The Darkness Drops

by Peter Clement

  She continued to walk through sections of stalls dedicated to powders and potions, the recipes dating back to before apothecaries even existed in the rest of the world. Some of the hotter picks, she’d heard, might be anything from ground deer penis to powdered beaver testicles, gallbladders, and bear adrenals, but the labels on the vials were in Chinese and therefore indecipherable to her. They’d preceded Viagra by several millennia as an aid to potency but, unlike the blue pill, provided an overdose of testosterone, cholesterol, and adrenalin along with the promised erection. She’d never forgotten how her chief resident at New York City Hospital described the aftermath of their use, even in America. “The Chinatown special--an Asian male comes into ER stroked out with a hard-on and wearing a smile.”

  Pausing to inspect other equally inscrutable items, she cast a quick glance to either side, checking for a patch of beige.

  No such luck.

  Walking a few blocks farther, she heard a sound that reminded her of fingernails drawn over a washboard, and soon entered between rows of cages stacked ten feet high, each containing some form of live game. Rabbits, lizards, squirrels, mongoose, weasels, foxes, ferrets--they all skittered in circles behind the wire mesh. Some were driven frantic by the proximity of mortal enemies, others frenzied by the nearness of prey. It seemed cruel to keep them imprisoned side by side like this, their terror and hunger equally stirred by the scent of blood from those freshly slaughtered.

  She concentrated on the more unusual specimens, making a written note of their names. Exotic species of spider monkeys with red fur and gangling arms. An anteater she’d only recently read about called pangolin. Large iguanas the size of dachshunds. Some species she paid particular attention to because they were known carriers of microbes that could be deadly to other animals yet have no effect on themselves. Two weasel-like creatures, their fur a black-on-white combination of spots and stripes, stared back at her with forlorn black eyes. They resembled the stoles that she’d seen American women drape over their shoulders in films from the thirties. These days scientists saw them as living reservoirs for a nasty called the coronavirus, the tiny crown-shaped killer of horses, cattle, and fowl. So far it hadn’t harmed humans, but give it time, she thought. Wrinkling her nose at their musky odor, she wrote their Latin nomenclature, Civettictis viverra, or civet cats, into her log. Americans would have called them spotted skunks.

  Still no sign of the woman in beige, if indeed it had been Wey Chen.

  A prolonged, high-pitched shriek pierced the gloom, then ended abruptly in a gurgle.

  The lines of cages fell silent.

  The vendors and buyers continued to haggle, having paid the sound no notice.

  Someone’s dinner, she told herself. But in the place where nightmares form, she thought the sound might have been human.

  Anna moved on, the place beginning to make her uneasy.

  The next section contained fish, and the stench of them trebled as she hurried past tentacled, scaly things, some so massive they appeared about to collapse the tables they rested on. Arriving in an area where large water tanks held swimming produce, she found the air to be fresher. A good place to linger awhile, she thought, and give Wey Chen, if she’s out there, a chance to catch up.

  The oily surface of a nearby container roiled as whatever coiled beneath the brown liquid swirled back and forth.

  Anna focused on the stalls she’d just vacated.

  No one followed.

  She began to feel disappointed. Suppose Wey Chen didn’t show after all.

  She reached the next set of booths and dutifully scrutinized a pair of severed bear paws hanging on hooks.

  Across from her a young Asian woman in a beige raincoat paused to look closely at those same bear paws.

  Anna’s pulse quickened. She hastily looked away, focusing instead on a tray of water that writhed with eels. How should she play this? Make the first move, or let her do it? Better the latter. This might not be Wey Chen, but another minder, one she didn’t know. In the end they were all cops, remember.

  Anna began to move onto the next stall, slowly, figuring the woman might work her way closer, then maybe whisper a place where they could meet in secret.

  “Dr. Katasova?” the lady called out, still on the opposite side of the bear stall.

  Anna froze, stunned by how loudly her name had been spoken. Trying to act like someone who’d been singled out by a total stranger and had no idea why, she turned and said, “Yes?”

  “Dr. Katasova! It’s such a privilege to run into you here.” The woman had stressed her l ever so slightly, as if to showcase how well she could rid it of any telltale r sound, and practically trotted around the end of the cart in her eagerness to reach Anna. “My name is Dr. Wey Chen. I so enjoyed all your lectures,” she said, grabbing her hand and giving it a firm shake. “It’s such a coincidence, running into you like this. I’d dropped by your hotel, hoping to meet you, but it was too early to ring your room.” She reached inside a medium-sized purse and brought out a square plastic case, the kind that held CDs. “You might find these of interest. I scanned a series of case studies and downloaded them. They’re exactly what you are looking for.” She shoved it into Anna’s palm, then glanced at her watch. “Let me know what you think. I have to get back to the hospital for the start of morning rounds.”

  She spoke almost like an American woman, so sure of herself and showing none of the stiff formality that Anna usually encountered among female colleagues from China. In another time and place, she might have found the friendly candor delightfully refreshing. Under the current circumstances, it alarmed her. She tried to give back the container. “I don’t think this is a good idea--”

  “I have to run,” Wey Chen said, turning heel and walking away. “I’ll be at the hospital all day if you need me.”

  She disappeared into the fog.

  Anna stood absolutely still, the CD case in her hand.

  This wasn’t what she’d expected. So public, so open.

  An eel with feelers the size of a Fu Man Chu mustache slithered over the side of the pan and oozed down to the pavement like an extra long squeeze of black toothpaste.

  Anna stepped over it, slipped the packet of discs into the pocket of her own raincoat, and started back toward the hotel.

  As she retraced her steps, she became aware of more people in the mist than she’d seen coming in.

  The majority of them had formed a shadowy phalanx walking in her direction.

  A tightness gripped her throat, and she picked up the pace.

  The vague shapes moved with her.

  She began to jog.

  With her conditioning, she could outrun most anyone.

  Up ahead more figures appeared to the right and left of her. They closed in like giant pincers.

  She sprinted for an opening in the center.

  A wall of dark green uniforms worn by men in peaked caps cut her off.

  One man had more braid on his epaulets than the others. He stepped forward, gave a little bow of his head, and gestured her to move toward the left. “Dr. Katasova, please come with me,” he said in flawless English that surpassed even Wey Chen’s. Unlike hers, his perfect “l” sounded effortless.

  Anna arched up on her toes and threw her shoulders back. “What is this all about?”

  “I have a car waiting. Get into it, please, Dr. Katasova, thank you.” His voice had grown softer.

  That damn politeness again, she thought. Except this time it made her feel as if an icicle had been jammed down her windpipe.

  She’d rather he’d screamed.

  Because if growing up in Sverdlovsk had taught her anything, it was, Watch out when the police got polite. It meant they already possessed the evidence needed to destroy you. Lore from the gulags had it that “please” and “thank you” never flowed as freely as when they led you to your execution.

  Chapter 11

  Five hours later, 11:31 P.M. EST

  The Eisenhower Corridor, Pentagon Bui
lding, Washington D.C.

  Magnified by thick, black-rimmed glasses, the steely squint that had become so well known to the world fixed on the general. “This better be good, Robert.”

  An emerald-green desk lamp provided the only light. On the wall, a painting of Ike presided over them. Guardian of the prim-and-proper fifties, he wore the self-satisfied smile of a warrior who once boasted, “In times of battle, my driver has her own foxhole that I can slip into whenever the urge strikes.” The rest of the office was lost in shadow.

  “I wouldn’t have disturbed your dinner party without ‘good’ cause,” the general replied, annoyed at being called by his first name. It diminished his sense of rank. “I hear your hostess serves the best coq au vin in town.”

  The rumpled features frowned. Given his strident public persona as a dedicated husband and family man, people weren’t suppose to know about his late night appetite for coq au vin. “How’d you find me?” he asked

  “I can find anyone, anywhere, anytime.”

  A squint narrowed behind the lens, and the frown deepened. His forehead, renowned for expressing displeasure, could bulk up bigger than some men’s chests.

  Robert, satisfied that he’d set him sufficiently on his heels, got right to the point. “Remember a fighter jet and a very aggressive Chinese pilot who buzzed one of our U-2s outside China’s airspace last April? Clipped its wings and down she went.”

  The man’s forehead undid the heavy ridges and curled into a question mark. “Of course. But what’s that got to do with anything now?”

  “Even though we eventually got both our pilot and the wreckage back, you were one of the few who cottoned to the real problem--that the bellicosity of the act suggested their hawks were ascendant in a race to replace the old guard leadership.”

  His opponent leaned back in the oversized leather chair until only the lower half of his face caught the cone of light, his mouth tightening in a thin-lipped show of annoyance. “I know that. Why even bring it up--”

  “Those hawks may be flexing their muscles again.”

  He shifted uneasily. “Go on.”

  “An hour ago I received a confidential report from one of our agents in Southern China. The police have just arrested an American doctor in Guangzhou. She’s an expert in emergent diseases, especially those coming out of Asia, and works for the World Health Organization. But in the past she collaborated with us on more than one sensitive operation.” Ever since the Reagan administration exchanged arms for hostages and got caught in what became known as the Iran-Contra scandal, no one in Washington wanted to know the details of anything dicey or of questionable legality. Credible deniability became de rigueur. and their minions played along. The general had always taken an opposite tack with his superiors. If he had to carry out a politically incorrect operation, he made sure that the secretary of defense got briefed to the eyeballs about it. That way, whoever occupied this desk was implicated, and he, or she, guarded the secret like gold. The tactic had paid off beautifully through six administrations.

  “Is that why she was targeted? “ his newest boss asked. “They knew she was working for us?”

  “Maybe. But she hasn’t done anything covert with DOD or the State Department for nearly two years. The problem is, she left our group on rather bad terms, and we can’t rely on her sense of loyalty to keep her mouth shut.”

  “What group, and what kind of bad terms?”

  “You remember Operation Stethoscope I told you about?”

  “Oh, God, no.” The secretary leaned forward and rested his muscular forehead on the palms of his hands.

  For more than a decade General Robert Daikens had seen to it that certain worthy humanitarian programs received government funds to send physicians all over the world, but did it discretely, feeding the money through legitimate charities and humanitarian groups. Physicians made good eyes and ears in parts of the planet where professional spooks couldn’t get the time of day. Because people everywhere told their secrets to a doctor.

  If the AMA or general public discovered any part of this, Robert knew that he and all those implicated in it would be publicly flailed, then sacked. But he wasn’t just out to save his career. Disclosure would also mean the end of a program that served the country well, and in his heart, he only regretted not having recruited hundreds more such doctors and run thousands more such missions. Because if just one agent initiated the right unguarded conversation in the right place at the right time, word of a pending attack might save lives, might even have saved three thousand lives. The seared gash on the side of this very building reminded him of that every day, and it pained him as much as if that obscene, open wound were in his own flesh. So he’d be damned if he was going to let anyone rat out the operation now.

  “What do we do to get her back?” the secretary asked, his brow arched high with worry. “Our embassy raises a stink, like the time with the pilot?”

  “We can’t do that, at least not yet. Officially we don’t know anything of her arrest because the police haven’t let her contact our embassy. If we demand her release, it’ll tip them off that someone local is an informant, and that might compromise my agent.” When his sources in Pearl had told him that Ryder used DOD surveillance people to track down Anna in Kailua, he’d phoned Ryder and demanded to know why. After listening to Ryder’s suspicions about her pending trip, he contacted one of his own people inside Guangzhou and asked him to tail Anna. Not that he shared Ryder’s concern for her. His reasons were more venal. Having once betrayed her, he instinctively didn’t trust the lady. Who knew what she might pull to get even? So if something were brewing in China involving her, he wanted to know about it.

  “What do you suggest, then, General?” the secretary of defense asked. A hint of the man’s trademark crankiness had crept into his voice.

  “The woman’s a Russian national. She and her husband helped bring out the anthrax samples we got from Sverdlovsk in eighty-nine--”

  “Jesus, we don’t want her talking about that either.”

  “The trouble is, Sir, there’s still an arrest warrant with her name on it that’s outstanding in Sverdlovsk--for body-snatching of all things--related to her passing the anthrax to us. Since Russia still considers her a citizen, the Chinese need only say they prefer to deal with old comrades and give Moscow first dibs on her. We can scream all we want, but it won’t do any good.”

  “Why would the Chinese do that?”

  “Maybe to persuade her to go public about her dealings with us.”

  For a few seconds the secretary appeared to have stopped breathing, then made up for the pause by drawing in a long, deep breath. “Are you saying the Chinese grabbed her because they knew about the anthrax?”

  “I’m saying she could embarrass the US any number of ways. Exposing the existence of a weapons-grade anthrax strain that we covered up is just one secret the Chinese could exploit. We both know the hawks’ strategy over there--let China put on a civilized face and, through trade, close their economic and technological gap with America, then take us on. Maybe they see this as a perfect time to weaken us by causing a crisis of credibility in the White House--make themselves relatively stronger by undermining our political stability.”

  “That’s stupid. It’d sabotage the very trade they need.”

  “A year ago somebody over there thought buzzing our jets would be a good idea.”

  The secretary made a pyramid with his fingers and tapped them against his lips as he thought this over a few seconds. “Okay, General, supposing you’re right, what do you propose we do?”

  “Well, if she keeps her mouth shut, and we do nothing, and the Chinese give her to Moscow, the Russians would probably like to make her and everything to do with that chapter of Sverdlovsk disappear. That would be fine, except if she got her story out in the process, we’d still be in trouble.”

  “I assume you have a plan B.”

  “We stay quiet for the moment, and get ready to jump either way.”

/>   “Which means?”

  “If she keeps her mouth shut, we fight like hell to get her back. You know the routine. Mount a loud campaign, proclaim ‘she’s a woman who had escaped the communism of Russia for the freedom of America and we damn well won’t allow her to fall victim to the treacherous communism of China.’ That ought to further secure her loyalty, and silence.” Robert offered this scenario only to appear fair. He didn’t want it. Didn’t want Anna back at all.

  Because it suited him to think the worst of her. Because secretly he’d sometimes even hoped she would betray her adopted country in retaliation for what he’d done to her so he’d catch her at it. Because he harbored a need, a fantasy to claim that he’d always known instinctively she was a traitor, to justify how he’d used her in Gabon. To prove he hadn’t been wrong about her, that she was as rotten as Yuri. That he hadn’t been wrong about the others whom he’d judged expendable and sent out to die, albeit each one for a good cause.

  But she’d never obliged, never brought the issue to a head, neither pressed charges nor took revenge, just let what he’d done fester, a cancer that could undo him, and his network. And unless he got rid of her, she would keep him dangling, hold him in his own purgatory, force him to wait for her next move, or worse, leave him to hang in uncertainty forever.

  “And if she talks about anthrax?” the secretary of defense asked.

  Robert shook his head, sighing long and hard in a show of great reluctance over what he was about to say. “First we tenderize her.”

  The man across from him made a pyramid of his hands again and once more tapped the tips of his index fingers against his lips. “Tenderize” was a term he’d be familiar with from the Nixon era. It meant shredding a person’s credibility before serving them up as a sacrificial lamb. “How?” he asked.

  “We declare her a lying ingrate who duped the Chinese, slandered the land of her birth, and besmirched the country that took her in,” Daikens said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, despite his euphoria at being on the verge of removing her as a time bomb from his own life. “Here again, you know the kind of drill I mean. Insist we mustn’t let a crazy person harm the friendship between our three great nations--blah, blah, blah--until nobody will believe her, regardless of the wild things she might say. The Russians will play along. They won’t want her talking about their anthrax any more than we do--bad for the new image. And once nobody takes her seriously, the Chinese can’t use her story to damage us.” Nor could she damage me, he gloated. “Then . . .” Robert Daikens paused, allowing the logic of what he would say next to flow ahead of his words and become self-evident.