heel. They raced through the smoke and fire to the blowdown, jumped the twisted wreckage of the perimeter fence, and galloped across the desert toward the welcoming darkness.
When they were half a mile from the compound and beyond the glow of the fire, Carson slowed his horse to a trot.
“We’ve got a long way to go,” he said as de Vaca pulled up alongside. “We’d better take it easy on these horses.”
As he spoke, another explosion rocked the ruins of the operations building, and a massive fireball arose from the hole in the ground that had been the Fever Tank, roiling toward the sky. Several secondary blasts slapped the darkness like aftershocks: the transfection lab crumbled into nothingness, and the walls of the residency compound shuddered, then collapsed.
The lights of Mount Dragon winked out, leaving only the lambent flickering of the burning buildings to mark the remains of the complex.
“There goes my pre-war Gibson flathead,” Carson muttered.
As he turned Roscoe back into the well of blackness ahead, he saw pencil beams of light begin to stab across the desert. The beams seemed to be moving toward them, blinking in and out of sight as they followed the bumpy terrain. Suddenly, powerful spotlights snapped on, illuminating the desert in long yellow lances.
“
Carson said nothing. With any luck, they could evade the Hummers. He was thinking, instead, about their almost total lack of water.
Scopes sat alone in the octagon, examining his state of mind.
Carson and de Vaca were all but taken care of. Escape was impossible.
He had intercepted their transmission and cut off Carson’s data feed almost immediately. True, the transparent relay he’d used as an alarm would not have stopped the initial part of the data transmission. It was within the realm of possibility that Levine—or whoever Levine was using to hack into the GeneDyne net—would pick up the aborted transmission. But Scopes had already taken the steps to ensure that such unauthorized entry would not happen again. Drastic steps, perhaps, yet necessary. Especially at this delicate time.
In any case, very little of the intended download had gotten through. And what Carson had sent seemed to make little sense. It was all about PurBlood. Even if Levine received the data, he would have learned nothing of value about X-FLU. And he was now so thoroughly discredited that no one would pay attention to any story of his, whatever it might be.
All bases had been covered. He could proceed as planned. There was nothing to worry about.
So why the strange, subtle, anxious feeling?
Sitting on his comfortably battered couch, Scopes probed his own mild anxiety. It was a foreign feeling to him, and the study of it was very interesting. Perhaps it was because he had misjudged Carson so thoroughly. De Vaca’s treachery he could understand, especially after that incident in the Level-5 facility. But Carson was the last person he would have suspected of industrial espionage. Another might have felt terrible, even overwhelming anger at such a betrayal. But Scopes felt merely sorrow. The kid had been bright. Now he would have to be dealt with by Nye.
Nye—that reminded him. A Mr. Bragg from OSHA had left two messages earlier in the day, inquiring as to the whereabouts of that investigator, Teece. He’d have to ask Nye to look into it.
He thought again about the data file Carson had tried to send. There wasn’t much, and he hadn’t looked it over carefully. Just a few documents related to PurBlood. Scopes remembered that Carson and de Vaca had been messing around in the PurBlood files just the other day. Why the sudden interest? Were they planning to sabotage PurBlood, as well as X-FLU? And what was all this Carson had said about everyone needing immediate medical attention?
It bore closer looking into. In fact, it would probably be prudent for him to examine the aborted download more carefully, along with Carson’s on-line activities of the last several days. Perhaps he could find the time after the evening’s primary order of business.
At this new thought, Scopes’s eyes moved toward the smooth, black face of a safe set flush against the lower edge of a far wall. It had been built, to his own demanding specifications, into the structural steel of the building when the GeneDyne tower was constructed. The only person who could open it was himself, and if his heart stopped beating there would be no way to open it short of using enough dynamite to vaporize every trace. As he pictured what lay within, the odd sense of anxiety quickly melted away. A single biohazard box—recently arrived via military helicopter from Mount Dragon—and inside, a sealed glass ampule filled with neutral nitrogen gas and a special viral transport medium. If Scopes looked closely at the ampule, he knew he would be able to make out a cloudy suspension in the fluid. Amazing to think such an insignificant-looking thing could be so valuable.
He glanced at his watch: 2:30 P.M., eastern time.
A tiny chirrup came from a monitor beside the couch, and a huge screen winked into life. There was a flurry of data as the satellite downlink was decrypted; then a brief message appeared, in letters fifteen inches tall:
TELINT-2 data link established, lossy-bit
encryption enabled. Proceed with transmission.
The message disappeared, and new words appeared on the screen:
Mr. Scopes: We are prepared to tender an offer of three billion dollars. The offer is non- negotiable.
Scopes pulled his keyboard over, and began typing. Compared to hostile corporations, the military were pansies.
My dear General Harrington: All offers are negotiable. I’m prepared to accept four billion for the product we’ve discussed. I’ll give you twelve hours to make the necessary procurements.
Scopes smiled. He’d carry out the rest of the negotiations from a different place. A secret place in which he was now more comfortable than he was in the everyday world.
He resumed typing, and as he issued a series of commands the words on the giant screen began to dissolve into a strange and wondrous landscape. As he typed, Scopes recited, almost inaudibly, his favorite lines from
Charles Levine sat on the edge of the faded bedspread, staring at the telephone propped on the pillow in front of him. The phone was a deep burgundy color, with the words PROPERTY OF HOLIDAY INN, BOSTON, MA stamped in white across the back of the receiver. For hours he had spoken into the mouthpiece of that receiver, shouting, coaxing, begging. Now he had nothing more to say.
He rose slowly, stretched his aching legs, and moved to the sliding glass doors. A gentle breeze billowed the curtains. He stepped out to the balcony railing and breathed deeply of the night air. The lights of Jamaica Plain glittered in the warm darkness, like a mantle of diamonds thrown casually across the landscape. A car nosed by on the street below, its headlights illuminating the shabby working-class storefronts and deserted gas stations.
The telephone rang. In his shock at hearing an incoming call—after so many excuses, so many curt rejections—Levine stood motionless a moment, looking over his shoulder at the telephone. Then he stepped inside and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” he said in a voice hoarse from talking.
The unmistakable rumble of a modem echoed from the tiny speaker.
Quickly, Levine hung up, transferred the jack from the telephone to his computer, and powered up the laptop. The phone rang again, and there was a flurry of noise as the machines negotiated.
How-do, professor-man. The words rushed immediately onto the screen without the usual introductory logo. I assume it’s still appropriate to call you professor, is it not?
How did you find me? Levine typed back.
Without much problem, came the reply.
