'I think the idea makes sense, but it's one hell of a big operation for somebody to undertake, and it's - Ding, who the hell would do something like this? And why, for Christ's sake?'
'I guess we have to figure that one out. But for now, we watch this thing like it's the most valuable gadget in the whole fucking world. Okay.' Ding turned to look at his men. 'George and Homer, you guys stay here. If you gotta take a piss, do it on the floor.' There was a drainage pit there, they all saw. 'Mike and I will handle things outside. Tim, you stay close, too. We got our radios, and that's how we communicate. Two hours on, two hours off, but never more than fifty yards from this place. Questions?'
'Nope,' Sergeant Tomlinson said for the rest. 'If somebody comes in and tries to fool with this?…'
'You stop him, any way you have to. And you call for help on your radios.'
'Roge-o, boss,' George said. Homer Johnston nodded agreement.
Chavez and the other two went back outside. The stadium had filled up, people wanting to see the start of the marathon… and then what? Ding wondered. Just sit here and wait for three hours? No, about two and a half. That was about the usual championship time, wasn't it? Twenty-six miles. Forty-two kilometers or so. One hell of a long way for a man-or woman-to run, a daunting distance even for him, Chavez admitted to himself, a distance better suited to a helicopter lift or a ride in a truck. He, Pierce, and Noonan walked to one of the ramps and watched the TVs hanging there.
By this time the runners were assembling for the crowded start. The favorites were identified, some of them given up-close-and personal TV biographies. The local Australian commentary discussed the betting on the event, who the favorites were, and what the odds were. Smart money seemed to be on a Kenyan, though there was an American who'd blown away the record for the Boston Marathon the previous year by almost half a minute evidently a large margin for such a race-and a thirty-year-old Dutchman who was the dark horse among the favorites. Thirty, and a competitor in an Olympic competition, Chavez thought. Good for him.
'Command to Tomlinson,' Chavez said over his radio.
'I'm here. Command. Nothing much happening 'cept this damned pump noise. I'll call you if anything happens, over.'
'Okay, Command out.'
'So, what do we do now?' Mike Pierce asked.'Wait. Stand around and wait.'
'You say so, boss,' Pierce responded. They all knew how to wait, though none of them especially liked it.
'Christ,' Killgore observed. 'You sure?'
'You want to drive out and see?' Maclean asked heatedly. Then he realized that they'd have to do that anyway, to collect the body for proper burial. Now Maclean understood Western funeral customs. It was bad enough to see vultures pick a deer's body apart. To see the same thing happening to a human being whom you knew was intolerable, love for Nature or not.
'You say he was shot?'
'Sure looked like it.'
'Great.' Killgore lifted his phone. 'Bill, it's John Killgore. Meet me in the main lobby right away. We have a problem. Okay? Good.' The physician replaced the phone and rose. 'Come on,' he said to Maclean.
Henriksen arrived in the lobby of the residential building two minutes after they did, and together they drove in a Hummer north to where the body was. Again the buzzards had to be chased off, and Henriksen, the former FBI agent, walked up to take a look. It was as distasteful as anything he'd seen in his law-enforcement career.
'He's been shot, all right,' he said first of all. 'Big bullet, right through the X-ring.' The wound had been a surprise for Hunnicutt, he thought, though there wasn't enough of the man's face left to tell, really. There were ants on the body as well, he saw. Damn, Henriksen thought, he'd been depending on this guy to help with perimeter security once the Project went fully active. Somebody had murdered an important Project asset. But who?
'Who else hung out with Foster?' Bill asked.
'The Russian guy, Popov. We all rode together,' Maclean answered.
'Hey,' Killgore said. 'Their horses were out this morning, Jeremiah and Buttermilk were both in the corral. Both unsaddled and-
'Here's the saddle and bridle,' Henriksen said, fifteen feet away. 'Okay, somebody shot Hunnicutt and then stripped the tack gear off his horse… okay, so nobody would see a riderless horse with a saddle on it. We have a murder here, people. Let's find Popov right now. I think I need to talk to him. Anybody see him lately?'
'He didn't show up for breakfast this morning like he usually does,' Killgore revealed. 'We've been eating together for a week or so, then taking a morning ride. He liked it.'
'Yeah,' Maclean confirmed. 'We all did. You think he-'
'I don't think anything yet. Okay, let's get the body into the Hummer and head back. John, can you do a post on this?'
This seemed a cold appellation for a dead colleague, Killgore thought, but he nodded. 'Yeah, doesn't look like it'll be too hard.'
'Okay, you get the feet,' Bill said next, bending down and trying to avoid touching the parts the buzzards had feasted on. Twenty minutes later, they were back in the Project. Henriksen went up to Popov's fourth-floor room and used his passkey to get in. Nothing, he saw. The beds hadn't been slept in. He had a suspect. Popov had killed Hunnicutt, probably. But why? And where the hell was that Russian bastard now?
It took half an hour to check around the Project complex. The Russian was nowhere to be found. That made sense, since his horse had been found loose that morning by Dr. Killgore. Okay, the former FBI agent thought. Popov had killed Hunnicutt and then skipped. But skipped where? He'd probably ridden to the interstate highway and thumbed a ride, or maybe walked to a bus stop or something. It was a mere twenty-five miles to the regional airport, and from there the bastard could be i' Australia by now, Henriksen had to admit to himself. But why would he have done any of that?
'John?' he asked Killgore. 'What did Popov know?'
'What do you mean?'
'What did he know about the Project?'
'Not much. Brightling didn't really brief him in, did he?'
'No. Okay, what did Hunnicutt know?'
'Shit, Bill, Foster knew everything.'
'Okay, then we think Popov and Hunnicutt went riding last night. Hunnicutt turns up dead, and Popov isn't anywhere to be found. So, could Hunnicutt have told Popov what the Project is doing?'
'I suppose, yes,' Killgore confirmed with a nod.
'So, Popov finds out, gets Foster's revolver, shoots him, and bugs the hell out.'
'Christ! You think he might-'
'Yes, he might. Shit, man, anybody might. '
'But we'd got the `B' vaccine in him. I gave him the shot myself!'
'Oh, well,' Bill Henriksen observed. Oh, shit, his brain went on. Wil Gearing's going to initiate Phase One today! As if he could have forgotten. He had to talk to Brightling right away.
Both Doctors Brightling were in the penthouse accommodations atop the residence building, overlooking the runway, which now had four Gulfstream V business jets on it. The news Henriksen delivered wasn't pleasing to either of them.
'How bad is this?' John asked.
'Potentially it's pretty bad,' Bill had to admit.
'How close are we to-'
'Four hours or less,' Henriksen replied.
'Does he know that?'
'It's possible, but we can't know for sure.'
'Where would he have gone?' Carol Brightling asked.
'Shit, I don't know-CIA, FBI, maybe. Popov's a trained spook. In his position I'd go to the Russian embassy in D.C., and tell the rezident. He'll have credibility there, but the time zones and bureaucracy work for us. KGB can't do anything fast, Carol. They'll spend hours trying to swallow whatever he tells them.'
'Okay. So, we proceed?' John Brightling asked.
A nod. 'Yeah, I think so. I'll call Wil Gearing to give him a heads-up, maybe?'
'Can we trust him?' John inquired next.
