundreds of Union Island Blue Rings that day, but the specimen now on display at the Union Island Museum of Natural History had been the only one not crushed into powder.
As the sign at the museum explained, the Union Island Blue Ring was described in the surviving writings of the original island habitants. It had great ritual value to them, but was notoriously difficult to catch because of its lethal sting. The sting, the museum display said, contained a poison that was chemically similar to tetrodotoxin, one of the world's most deadly naturally occurring toxins. TTX was also found in several varieties of puffer fish and was famous for being
the secret ingredient in Haitian zombie potions. Indeed, the Union Island Blue Ring Octopus appeared to have been used in rituals in which the priests would "kill," then "resurrect" a subject as a demonstration of supernatural power.
A chosen subject was fed a crumb of octopus flesh. The poison, dubbed guaneurotetrodotoxin, or GUTX, probably had an effect similar to TTX, slowing the metabolic rate to a point of near-death unconsciousness. Outward signs of life were suppressed until no heartbeat or respiration could be detected. Days later, the GUTX would wear off and the body's metabolism would speed up again. The benevolent priests would restore life to the "corpse."
Most of those who were exposed to TTX today, often through consuming puffer fish, received a dose far larger than what the Union Island priests used. Victims could die in as little as twenty minutes. From the written records found on the island, GUTX was just as dangerous.
"No Union Island Blue Ring Octopus has been seen in at least four centuries," the museum display concluded. "Have no fear of swimming in the beautiful waters of Union Island-this poisonous marine dweller is extinct!"
Their hunt confirmed that.
After months of failure, Grom and Summens had even risked a little publicity and offered a substantial reward for anyone locating a recent specimen. The word was circulated among fisherman throughout the Caribbean. The specimens that came in bore no resemblance to the Union Island Blue Ring. More than one marine biologist and rare-marine-animal collector shipped them hopeful-looking samples, but in all cases the pickled octopus were proved to be simply uncommonly large standard Blue Rings. DNA testing proved they weren't from the same subspecies as that of the mummy in the Union Island museum-and more tests showed that these standard twentieth century Blue Rings produced no GUTX.
Thus they embarked on the effort to analyze and create GUTX synthetically.
Easier said than done. Every lab they approached was able to make something very similar to GUTX and none had so far produced an identical molecule. The synthetic versions didn't work on the human metabolism in the same way, either. They found out the hard way when Grom tested a batch on a honeymooning couple from Portland.
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