'Then why choose such a distinctive method? It only draws attention to the fact that they've all been murdered by the same group. That's hardly good intelligence procedure,' Chase pointed out.
'Maybe it is,' Prothero countered, pushing his glasses more firmly onto the bridge of his nose. 'Now just suppose you want to divert suspicion. What would you do? You'd select a cranky method of disposal and let a terrorist group take the blame. We're supposed to assume that a regular, highly trained intelligence hit squad would carry out the job cleanly, quietly, and without fuss. By the normal process of deduction we'd come to the conclusion that pyro-assassinations can't be the work of an intelligence agency, that such a bizarre method rules them out. Only it doesn't. Doublethink.'
'I'm prepared to go along with that, except for one thing,' Chase said. 'Motive.'
'That we don't know,' Prothero conceded. 'But with intelligence agencies screwball ideas are a dime a dozen. The screwier the better.'
'So what you're saying, I take it, is that anyone known to be involved in a project like this is a prime target.' 'Right.'
'But your views are already well known, Senator,' Chase said. It occurred to him that so were his.
'I already take precautions, Dr. Chase.' Prothero took off his glasses, flicked out a snowy white monogrammed handkerchief, and began to polish them. His eyes were slightly watery but no less piercing without the thick lenses. 'And if I were you, I'd do the same.'
'Even if I decide not to accept your proposition?'
'Even so.'
'Though one can take too many precautions in this life.' Ingrid Van Dorn's eyes were fixed on the ceramic sculpture, yet her remark was addressed to Chase as pointedly as if she had taken hold of his lapels. 'Sometimes we have to take risks to make it worth the living. For ourselves and for our children.'
18
Beaming like a child on Christmas morning, Cheryl followed Boris Stanovnik through the pine-floored hallway and into the long sunny room that was more like a cluttered study than a living room. Bookshelves lined three entire walls and there were books scattered everywhere, some sprouting markers made out of folded typing paper. Piles of magazines, scientific and technical journals, newspapers and files of different colors were stacked on every flat surface. In a recess next to the window was a massive stripped-pine chest, reaching almost to the ceiling. In place of the usual ten drawers there must have been fifty, some quite small, others the size of shoeboxes.
'This is wonderful!' Boris hugged Cheryl to him and then held her at arm's length for a long searching scrutiny. 'Wonderful to see you! After all this time!' He beamed at her delightedly.
Shafts of sunlight made slanting pillars at the far end of the room, but even so a log fire blazed in the roughly hewn stone fireplace. Oregon in the fall could be decidedly chilly.
Cheryl smiled, trying to get her breath back after the bear hug. 'It has been a long time. Five years. Gavin was really disappointed at not being able to see you, Boris. But he was called away on urgent business.'
'As you said on the phone yesterday. I'm so glad you were able to come.' Boris lifted his close-cropped gray head and called out to his wife in Russian.
Amazing how little he'd changed, thought Cheryl. Still the same broad powerful physique and vigor, the same alert-eyed intelligence, and he was well into his seventies. Nina appeared, and to Cheryl it seemed the reverse had taken place. She was small and frail and she now walked with a stick. There was the pinched, harrowed look on her face that those who live constantly with pain acquire.
Apparently she suffered badly with arthritis and had to take pain-relieving drugs. Cheryl expressed her sympathy and Boris had to translate: After ten years in America his wife's English was still limited to a few words and phrases.
They sat cozily around the log fire drinking the strong tea that Boris had made in the samovar. Cheryl explained about their trip, and after every two or three sentences Boris would dutifully translate. He shook his head when he heard that Gavin and Dan had gone to New York.
'We know what's happening there, we watch the reports on news-fax. What do they call it now?'
'The Rotten Apple.'
'Very bad there,' Boris grimaced. 'The East Coast and the South. It's like a cancer, eating away the country bit by bit. Every day it creeps nearer.'
Cheryl looked toward the sunlit window. 'You seem to be all right here. The air smells good.'
'Yes, the air is mostly good and clear,' Boris agreed, sipping his tea. 'There are forests and relatively few people. On some days we see dark clouds, industrial smog, but it blows'--he pushed his large hand through the air--'away to the ocean. Thank God.'
'Don't you miss your own country at all?' Cheryl asked.
'At certain times of the year perhaps. When the leaves turn brown and fall like pieces of burned paper. Yes, we feel sad then.' Deep vertical creases appeared in his cheeks as he smiled. 'But it is beautiful here too! Mountains, lakes, forests. And it has one tremendous advantage over Russia.'
'Oh? What's that?'
'No KGB. At least here we are not spied on and followed everywhere. Vida is a good place to live and work. We feel safe and protected--look, let me show you!'
He wanted her to see the unbroken range of peaks to the north and east. Their slopes were thickly wooded and dusted lightly with the first snow of the season. To Cheryl they seemed to form an impregnable barrier, shutting out the rest of the world. But no barrier was impregnable to the climate.
'Mount Jefferson, South Sister, Huckleberry, Diamond Peak, Bohemia Mountain.' Boris rhymed them off proudly like favorite grandchildren.
'What work are you doing?' Cheryl asked him.
Boris stood with his thumbs hooked into his belt, his chest swelling under a dark-brown woolen shirt with embroidered pockets. '1 write and study and do research. I've been cataloging the plant life along the McKenzie River, collecting specimens. There are hundreds, it's so fertile and varied.' He leaned toward her. 'Up to now I have classified one hundred and twenty-six different species.'
'I didn't know you were a botanist,' Cheryl said in surprise.
'No, I'm not, strictly speaking. I was a microbiologist, though much of my work for the Hydro-Meteorological Service was concerned with the conditions in rivers and lakes, how a change in climate might affect them and vice versa. That meant examining the soil, fauna, and flora in order to understand the complex interaction between them and the natural water supply, in particular the process of eutrophication.'
'Is there any sign of eutrophication in the McKenzie River?' Cheryl asked, vaguely uneasy.
But the big Russian shook his head unhesitatingly. 'No. No trace at all.'
That was something to be thankful for. Eutrophication indicated that the biological oxygen demand of underwater plants and animal life was exceeding the water's capacity to provide it. This led eventually to stagnation--the lake or river turning into a foul-smelling swamp. This was what had happened in the Gulf of Mexico.
Regretfully, Cheryl had to refuse the invitation to stay for dinner. She had to drive back to Eugene and prepare for an early start in the morning. There were two Earth Foundation groups in the general area to visit, one at a place called Goose Lake in southern Oregon, the other over the border in California.
A soft mellow dusk was falling as she was preparing to leave. The firelight threw dancing shadows along the crammed bookshelves, and Boris went across to the large pine chest in the corner, its row upon row of brass handles winking like fireflies. He beckoned to her, and Cheryl sensed a certain reluctance or indecision, as if he couldn't make up his mind about something.
'Do you know what this is?' he asked, sliding open one of the drawers and taking out a rigid sheet of plastic. She saw that it consisted of two wafer-thin sheets pressed together and held by metal clips. Between them the stem and leaves of a plant were spread out on display, sealed from the air.
Boris switched on the desk lamp so that she could see better. Cheryl held the plastic sheet in her spread fingertips and bent forward into the light. The leaves were about two inches in length, heart-shaped, with a fine tracery of darkish-green veins.
'I'm not sure. It looks a bit like knotweed. You know, the generic species
