Acid guilt seared through him when he thought of how this brave old man had suffered and died alone, trying to protect him, this man who had already endured and given so much. Jackson must have uncovered his involvement with Kathy's escape and then sent one car to check on her house while he had come here. But how had Jackson found out about him? Dr. Peters couldn't have told him; Peters didn't know who he was. And they couldn't have traced his car this quickly. The only answer that made sense was that Hank Butcher had talked.
Decker's rage and guilt were nothing compared with his feeling of loss. He wanted to scream it out loud. Without Matty he felt cast adrift, anchorless in a fickle sea, his compass gone, and with it a lifeline to his own decency. Matty was the antidote to the knowledge that Axelman's blood ran in his veins; just knowing he was descended from him gave Decker hope.
But now Matty was dead.
Looking down on his lined face, Decker closed the staring blue eyes. He stroked Matty's smooth scalp and vowed that he would avenge him, make some sense of his death.
He heard Kathy kneel close beside him and felt her arms move around his shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Luke," she whispered in a small voice. Her soft hands moved to his neck, caressing him with the same gentleness with which he stroked his grandfather. "If you hadn't helped me, perhaps this would never have happened."
"But it has happened," he said. He turned and looked at her; the hurt in her eyes. "Kathy, you were right. This has to be about more than just Conscience. We've got to find out what they're really doing, and we've got to stop them. I couldn't stand it if Matty died for nothing--"
Then he heard the sound. Decker froze, and he could tell from Kathy's sharp intake of breath that she had heard it too.
A footstep. No more than a yard or two behind them.
Then a man's voice, deep and smooth. "You'll need help" was all it said.
Swiveling around, Decker saw an enormous figure step out of the shadows and tower over him. Two other men stood behind the figure. It took Decker a moment to recognize the blue-black hair and strong patrician nose of Joey Barzini. The man knelt, but he was so tall he still appeared to be standing. In the moonlight his clear blue eyes were moist and his chin was set in a determined cast as he looked at Matty's crumpled body. Like a father tentatively touching his firstborn, he reached across and gently inspected Matty's broken fingers. Decker watched the big man wince and shake his head. "My friend, my friend, what have they done to you?" he whispered. Then he turned to Decker, his voice suddenly harsh. "Your grandfather called earlier and told me you were in some kind of serious trouble. He explained the problem, and I said I'd come around tonight to see if I could help." He paused. "I wish I'd come earlier."
Joey Barzini looked at Kathy and then back to Decker. "The only way I can help Matty now is by helping you two. Come with me. I need to know more about what's going on." The man paused for a moment, and Decker considered what he really knew about him. Although Barzini was supposed to be legitimate, his list of friends and family read like a who's who of organized crime. Still, his grandfather liked and rated him as highly as anybody, highly enough to call Barzini for help when he and Kathy were in trouble. If Barzini was good enough for Matty, he was certainly good enough for him.
"Luke," Barzini said, as if reading distrust in his look, "I know from Matty how you feel about my family connections. I'm often not too proud of them myself." Suddenly his noble face creased into a smile, a momentary flash of gleaming white teeth. "But trust me, at times they have their uses."
Chapter 27.
Alexandria, Virginia.Friday, November 7, 2:30 A.M.
FBI Director Naylor was annoyed that a group of them had somehow escaped detection. She pulled the trigger and then moved on. It infuriated her that however fast she killed them, they always came back. She could never totally eradicate them.
Brandishing her insecticide spray like a pistol, she patrolled the neat rows of yucca plants, African violets, and rare orchids in the conservatory garden of her house in the exclusive Washington suburb of Alexandria. Above the glass roof of the climatically controlled room a frigid moon looked down from a cloud-riddled sky. The interior garden was effectively another room of her house, adjoining the spacious living room. Entirely made of glass, it allowed her almost total control over everything that grew there.
When she was finally satisfied everything was as it should be, she opened the inner door to the living room, poured herself a glass of Jack Daniel's, and lay back on the recliner by the large TV in the corner. Two walls were taken up with a large stone fireplace and the entrance to the conservatory. A third was covered from floor to ceiling with books covering every theme, particularly history and gardening. And the fourth was similarly bedecked with tapes and compact discs.
Naylor had showered and wore a blue robe, her long white hair flowing loosely to her shoulders. Her pale face devoid of makeup looked almost translucent, like paper-thin mother-of-pearl. She pointed the remote at the multimedia system. As the music of Wagner filled the room, her mind traveled with it, away from the responsibilities of office, away from Crime Zero, Kathy Kerr, and Luke Decker to a kinder, more peaceful place.
According to TITANIA, everything was in order; so Nay-lor convinced herself for now that she could do no more. She would retire soon and set the alarm for six o'clock; she needed only a few hours' sleep.
As always when she wanted to relax, Naylor thought of the garden and protecting her beloved plants. As she allowed her mind to wander, she went back to her fourteenth birthday and Alice's gift.
Apart from Alice, Madeline has no friends at school. Most of the other kids regard her aggressive manner and white, spiky hair as too weird or too frightening. So it's not surprising that on her fourteenth birthday she receives no presents and cards. Especially as it falls on a Saturday.
But she's not unhappy. Her grandmother Mrs. Preston is pretty cool really. The old woman forbids her to invite any boys around and won't allow men into the house, saying they're "different" and can't be trusted. But Madeline doesn't mind that at all, and her grandmother lets Alice come around. On her birthday the old woman makes Madeline a special breakfast of strawberries and cream with a glass of chocolate milk.
It's June, and the sun's shining. After breakfast Madeline goes out into the garden. Her grandmother's house is a rambling mansion, and Madeline loves exploring all the old rooms, but the best parts are the gardens. They're so big that Madeline is allowed to have a small walled section all of her own. Here she can plant and do what she likes. She's put up a sign on the rickety gate forbidding entry. Even her grandmother knocks before entering when she brings her cold lemonade and stale Oreos.
On her birthday Madeline tends her flowers and pulls out her weeds as usual. She has created a strictly ordered world with regimented beds and weed-free paths. Rows of sunflowers stand to attention next to manicured marigolds. But today, as with most days, much of her time is spent killing the ants infesting the pathways and beds. This is the one place where she can banish everything she hates in the world outside. Here she can pretend that the bad men who killed her father will be punished and that the mother who left her will return. Here she can control everything.
But the invading ants keep wrecking the fantasy. Whatever she does, whatever she tries, she can't get rid of them. The beds are pockmarked with holes she's dug trying to find their nests. And in each corner of the square walled garden there is an empty mayonnaise jar full of dead ants. The jars are intended to act as a deterrent to the others, but they seem only to intensify the problem. However fast she kills them, the faster they return.
"Madeline, Madeline," calls a small, excited voice from over the wall. "Are you there?"
"Yeah, come over."
Alice's backyard is on the other side of the far wall. She often climbs over to play in Madeline's secret garden. Watching her friend scrabble awkwardly over the wall makes Madeline laugh.
"Don't laugh or I won't give you your present," warns Alice
as she falls onto the earth by the sunflowers. Her glasses are crooked on her nose, and despite the warm weather, she wears a long-sleeved dress.
"Present?" Despite herself, Madeline can't help feeling excited. "You got me a present?"
"Only a little one." Alice looks at the holes in the ground. "But it's a good one." She reaches into her bag, and as she does, one of her long sleeves rides up and Madeline sees a purple and yellow bruise on her forearm. It is so livid Madeline can see the finger marks where a large hand has squeezed her arm.
"Who did that to you?" she asks. She doesn't need to ask what it is. Madeline's own father had hit her enough times to teach her about bruises.
Alice gives a flustered shake of her head and quickly pulls the sleeve down. "It's nothing."
"Was it your dad?" probes Madeline. Alice's father is a respected doctor, but this doesn't surprise Madeline. Her dad was a respected cop, and he still beat her. She feels angry for her friend but also a small stab of satisfaction. She's always envied Alice's having a perfect mom and a dad, so it makes her feel closer to her knowing that her dad's bad too. "Does he hit you a lot?"
But Alice won't be drawn out. "Do you want your present or not?"
Madeline drops the matter but stores it away. "Yeah, sure."
When Alice pulls the tiny parcel out of the bag and puts it in her hand, Madeline's initial reaction is disappointment. The blue paper-wrapped tube is smaller than one of her fingers. "Open it," says Alice, nervously straightening her glasses. "I hope you like it."
Madeline peels off the blue paper and reveals a tiny bottle. It looks like one she's seen her grandmother use for her eyedrops.
Madeline opens it and smells it. "Maple syrup?" She starts to squeeze a drop on her finger so she can taste it, but Alice screams at her, "Don't eat it. You mustn't eat it."
"Why not? What is it?"
Alice takes it from her and bends down near a line of ants at the bottom of the wall. She removes a leaf from one of the sunflower stalks, places it on the floor in the path of the ants, then drops one bead of syrup from the small bottle on the leaf. "Watch," she says.
Madeline sees how at first the ants walk around the drop and then some start to circle the syrup and feed off it. "Is it poison?" she asks, delighted.
"It's better than just poison."
The feeding ants move on after a moment and continue in line, making way for other ants to feed on the droplet. "So, what does it do?"
"Well," says Alice with a frown, "according to the stuff I've read, the maple syrup and chemicals I mixed together should attract the ants to make them eat it. Then, when they go back to their nest, they will puke up what they've eaten for the queen ants to feed on. The chemicals should kill the queens before they lay any eggs. The base poison is trichlorfon, but I've added some refinements. It's slow-acting, so it doesn't kill just the ants that eat it but the whole nest as well. And you don't have to dig up anything; the ants do the work for you."
Madeline is so impressed and delighted she laughs for joy. "Awesome. You made it yourself?"
"Oh, yes. It wasn't very difficult. Dad had some stuff in his shed, and the school labs had everything else. It should get rid of your ant problem, though, completely."
Beep-beep-beep.
The insistent tone of the speakerphone by the TV interrupted Naylor's reverie. The volume automatically lowered on the laser disc, and a soft feminine voice issued from the speakers: "You have an override phone message on the multimedia system. Please pick up."
Naylor thought for a moment, regaining her bearings, resenting the intrusion into the dome of self-reflection she had built for herself. Reaching for the phone, she was still thinking back to how in a matter of weeks Alice's magic potion had eradicated virtually every single ant from her garden.
"Madeline, it's Bill McCloud. I'm in the incident room at headquarters looking at the satellite screen. You might want to come in and see this. I think Iraq is about to invade Kuwait."
FBI Headquarters. Washington, D.C. 3:07 A.M.
Half an hour later Director Naylor was in the FBI incident room on the ground floor of the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, looking at an eight-foot-by-five-foot screen. To her right was Deputy Director Bill McCloud. He looked even more grizzled than usual. Three other senior bureau officials sat around the table in the dimly lit room. A flask of strong coffee sat on a hot plate by the door, and its aroma filled the air.
"They're going to goddamn do it," McCloud said, rubbing his steel gray eyes. His normally laid-back Texan drawl was tense.
"Looks like it," Naylor said, staring at the screen. She tried to sound calm, but it was difficult. According to TITANIA, this shouldn't be happening. "Are all national contingencies in place?"
"Absolutely," said Associate Deputy Director Ray Tate, a short, barrel-chested man who ran the investigations section of the bureau. "We've updated our lists of Iraqi sympathizers. The key threats are under surveillance and can be pulled in at a moment's notice. All major terrorist targets across the country are on full alert."
Naylor nodded silently and kept her eyes on the screen. The picture she was seeing was a feed from CNN, which was as good as any government satellite surveillance. In the top right-hand corner the gold CNN logo looked faint against the pale background. At first the overall image meant nothing to her, thousands of dark shapes moving over a light yellow backdrop. It looked like a microscope picture of diseased cells spreading across an organism.
"Do you want to hear the CNN commentary?" one of the agents asked behind her.
"Yes," she said, not wanting to engage in conversation, her eyes riveted to the screen.
"This is incredible," said a male commentator in a British accent. "Using our access to the Kamagachi high-resolution satellite, we are able to bring you what might prove to be the first-ever live pictures of a war starting. You are watching history in the making. As I speak, our engineers are trying to increase the magnification still further. It's a clear day in Iraq, and soon we should be able to make out each individual tank. They are now less than twelve miles from the thirty-second parallel. And I don't need to remind anyone watching how eight years ago that line in the sand moved from being simply a no-fly area to a no-go area for any Iraqi military personnel. If the Republican Guard cross that line into southern Iraq, they will be declaring their intent to invade Kuwait. Once that happens, and it looks like it will, then the United Nations coalition forces led by the United States will be forced to act."
Naylor sat forward in her chair. At least this vindicated the decision to target the Iraqi Army as the amplification zone for the Phase 2 launch of Crime Zero. Not only had that nation shown itself to be the most belligerent, but it was also an excellent "real world" test before giving final sanction to the Phase 3 rollout. They had even pulled Phase 2 forward because of the Iraq crisis. However, now it looked as if they hadn't pulled it forward far enough. This shouldn't be happening. Not a war. Not after this much time had elapsed.
Taking a deep drink of black coffee, she watched as the screen faded and then returned at a higher magnification. She could now clearly discern the contours of the sand and the markings on individual tanks, thousands of them moving across the arid plain in ordered rows. She could even make out the helmets of the commanders protruding from the gun turrets. She wondered if Alice was watching this. Pamela certainly would be, probably in the War Room deep below the Pentagon.
"President Weiss and other world leaders have confirmed that the UN forces will attack Iraq's tanks and destroy them if they cross the line," continued the reporter. "The question on everyone's lips is, What will the Iraqi president do next? Reports suggest he has at least ten warheads loaded with a new doomsday virus aimed at selected sites around the world, each one ready to be launched if his troops are stopped from reclaiming what he regards as the Iraqi province of Kuwait and all its oil.
"But if Iraq unleashes biological weapons, then the coalition allies have pledged to mount a nuclear strike
against Baghdad. This is surely a baptism of fire for Pamela Weiss, the new American President. If there are any who still question whether a woman has the necessary resolve to fight a war, their questions may soon be answered."
As the satellite camera panned across the expanse of desert, the screen mottled with the dark shapes of the machines of war. Perhaps TITANIA was wrong, she thought. Perhaps the computer's projections were off by a day or two, and she was watching the Last War unfold before her.
Staring at all those troops, she was reminded of the ancient historian Herodotus' account of the Persian emperor Xerxes watching his vast army march across the Hellespont into Greece. As he watched them, the emperor had wept. When asked why, Xerxes had replied that he was weeping for all the thousands of men he could see before him because in one hundred years not one would be alive.
Dry-eyed, Naylor sipped her coffee. Only a man could feel such sentiment watching other men about to engage in barbaric war. She knew that all those on the screen, and all the others they represented, would be dead in a fraction of that time. But she felt no sadness, no remorse.
On the screen some of the tanks appeared to be breaking ranks; then the camera angle widened, and the picture shifted back to lower magnification. A red superimposed line suddenly appeared on the screen. Although miles away, it seemed impossibly close to the approaching swarm of ordered black dots. Naylor could imagine Weiss in the War Room along with her advisers, making decisions, thinking that she held the future in her hands.
Crime Zero (aka the Crime Code) (1999) Page 22
