The Dark River

41

It was raining hard when Boone reached Chippewa Bay on the Saint Lawrence River. When he stood at the edge of the dock, he could barely see the castle on Dark Island. Boone had been on the island only a few times. Recently, it had been the site of the meeting where Nash had presented the Shadow Program to the executive board. Boone had expected to be in Berlin right now, looking for the criminals who had destroyed the computer center, but the board had insisted that he travel to the island. Although the job was going to be unpleasant, he had to follow orders.

When the two mercenaries finally arrived, Boone told the ferry-boat captain to head across the river. Sitting in the boat cabin, he tried to evaluate the men who were going to help him kill someone. Both mercenaries were recent immigrants from Romania who were somehow related to each other. They had long names with too many vowels, and Boone didn’t think it necessary to learn the correct pronunciation. As far as he was concerned, the smaller Romanian was Able and the larger man was Baker. The two men sat on the left side of the cabin and braced their feet against the floor of the boat. Able was the talkative one, and he babbled nervously in Romanian while Baker nodded every few seconds to show that he was listening.

Waves rose up from the river and splashed against the bow. Raindrops struck the fiberglass roof of the cabin and made a sound that reminded Boone of fingers drumming on a tabletop. The boat’s two windshield wipers clicked back and forth as a sheet of water flowed across the glass. The Canadian boat captain kept adjusting his radio as the pilots of the container ships announced their position along the seaway. “We’re half a mile starboard,” a voice kept saying. “Can you see us? Over…”

Boone touched the front of his parka and felt two hard lumps hidden beneath the waterproof fabric. The vial of CS-toxin was in his left shirt pocket. In his right pocket was the black plastic case that contained the syringe. Boone hated to touch people, especially when they were dying, but the syringe demanded some degree of physical contact.

WHEN THEY REACHED Dark Island, the captain cut power and allowed the ferryboat to drift up against the dock. The head of island security, an ex-police officer named Farrington, came out to greet them. He grabbed the bowline and looped it around a stanchion as Boone stepped out of the boat.

“Where’s the rest of the staff?” Boone asked.

“They’re having lunch in the kitchen.”

“What about Nash and his guests?”

“General Nash, Mr. Corrigan, and Mrs. Brewster are all upstairs in the morning room.”

“Keep the staff in the kitchen for the next twenty minutes. I need to present some important data. We don’t want anyone walking into the room and eavesdropping on the conversation.”

“I understand, sir.”

They hurried through the sloping tunnel that went from the shore to the ground level of the castle. Boone transferred the syringe case and the toxin to his pants pocket while the two mercenaries removed their damp overcoats. Both men wore black suits and neckties, as if they were back in Romania attending a village funeral. The soles of their leather shoes made a scuffling sound on the grand staircase.

The oak door was closed, and Boone hesitated for a few seconds. He could hear the Romanians breathing and scratching themselves. They were probably wondering why he stopped. Boone smoothed down his wet hair, stood up straight, and led them into the morning room.

General Nash, Michael, and Mrs. Brewster sat at one end of a long table. They had finished their bowls of tomato soup and Nash was holding a platter of sandwiches.

“What are you doing here?” Nash asked.

“I received instructions from the executive board.”

“I’m the head of the board and I know nothing about it.”

Mrs. Brewster took the platter from Nash and placed it in the middle of the table. “I called a second teleconference, Kennard.”

Nash looked surprised. “When?”

“Quite early this morning-when you were still asleep. The Brethren weren’t happy with your refusal to resign.”

“And why should I resign? What happened yesterday in Berlin has nothing to do with me. Blame it on the Germans or blame it on Boone-he’s the one in charge of security.”

“You’re the head of the organization, but you won’t accept responsibility,” Michael said. “Don’t forget the attack a few months ago when we lost the quantum computer.”

“What do you mean, we? You’re not a member of the executive board.”

“He is now,” Mrs. Brewster said.

General Nash glared at Boone. “Don’t forget who hired you, Mr. Boone. I’m in charge of this organization and I’m giving you a direct order. I want you to escort these two down to the basement and lock them up. I’ll call a meeting of the Brethren as soon as possible.”

“You’re not listening, Kennard.” Mrs. Brewster sounded like a schoolteacher who had suddenly lost patience with a stubborn pupil. “The board has met this morning and voted. It’s unanimous. As of today, you are no longer executive director. There’s no negotiation about this. Accept your emeritus position and you’ll be given a stipend and perhaps an office somewhere.”

“Do you realize who you’re talking to?” Nash asked. “I can get the president of the United States on the phone. The president-and three prime ministers.”

“And that’s exactly what we don’t want,” Mrs. Brewster said. “This is an internal matter. Not something to discuss with our various allies.”

If Nash had remained seated, Boone might have allowed him to continue talking. Instead the general pushed back his chair as if he were going to run into the library and call the White House. Michael glanced at Boone. It was time to follow orders.

Boone nodded to the mercenaries. The two men grabbed Nash’s arms and pinned them to the table.

“Are you crazy? Let go of me!”

“I want one thing to be clear,” Mrs. Brewster said. “I’ve always considered you to be a friend, Kennard. But remember-all of us answer to a higher goal.”

Boone stepped behind Nash’s chair, opened the plastic case, and took out the syringe. The toxin was in a glass container about the size of a pill vial. He forced the needle through the safety seal and filled the syringe with the clear liquid. Kennard Nash glanced over his shoulder and saw what was about to happen. Shouting obscenities, he struggled to get away. Dishes and silverware fell onto the floor, and a soup bowl cracked in two.

“Calm down,” Boone murmured. “Have a little dignity.” He jabbed the needle into Nash’s neck just above the spine and injected the toxin. Nash collapsed. His head hit the table and spit drooled out of his mouth.

Boone looked up at his new masters. “It only takes two or three seconds. He’s dead.”

“A sudden heart attack,” Mrs. Brewster said. “How very sad. General Kennard Nash was a servant to his nation. Missed by his friends.”

The two Romanians were still holding Nash’s arms as if he might come back to life and jump out the window. “Go back to the boat and wait,” Boone told them. “I’m done with you.”

“Yes, sir.” Able adjusted his black necktie, bowed his head, and he and Baker left the room.

“When will you call the police?” Michael asked.

“In five or ten minutes.”

“And how long will it take them to travel to the island?”

“About two hours. There will be no trace of the toxin by the time they get here.”

“Dump him on the floor and rip open his shirt,” Michael said. “Make it look like we were trying to save him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think I’d like a drop of whiskey,” Mrs. Brewster said. She and Michael stood up and walked over to the side door that led to the library. “Oh, Mr. Boone. One more thing…”

“Ma’am?”

“We need a higher level of efficiency in all our endeavors. General Nash didn’t understand that. I hope you do.”

“I understand,” Boone said, and then he was alone with the dead man. He pulled back the chair, pushed the body to the right, and it fell onto the floor with a thump. Crouching down, Boone ripped open the general’s blue shirt. A pearl button flew through the air.

First he would call the police, and then he would wash his hands. He wanted hot water, strong soap, and paper towels. Boone walked over to the window and looked out over the trees at the Saint Lawrence Seaway. The rainstorm and the low clouds colored the water dark silver. And the waves rose up and collapsed as the river flowed eastward to the sea.