Dante's Equation Part 17

The man opened his mouth to introduce himself, but replacing his voice, as though he were a ventriloquist's dummy, was Frau Kroll, screaming in German. Denton didn't speak German well enough to know what she was saying, but his mind readily filled in the blanks. "You pig-sucking n.a.z.i hunter," would probably be high on her agenda and, "You didn't tell me you were a Jew," along with variations on the theme. The old man shut his mouth and gazed at her calmly as she roared, but he shuddered inside his coat, like a well-rooted tree in the wind.

"Frau Kroll," Denton said sheepishly. He had to touch her arm to get her attention. She turned to glare at him. Appropriately shamefaced, he shook his head. "I apologize. This isn't the . . . who I thought it was. It was a mistake."

Frau Kroll's mouth worked speechlessly.

"I'm, uh, very sorry. There's this other man who's been following me. But this isn't him. I'm really sorry. I'm sorry I upset you."

Frau Kroll went off some more in German, mostly to her husband. Denton guessed that the main thread this time was his status as a form of life lower than that in the bottom of their cesspool. Meanwhile, the old man waited patiently on the stoop.

The husband argued back, reminded the woman of, oh,the money. She went back to the door.

"Herr Neumann," the old man introduced himself with a nod of his head.

The Krolls both glanced into the driveway again, confirming that there was only this one old man and not a troop of reporters or Israeli soldiers. Then Frau Kroll took the man's coat. Herr Neumann gratefully accepted a seat at the kitchen table. Denton wasn't asked to leave, but the woman's eyes compelled him to keep quiet. The old man was given the file folder to peruse as Denton had been.

Herr Neumann opened the cover. Denton's breath caught in his throat. He crossed his leg and jiggled it, put a hand up to press his smiling mouth to keep from screaming. The old man looked the pages over carefully, his lips pursing with emotion. Denton's leg jiggled more ferociously. He was thinking about how much cash he had with him and wondering if the Krolls would take a check. He had made a freaking a.s.s of himself, but hewould walk out of here with those pages.

It occurred to him that this old man might be anagent of Schwartz, even if he wasn't Schwartz himself. A moment later, he was convinced of it. Behind his hand his smile slunk away. How much cash did this old fart have? Denton felt a wave of nausea at the thought.

After an unbearable time the old man closed the folder. He took off his gla.s.ses, brought a white handkerchief from one pocket, and began to clean them. He looked up at Frau Kroll with tears in his eyes. "Thank you for letting me see it," Denton understood him to say in German.

Frau Kroll and her husband exchanged a look. "Do you speak English?" she asked Herr Neumann. "Yes," he switched at once, offering Denton a small smile. "We do business in English, yes? Herr Wyle gived me a price for the papers. Now you please." Denton uncrossed his leg and crossed the other one. He had to pee all of a sudden, probably because his insides were gripped so tightly there was no room for any fluids. Herr Neumann continued to clean his gla.s.ses, calmly and serenely unaware of the tension in the room. The Krolls were trying to look businesslike, but her hands gripped and regripped her ap.r.o.n and he was licking his lips like a dog with peanut b.u.t.ter. "What was the current bid, might I ask?" Herr Neumann said, looking up as though this had just occurred to him. The Krolls discussed this briefly, in hushed tones. He seemed to be in favor of telling; she was not. "Four thousand," she said hesitantly. "In American dollars." "It was five thousand," Denton rushed in, "wasn't it? I thought . . . And that was just anopening bid."Frau Kroll and her husband exchanged a smirk. Denton didn't care. He had flinched; he'd admit it.

Whatever. Let them milk him dry. Let them retire to the Bahamas. "I see." Herr Neumann put his gla.s.ses back on. Denton forced his mouth to stay shut. They waited. "Very well," the old man said with a sigh. "I have no objection to this young American owning the papers. Perhaps he and I can reach an agreement later, if he would be so kind." He smiled distractedly at Denton.

Frau Kroll exploded. She must have been holding her breath, because what came out of her mouth was ejected on a fury of air and spit. She was ranting in a mixture of German and English,"You can't do that! You can't make a deal with him later! You have to pay me now! You swine, son of a swine, swine's a.s.s, nose of a swine that's in another swine's a.s.s . . ." Her husband joined in. Clearly they had wanted a bidding war and were a little put out that they hadn't gotten one.

Herr Neumann sat looking down at the closed folder in front of him with an expression so tranquil it was almost a smile. Denton thought he was plumb nutty.

It was clear the old man wasn't going to do anything, and Denton hated,hated,arguments. He stood abruptly, knocking over the kitchen chair. He righted it, clumsily, while the Krolls turned their expletives at him.

Denton held up his hands, pleading surrender. "Ten thousand," he said, and when it got no response he repeated it at the top of his lungs:"Ten thousand!"

The Krolls fell silent.

"Ten thousand U.S. In cash," Denton added, taking a heaving breath.

Herr Kroll pulled his wife into the other room to consult. Denton waited, glancing out the window nervously. No one else was showing up, thank G.o.d. He glanced at the old man, who smiled at him politely. Denton tried to look unfriendly to show his suspicion. It was so unlike him that it took him a minute to remember that a frown went down instead of up.

The Krolls returned. Denton had just bought himself a chunk of Kobinski's ma.n.u.script.

Outside in the driveway, Denton's feet followed the old man to his car. In one hand was the ma.n.u.script folder (G.o.d, he had to get it hermetically sealed or something, and soon). Herr Neumann opened his car door, then turned to acknowledge Denton's hovering.

"Mr. Wyle, I hope you won't mind if I ask you what you intend to do with the ma.n.u.script?"

Denton didn't answer. "Who are you?" he demanded, the old man's pa.s.sivity giving him a semblance of courage. "Did Schwartz send you?"

"No. You see, I would have offered any price, but I'm afraid I have no money. None at all." His eyes were a fading brown. The sincere smile on the old man's face trembled. "If you would please answer my question. I hope . . . I hope you have no intentions of publishing it."

Denton's suspicions were renewed. But there was a sincerity and dignity to Neumann that he found hard to dislike. And he was so frail: the skin on his face, now that they were outside in the daylight, was thin and spotted with age. Beneath were veins so lightly blue and thin that it appeared no blood at all could move through them anymore, like the veins of a dried-up leaf.

"Please tell me. I can offer you something in return."

"Like what?" Denton asked, with a huff.

"Information. I knew Kobinski well."

Denton experienced a surge of greed so powerful it made him wobble. If only! But he shook his head. "You couldn't!"

Neumann reached a small hand into the large sleeve of his overcoat and pulled down the top of his glove. In the warm daylight, the numbers, blue and faded as his veins, were delineated against the thin white skin of his arm: 173056. Denton sucked in his breath.

"Oh my G.o.d, you really knew him?" He felt an absurd urge to fall on his knees, as if the Virgin Mary, and not a Holocaust survivor, had suddenly materialized in front of him. He reached out his fingers to touch the numbers that, maybe, Kobinski himself had seen, touched. Words tumbled from his lips: "Did he talk to you about the gateways? Do you know what happened during the escape attempt? Were you there?"

"Reb Kobinski was taken up to Heaven." Neumann nodded, eyes glowing. "But he'll be coming ba-"

Neumann frowned, his head pivoting. In the distance, coming down the dirt road from the main rural highway, was a gray sedan.

"Schwartz!" Denton exclaimed. He'd already bought the ma.n.u.script, true, but he still had no desire to see or be seen by that man, that threatening bunny killer, that Jewish Aleister Crowley.

"Not Schwartz," Neumann said in a dead voice. Then, before Denton could react or eventhink , Neumann s.n.a.t.c.hed the folder neatly from his hand, got into the car, shut the door, and locked it.

"Hey!"Denton screamed. He tried to open the door and failed. But he was still not really comprehending what was going on-not this nice old man, a Holocaust survivor, not after he, Denton, had spentten freaking grand. . . .

Neumann started the car and rolled down the window a crack. "I'll be in touch."

"Are you crazy?"

But the car was reversing now. It pulled out and drove toward the gray sedan and the main road with what looked to Denton like ironic slowness. Denton might even have chased it on foot, if he hadn't been too stunned to move. The other car, still a half mile from the house, rolled to a stop as Neumann's car cruised gently by. Denton thought he saw Neumann wave to the other driver.

"Hey!" Denton shouted again.

The sedan made its choice and continued on toward Denton and the farmhouse. Denton kicked at the dirt and sobbed in frustration.

Denton had just figured out that he had at least a couple of good reasons to get into his car instead of standing there furious (follow Neumann, get away from whoever was coming, which still might be Schwartz, whatever the old guy said) when the sedan pulled into the driveway. Too late.

He moved for his car anyway, though the sedan appeared to be purposefully blocking the drive.

Two men got out. Big men. They looked like casually dressed businessmen, casual in a flashy, somewhat overdone European style. One wore Armani loafers and a sports coat; the other, a black leather jacket in a froufrou style (as Denton thought of it) that Middle Easterners and Italians favored. They looked at the house, then at Denton.

Denton, still furious and upset, put his hands on his hips with untypical defiance. "Um, could you move your car, please?"

They came over to him at once. Both had dark hair, dark eyes. The taller man, the one in the sports coat, spoke English with a slight accent.

"Who are you?"

He debated telling them the truth. "The people you want are inside the farmhouse. Now if you'd just move your car . . ."

The man in the sports coat motioned toward the farmhouse with his head, and black leather coat man went to the door.

"I really have to be somewhere," Denton said, looking at his watch. He was trying to place these guys in his head. Antique dealers? Thugs hired by Schwartz? Cops? He cleared his throat. The man in the sports coat stared blankly.

Frau Kroll, who'd been peeking from the kitchen window, answered the door and had a brief exchange with the man. She pointed several times at Denton, waved her hand as though asking them to be gone. The man in black returned.

"This is Mr. Wyle. He purchased the ma.n.u.script."

"Ah! Mr. Wyle, I'm Mr. Edwards and this is Mr. Smith. Would you be so kind as to speak with us? We can offer you a lift back to Stuttgart."

Denton looked at them incredulously. "I do have acar ."

"Mr. Smith can drive your car. That will give us more time to chat."

"But . . . !" Denton was growing deeply confused. First that freak Neumann-he was still in shock over that one-now these two men were standing in his way like an unmovable wall. It began to dawn on him that something was very wrong. "Look, guys," he said, sighing now more with fear than exasperation. "If you're after the ma.n.u.script, I don't even have it anymore."

They stared.

"Really! The old guy took it-Neumann. The one who just drove off." He gestured down the road. "You saw him. He just grabbed it out of my hand and took off."

The two men exchanged unreadable glances.

"So why don't you go after him? Do usboth a favor." Denton put his hands back on his hips in an angry gesture, but those hands were shaking.

"I think we should look into this together," Mr. Edwards suggested. He took Denton's arm. "We'd hate to see you get cheated, Mr. Wyle. And of course, we'd all benefit from a discussion about the ma.n.u.script."

"But . . ."

Mr. Edwards had a relentless grip. He was pulling Denton without real violence yet inexorably toward their sedan. "It won't take long-an hour at the most." Edwards's sincerity stank like rotten meat.

This, bizarrely, was really happening. Denton shot a panicked look at the farmhouse. The Krolls, who were peeking out the kitchen window again, disappeared at his glance.They wouldn't help.

These thugs could burn him alive in the driveway and the Krolls would probably come out with marshmallows on sticks and Hefeweizen.

"Come on!Neumann has it-why don't you go after him?" Mr. Smith opened the front pa.s.senger door of the sedan and stood there waiting, like a chauffeur. Mr. Edwards, Denton in tow, paused at the door and put out his palm. "Mr. Smith will need your keys, Mr. Wyle."

It was all too fast. Denton wanted to stop it, but he didn't know how. He looked at the interior of that car and drew back hard, like a man resisting his coffin.

"Why can't I drive my own car, you guys? Come on! What is this?"The smile on Mr. Edwards's face slipped away. "Mr. Wyle, get in the car.Now. We only want to talk to you. You have my word."

Denton looked from Mr. Edwards to Mr. Smith, standing implacably a few feet away. "We only want to talk," Mr. Smith agreed, in a warmer tone. Denton gave him the keys. As he settled into his seat, Denton turned to them, eyes tearing up. "You guys are from the Jewish League, aren't you?" Mr. Edwards and Mr. Smith looked at each other and laughed out loud. "That's right, Mr. Wyle," said Mr. Edwards. "We're from the Jewish League."

The universe has two tendencies: a reality which is making itself in a reality which is unmaking itself. The one is life. The other is matter which is opposed to life.

-Henri Bergson, philosopher, 18591941

8.1. Calder Farris

EARLYOCTOBER HAARPFACILITY , GAKONA, ALASKA.

The black Lincoln Towncar slid smoothly through military security at the gate and pulled up in front of the main entrance. The driver got out and opened the rear door for Calder Farris. Calder stood still for a moment, his uniform crisping in the chill. It was a clear day in Alaska, but he could smell snow in the air the way he could smell war, even when it was dozens of miles away. He breathed in the scent, his senses on full alert.

A private emerged from the main building. He saluted. "Lieutenant Farris?"

Calder gave a single nod of confirmation. "Take me to it, Private."

Calder was led through the building and out the back, speaking to no one. He had seen the antennae while driving up, but his view here was closer and un.o.bstructed. A long, wide field of dipole antennae made up the Planar Array. The antennae looked like aluminum crosses-long vertical poles with a horizontal tube and wire mesh at the top. There were 180 towers, s.p.a.ced out in a grid on a thirty-three-acre gravel pad, and each tower held four antennae. A fence surrounded the entire pad, to prevent animals from wandering into the array, animals being plentiful here in Alaska.

Calder had read through the specifications on his flight. Now his eyes focused narrowly on the scene, trying to find the salient. . . .

There. As they walked closer to the gated array, Calder began to see them, brown lumps on the gravel ground. His gaze swept along the scene. There were more dark shapes here and there in the gra.s.s outside the fence's perimeter. And now he could see a few of the bodies skewered on the tops of antennae and on the fence.

"Who's in charge here?"

"Colonel Ingram, sir. He's the site supervisor."

They pa.s.sed through the open gate and into the array. There were a dozen or so men standing around, most of them civilian. They had softer faces and the occasional beard or gla.s.ses. Their dress was pureNorthern Exposure : jeans, flannel shirts or sweatshirts, and bomber jackets. The HAARP scientists, Calder surmised. He decided they could wait and turned his focus on the brown lumps. He could make out the forms now. They were dead birds, hundreds of them.A murder of crows. He felt a kick as his adrenaline level went up a notch.

The private made the introductions. Colonel Ingram was Air Force. He looked at Calder's ID carefully. This particular ID had his name andDepartment of Defense, United States on it, the DoD seal, and nothing else; did not, for example, give a job t.i.tle or branch. Ingram shook Calder's hand after a moment's hesitation. "I was told you were coming, Lieutenant Farris, but I'm not sure why you're here. Perhaps you can fill me in."

"I'm here to observe, Colonel. Just that."

Ingram seemed to be debating the wisdom of probing more deeply. He clearly was the kind of man who liked to know everything, and he did outrank Calder. But the DoD owned this land, not to mention Ingram. And he would have been telephoned by someone mysteriously high up in DARPA. Ingram decided against further questions.

"As you can see, we've had a little problem with a flock of migrating birds."

"When did it begin?"

"In the night. It was first noticed at about oh five hundred this morning."

"You were told not to touch them. Have you?"

"No, sir," Ingram said coolly.

"How many birds are there?"

"We're not sure. There're a lot of 'em out in those fields." Ingram waved his hand beyond the confines of the fence where tall wild gra.s.ses awaited the first snowfall of the year. "There are about four dozen within the array itself."