The Darkness Drops

by Peter Clement

  Frowning, she invited him to sit on a low, rather uncomfortable chair from the John Adams era, hiked her own hip onto the corner of HMS Resolute, and leaned over him, arms crossed. “Tell me, Dr. Ryder, what’s your background? I read the official dossier, and it’s full of your credentials as a physician--specialized in emergency medicine, ten years in the field, working hot zones for the CDC, as well as hiring on to do special contract work with DOD, including your position with Homeland Security. But you don’t have that high a profile in terms of publications or authorship of papers, or being a spokesperson for any of the agencies you’ve worked for. In fact, if I went by your public bio, I’d think you competent, but ordinary. Yet you wouldn’t have been named task force leader if that’s all you were. So why the low profile?”

  Once again Terry found himself taken by surprise. This woman had really done her homework. “I make it a point to keep my name out of the papers, Madame President. People talk more openly with a mid-level doctor than some legend working for DOD.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned closer, forcing him to look up at her. “Fair enough. But I also saw the list of people whom you chose to work with in the task force. Five Pulitzer prize winners, three Nobel laureates, chairpersons at research centers from all our leading universities, pardon my bluntness, but--”

  “You mean what gives me the effrontery to set myself in charge of a blue-ribbon group like them?”

  “Not exactly. You didn’t set yourself over them. They obviously agreed to work under your supervision. A group with their credentials wouldn’t accept the leadership of anyone but the best. So what do they know about you, Dr. Terry Ryder, that’s not in your record? I’m bursting with curiosity.”

  Terry’s opinion of the woman’s perceptiveness continued to grow. “In other words, why should I be the one you trust in digging up what could be grounds for World War Three?”

  She nodded.

  He hesitated, worried that the truth about his “gifts” wouldn’t reassure her much, but then again, she seemed a pretty independent thinker. “I have a peculiar knack to think visually. After studying the molecular structure of microbes, for example, my imagination creates three-dimensional images of what I’ve learned. I can walk around inside them mentally. Actually see how viruses or bacteria attack cells. It gives me a real edge in getting treatment ideas, because I also visualize what new molecules might block such attacks.”

  “I thought they had computers to do that.”

  “They do. Better ones as each day goes by, which makes me increasingly obsolete. But with all due respect, those computers are not medical doctors. Clinical experience still counts for something.”

  She continued to stare hard at Terry, again looking as if she were making a calculation in her head. After a few seconds, she decisively rose to her feet. “Thanks for coming in.”

  Terry stood as well, a cavernous foreboding in his chest. He’d failed to convince her. She hadn’t bought Terry Ryder, great seer of molecules and microbes, creator of conspiracy theories. Definitely too flaky for the Capitol crowd, especially in a time of crisis.

  “From now on you will report whatever you find directly to me. We need proof of your suspicions, Dr. Ryder. Hard proof. Without that, I can’t act on the political front, and believe me, I feel like an idiot having to say there’s no evidence of a terror attack. But so far not one of our agencies can give me a smoking gun.” She walked behind the desk, pulled out a drawer, and handed him a calling card. “Memorize that number and the access codes, then burn it. On the way out my secretary will arrange for you to pick up a satellite phone with a secure line and a built in voice identification signal that no one else can duplicate.”

  Terry mutely took the card, so stunned he could barely speak.

  “You look surprised,” she said.

  “I am.”

  “Why? I need an expert in biological warfare who also seems to have read China correctly for the past decade. Every science advisor I’ve spoken with thinks you’re the only one on the right track in cracking the cause of SHAKES with the protein angle, and our vaunted intelligence services are sheepishly admitting you out-intelligenced them. That makes you my man.”

  It had been one thing to feel that his teams were way ahead of everyone else in working promising leads. But to have that burden officially bestowed on him didn’t boost his spirits any. He definitely didn’t feel a “thank-you” would be in order.

  “All our conversations must stay between us,” she went on. “If we are sitting on the verge with China, I don’t want those warriors over at DOD doing something stupid. An old convict who worked on day parole in a library where I trained once told me, if you’ve a chain to defend yourself, it’s better to just rattle it now and then than to use it. I want to be that kind of president, Dr. Ryder, but Pentagon men don’t want to just rattle their toys, including that feather-nester waiting for you in the corridor.”

  Terry’s eyebrows arched upward like pinball flippers.

  “Oh, I know all about Robert Daikens and his Operation Stethoscope,” she continued. “Ruthless as they come. Make sure he keeps his mouth shut. Tell him that I appreciate the good judgment to have bypassed DOD and fed his information directly to me. Suggest that if he’s as interested in his legacy as most of the old farts who suck up around here, and I know he is, then he better continue to be discrete. Now, how do you plan to proceed, and what will you require?”

  Terry liked this blunt, plain-talking woman.

  She listened attentively until he’d finished telling her what he had in mind, then asked, “Anything else?”

  He thought a moment. It was his duty to give tried and true medical advice, not a hail-Mary. But what the hell, once an ER-never-give-up junkie, always a sucker for the desperate try. “You know the background story of Anna Katasova and--”

  “Yuri Raskin. Of course. Our combined police forces can’t find either of them.” The sudden edge to her voice betrayed how angry she’d grown over that failure.

  “What you don’t know is that Anna e-mailed me. She talked about SHAKES as if she knew nothing of Yuri’s part in it all. After I called her bluff and demanded she come clean, there hasn’t been a peep from her. Either she’s more determined than ever to stay in hiding, or the Chinese have gotten to her before we did. If it’s the former, and your spy techies were to bug my computer, we could track her if she changes her mind and tries to make contact again. But here’s the deal. You guarantee me that I’ll have a free hand to go after her myself. There must be no one else involved, understood, because I think she’d shoot herself before letting police of any kind trap her--” He suddenly flushed, remembering who he was giving orders to. “Sorry. I’m used to being in charge. ER docs are a bossy lot.”

  She smiled and waved off his apology. “Why would Anna trust you enough to betray her husband?”

  “Ex-husband. She may not. Anna and I have . . . history. It could make her go either way regarding Yuri, but if we turn her, she could be our key to a lot of facts that would save us a truckload of time.”

  “History?”

  Did he want to get into this? Not really, but again, the woman had a right to know what kind of baggage he carried that might affect his ability to snag Anna. “We were lovers once. It ended badly. But she’s got a passion for doing what’s best for her daughter. If Anna knows anything about Yuri’s part in all this, I think I can convince her to confide in me, if it keeps the girl from becoming a ward of the state.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re suggesting we let this woman go free?”

  “If what she knows leap-frogs us to the answers we need, why not? She may be covering up for Yuri, but when push comes to shove, I have to think she’s as desperate to stop SHAKES as we are, if for nothing more than to keep the world safe for Kyra.”

  The president studied him again, more calculations going on behind the blacks of her eyes. “I see.” After a few more seconds of scrutiny, she added, “You are a most intriguing man
, Dr. Ryder,” and picked up her pen to scribble a few notes on a small pad of paper.

  Light from the expanse of windows behind her desk glanced off the face of her watch. Its reflection shimmered like water. Without that tip-off, he might never have spotted the rapid, tiny tremor in her forearm.

  Chapter 26

  Fifteen hours later, Wednesday, January 28, 2009, 11.35 P.M. MST

  Lethbridge Regional Airport, Southern Alberta, Canada

  Terry’s face stung as he stepped from the warmth of his plane into the diamond-sharp cold of forty below zero. Overhead, magnified through an ultra-clear lens of subarctic air, a dizzying sweep of stars shone with molten clarity, yet remained pale, the color of white ice.

  His fellow travelers pushed by him. They were mostly stem cell researchers at the many satellite laboratories of Regeneration Pharmaceuticals, world leader in the human spare-parts business. After increasingly restrictive court rulings on the definition of life made their work impossible in the US, they’d set up operations along the southern border of tax friendly, oil rich Alberta. Nevertheless, their ties with Washington remained strong. Terry had been offered a seat on the company plane as a result of a call from the White House.

  The woman with whom he’d talked for most of the trip joined him on the portable gangway and slipped her card into his hand. “Give me a call, Terry, if you want to proceed, and good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  She turned and descended the steps in a rush, her high heels clicking on the steel surface. At the bottom landing, a man wearing a hooded parka waited. He handed her a pair of boots and supported her arm as she slid them on. Properly attired, she gave him a fierce kiss.

  Love where the nights are long.

  Terry waited a few seconds, not wanting to intrude on their moment, and felt more than a pang of envy. God, he missed Carla.

  Once they were gone, he made his own descent and walked across the tarmac on snow that squeaked beneath his boots. That sound, peculiar to dry western air, evoked a memory of happily trudging alongside his father, pulling their toboggan up Brookside Hill behind the family home for yet another run.

  Off to the west the Rocky Mountains, their peaks darker than the midnight sky, extended southward, a thousand mile black spine that eventually ridged Colorado as part of the continental divide. He took comfort from the connection to his birthplace. With no Pacific island for him or Carla to call home, perhaps the land on which he grew up would be a place for them to make fresh start, if she didn’t...

  He shut the thought down.

  Minutes later he found the driver sent to pick him up, a large, silent man wearing a chauffeur’s uniform and carrying a sign that read DR. TERRY RYDER.

  Settling into the middle seat of a spacious, black van, Terry caught the driver’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Lit from below by the dashboard, an angular scar extended down the guy’s forehead and through his right eyebrow. It stood out like a thin strand of rope.

  * * * *

  He woke up with a start, realizing that they were stopped with the engine off.

  At first he thought they had arrived at his motel, but everything was pitch black outside.

  He leaned forward to speak with the driver. “What’s the matter?”

  “Out of gas,” the burly man said without looking around.

  “What!”

  “Don’t worry. Here comes garage man now.” He nodded toward his rearview mirror.

  The inside of the car grew ghostly white from a pair of headlights coming up the snow covered road behind them. Distances are deceiving on the prairie, so it took five minutes for the vehicle to arrive. Make that vehicles. What he’d seen had been two skidoos, both white, driven side by side. As soon as they came to a stop, the drivers shut off their engines, plunging everything back into darkness, and dismounted. One moved much slower than the other.

  “Change vehicle,” Terry’s chauffeur said, and got out. By now the guy had uttered enough words to reveal his thick Russian accent.

  “But--”

  “Move!”

  Something wasn’t right. “Wait a minute. Where are they taking me?”

  His driver walked around to the tailgate and lifted the rear door, activating a dim ceiling light. He riffled through a big duffel bag, then drew out a one piece snowsuit, all white, and a big bubble helmet, same color. “Put on!” he said, throwing them into the passenger compartment.

  The more agile of the skidoo drivers, his attire similar to what had been retrieved from the duffel bag, pulled Terry’s overnight case from the trunk and proceeded to toss it into the carryall of his machine.

  “Hey!” Terry yelled. “That’s got my laptop in it.” He reached to slide open the side door of the van, but the second skidoo driver beat him to it.

  “Evening, Dr. Ryder,” the man said, removing his helmet to reveal a thin face framed by an almost luminous, scruffy blond beard and tousled head of golden hair.

  At first glance Terry failed to recognize him, having only ever seen his FBI photo, but no bottle of coloring could disguise those black, sparkling eyes. “You!” he said, and would have leapt at his throat if it wasn’t for the silver-plated automatic pistol that Dr. Yuri Raskin waved at him.

  “Can I call you Terry,” he continued, casually targeting his prisoner from head to groin and all anatomical points in between. “After all, I feel I know you so intimately, through my wife. But hurry, we haven’t any time to waste. And I insist you dress for the occasion.” He nodded at the outfit lying untouched between them. “Being on the run in snow country has a strict dress code. White’s in.”

  Ambushed, tricked, and outsmarted; game, set, and match; check and checkmate--Terry raged at himself. He’d been totally bested, and at his own game. No twelve steps ahead here--just three feet between him and the man with all the answers. On second thought, fuck the bullets. Terry went for Yuri’s throat.

  “Whoa!” Yuri yelled, and did a matador step sideways, allowing his would be attacker to fly out of the van and sprawl facedown on the snow. “It is awkward when two men who’ve loved the same woman are alone together, don’t you think, Terry?” he added, standing over him with the gun in one hand and helmet in the other. “Any alternate ideas, besides strangling me, for--what do you Americans call it--a way to crunch the ice?”

  Gun or no gun, this creep would damn well spill some answers. “Why don’t you cut the crap and tell me everything you know about SHAKES,” Terry said, rolling over to face him.

  “Well, that’s not quite how this works, Terry. I have the gun and the men.” He gestured toward the two onlookers who’d drawn closer. “It’s you who tells me what I want to know.” The smile widened. “So let’s talk about Anna. She’s not answering my calls. Do you people have her?”

  “No.” Terry eyed the weapon. Try to grab it again? Not at this distance.

  “But with all those connections of yours, Terry, you could find out. Start with that prick Daikens. He ought to know where she is, don’t you think? I swear, Anna can’t take a pee but he’s all over it, sniffing around like a dog.”

  “You want me to help find Anna?” Terry scrambled to his feet. “Fine. I can do that. In fact, you’ve no idea how well suited I am to track her down. But the deal is, you come clean first. What’s causing SHAKES?”

  “Excuse me? As explained, I give the orders--”

  “Bullshit!” Terry leaned forward and went nose to nose with Yuri. “You can’t kill me if I’m to find Anna, so put away the gun. And I don’t find Anna until you answer my questions.”

  Yuri’s smile turned as rigid as if he’d just bitten down and broken a tooth. “Make no mistake, Ryder. When it comes to finding Anna, I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way--”

  “And here’s my bottom line, Yuri. The woman I love has got SHAKES. Her name is Carla. You don’t tell me here and now what the fuck is eating her alive, then I’ll snap your neck with my bare hands. Sure, you or your goons might put a bullet in my head, but if I c
an’t help her, it’d do me a favor.”

  Yuri’s features drew taut, and a fan of tiny lines at the corners of his eyes narrowed. “You can’t be serious--”

  “Take Carla from me, and I’m your worst nightmare--a man with nothing to lose.”

  “And without me, you’ll never get help for Carla in time.”

  They stood face to face blowing frost on each other, neither speaking.

  Yuri smiled, showing one tooth at a time. “Well, Ryder, I guess this is what American cowboy movies call a Mexican standoff.” He glanced southward, down the deserted highway. “But for both our sakes, I suggest you come with me. We can discuss our differences later.”

  Terry followed his gaze and saw a faint white glow on the horizon.

  “I just saved your life,” Yuri continued, “that is, if we leave now--”

  “Saved? That’s a crock, and I don’t budge until you level with me.”

  “All right, I level. If I’d let you continue on this road, you’d be dead.”

  “Cut the crap--”

  “No crap! Those lights are from a reception party.” Yuri’s voice had acquired a sudden urgency. “They were waiting to ambush you halfway between here and Holomolecular Designs. Now they’re on their way to see why you didn’t turn up--”

  “What!” Only the president and the general knew of Terry’s plans to visit the hologram company. “How the hell did you know I was going there? Come to think of it, how did you know what plane--”

  “They intend you to die in what will appear to be a car accident.”

  “Who does--”

  “They, Terry! There’s always a they. These ones work for the same they who had Bori killed and want me dead. Seems you’ve recently been added to the list. Frankly, I’d rather we both survived. But like I said, now that they’ve started wondering where you are and are coming to finish you off. I suggest you get into that snow suit, and we scram.” Yuri climbed onto his skidoo, still holding his gun in his right hand, helmet in the other, and keeping his left arm tucked close to the chest as if favoring a broken wing.