What do you mean? asked Cathy.
I mean the partyings long since over. Gotta earn those profits, keep up those sales. Never thought lifed come down to the bottom line. Whatever happened to all that rabble-rousing potential, hey, Gersh? We sort of lost it along the way. All of us, Bach and Ollie and Roger. The Out of Tuners finally stepped into line. Now were all marching to the beat of the same boring drummer. He sighed and glanced at Victor. You make out anything on those negatives?
Victor shook his head. We need prints.
Milo flipped off the lights, leaving only the red glow of the darkroom lamp. Coming up.
As Milo laid out the photographic paper, Victor asked, What happened to the other guys? They still around?
Milo flipped the exposure switch. Rogers VP at some multinational bank in Tokyo. Into silk suits and ties, the whole nine yards. Bachs got an electronics firm in San Jose.
And Ollie?
What can I say about Ollie? Milo slipped the first print into the bath. Hes still lurking around in that lab over at Stanford Med. I doubt he ever sees the light of day. I figure hes got some secret chamber in the basement where he keeps his assistant Igor chained to the wall.
This guy I have to meet, said Cathy.
Oh, hed love you. Victor laughed and gave her arm a squeeze. Seeing as hes probably forgotten what the female of the species looks like.
Milo slid the print into the next tray. Yeah, Ollies the one who never changed. Still the night owl. Still plays a mean clarinet. He glanced at Victor. Hows the sax, Gersh? You keeping it up?
Havent played in months.
Lucky neighbors.
How did you ever get that name? asked Cathy. Gersh?
Because, said Milo, wielding tongs as he transferred another batch of prints between trays, hes a firm believer in the power of George Gershwin to win a ladys heart. Someone to Watch Over Me, wasnt that the tune that made Lily say Milos voice suddenly faded. He looked at his friend with regret.
Youre right, said Victor quietly. That was the tune. And Lily said yes.
Milo shook his head. Sorry. Guess I still have a hard time remembering shes gone.
Well, she is, said Victor, his voice matter-of-fact. Cathy knew there was pain buried in the undertones. But he hid it well. And right now, Victor said, weve got other things to think about.
Milo shook his head. Sorry. Guess I still have a hard time remembering shes gone.
Well, she is, said Victor, his voice matter-of-fact. Cathy knew there was pain buried in the undertones. But he hid it well. And right now, Victor said, weve got other things to think about.
Yeah. Milo, chastened, turned his attention back to the prints hed just developed. He fished them out and clipped the first few sheets on the line to dry. Okay, Gersh. Tell us whats on this roll thats worth killing for.
Milo switched on the lights.
Victor stood in silence for a moment, frowning at the first five dripping prints. To Cathy, the data was meaningless, only a set of numbers and codes, recorded in an almost illegible hand.
Well, grunted Milo. That sure tells me a lot.
Victors gaze shifted quickly from one page to the next. He paused at the fifth photo, where a column ran down the length of the page. It contained a series of twenty-seven entries, each one a date followed by the same three letters: EXP.
Victor? asked Cathy. What does it mean?
He turned to them. It was the look in his eyes that worried her. The stillness. Quietly he said, We need to call Ollie.
You mean tonight? asked Milo. Why?
This isnt just some experiment in test tubes and petri dishes. Theyve gone beyond that, to clinical trials. Victor pointed to the last page. These are monkeys. Each one was infected with a new virus. A manmade virus. And in every case the results were the same.
You mean this? Milo pointed to the last column. EXP?
It stands for expired, said Victor. They all died.
Sam Polowski sat on a bench in the Palo Alto bus terminal and wondered: If I wanted to disappear, where would I go next? He watched a dozen or so passengers straggle off to board the 210 from San Jose, noting they were by and large the Birkenstock and backpack set. Probably Stanford students heading off for Christmas break. He wondered why it was that students who could afford such a pricey university couldnt seem to scrape up enough to buy a decent pair of jeans. Or even a decent haircut, for that matter.
At last Polowski rose and automatically dusted off his coat, a habit hed picked up from his early years of hanging around the seamier side of town. Even if the grime wasnt actually visible, hed always felt it was there, coating any surface he happened to brush against, ready to cling to him like wet paint.
He made one phone call-to Dafoes answering machine, to tell him Victor Holland had moved on to Palo Alto. It was, after all, his responsibility to keep his supervisor informed. He was glad he only had to talk to a recording and not to the man himself.
He left the bus station and strolled down the street, heading Lord knew where, in search of a spark, a hunch. It was a nice-enough neighborhood, a nice-enough town. Palo Alto had its old professors houses, its bookshops and coffee houses where university types, the ones with the beards and wire-rim glasses, liked to sit and argue the meaning of Proust and Brecht and Goethe. Polowski remembered his own university days, when, after being subjected to an hour of such crap from the students at the next table, he had finally stormed over to them and yelled, Maybe Brecht meant it that way, maybe not. But can you guys answer this? What the hell difference does it make?
This did not, needless to say, enhance his reputation as a serious scholar.
Now, as he paced along the street, no doubt in the footsteps of more serious philosophers, Polowski turned over in his head the question of Victor Holland. More specifically the question of where such a man, in his desperation, would hide. He stalked past the lit windows, the glow of TVs, the cars spilling from garages. Where in this warren of suburbia was the man hiding?
Holland was a scientist, a musician, a man of few but lasting friendships. He had a Ph. D. from MIT, a B.S. from Stanford. The university was right up the road. The man must know his way around here. Maybe he still had friends in the neighborhood, people whod take him in, keep his secrets.
Polowski decided to take another look at Hollands file. Somewhere in the Viratek records, there had to be some employment reference, some recommendation from a Stanford contact. A friend Holland might turn to.
Sooner or later, he would have to turn to someone.
It was after midnight when Dafoe and his wife returned home. He was in an excellent mood, his head pleasantly abuzz with champagne, his ears still ringing with the heart-wrenching aria from Samson and Delilah. Opera was a passion for him, a brilliant staging of courage and conflict and amore, a vision of life so much grander than the petty little world in which he found himself. It launched him to a plane of such thrilling intensity that even his own wife took on exciting new aspects. He watched her peel off her coat and kick off her shoes. Forty pounds overweight, hair streaked with silver, yet she had her attractions. Its been three weeks. Surely shell let me tonight
But his wife ignored his amorous looks and wandered off to the kitchen. A moment later, the rumble of the automatic dishwasher announced another of her fits of housecleaning.
In frustration, Dafoe turned and stabbed the blinking button on his answering machine. The message from Polowski completely destroyed any amorous intentions he had left.
Reason to believe Holland is in, or has just left, the Palo Alto area. Following leads. Will keep you informed
Polowski, you half-wit. Is following orders so damn difficult?
It was 3:00 a.m. Washington time. An ungodly hour, but he made the phone call.
The voice that answered was raspy with sleep. Tyrone here.
Cowboy, this is Dafoe. Sorry to wake you.
The voice became instantly alert, all sleep shaken from it. Whats up?
New lead on Holland. I dont know the particulars, but hes headed south, to Palo Alto. May still be there.
The university?
It is the Stanford area.
That may be a very big help.
Anything for an old buddy. Ill keep you posted.
One thing, Dafoe.
Yeah?
I cant have any interference. Pull all your people out. Well take it from here.
Dafoe paused. I mighthave a problem.
A problem? The voice, though quiet, took on a razors edge.
Its, uh, one of my men. Sort of a wild card. Sam Polowski. Hes got this Holland case under his skin, wants to go after him.
Theres such a thing as a direct order.
At the moment, Polowskis unreachable. Hes in Palo Alto, digging around in God knows what.
Loose cannons. I dont like them.
Ill pull him back as soon as I can.
Do that. And keep it quiet. Its a matter of utmost security.
After Dafoe hung up, his gaze shifted automatically to the photo on the mantelpiece. It was a 68 snapshot of him and the Cowboy: two young marines, both of them grinning, their rifles slung over their shoulders as they stood ankle-deep in a rice paddy. It was a crazy time, when ones very life depended on the loyalty of buddies. When Semper Fi applied not only to the corps in general but to each other in particular. Matt Tyrone was a hero then, and he was a hero now. Dafoe stared at that smiling face in the photo, disturbed by the threads of envy that had woven into his admiration for the man. Though Dafoe had much to be proud of-a solid eighteen years in the FBI, maybe even a shot at assistant director somewhere in his stars, he couldnt match the heady climb of Matt Tyrone in the NSA. Though Dafoe wasnt clear as to exactly what position the Cowboy held in the NSA, he had heard that Tyrone regularly attended cabinet meetings, that he held the trust of the president, that he dealt in secrets and shadows and security. He was the sort of man the country needed, a man for whom patriotism was more than mere flag-waving and rhetoric; it was a way of life. Matt Tyrone would do more than die for his country; hed live for it.
Dafoe couldnt let such a man, such a friend, down.
He dialed Sam Polowskis home phone and left a message on the recorder.
This is a direct order. You are to withdraw from the Holland case immediately. Until further notice you are on suspension.
He was tempted to add, by special request from my friends in Washington, but thought better of it. No room for vanity here. The Cowboy had said national security was at stake.
Dafoe had no doubt it truly was. Hed gotten the word from Matt Tyrone. And Matt Tyrones authority came direct from the President himself.