The Last Vampire Part 18

"I heal fast. Always have."

Justin cleared his throat and shuffled some papers. Paul was perplexed. He had healed fast - incredibly fast. He should have been in a sling. He should have had a cast.

Why wasn't Justin curious about that? Paul sure as h.e.l.l was.

"You also have a body coming back. Was it on the transport with you?"

"The French flew it from Villacoublay to Ramstein. It oughta be in Santa Clara tomorrow. It's being delivered directly to the family."

"You've written a letter?"

Paul had not written a letter. He couldn't do that, as Justin well knew. "It has to come out of the pool." Next of kin were handled out of a central office when agents died or were injured in the course of secret operations.

"You do it. Let the pool send it."

"Okay."

"Because I want you to feel it."

Paul sucked in breath. He really did not want to deck Justin Turk, his only ally at Langley, but Paul's tendency was to go physical when he felt threatened, and an insult like that was d.a.m.ned threatening. He was sitting here, and getting this. "I took a hit, too," he said. "We had a terrible time in there. Just awful."

"You couldn't have stayed out of harm's way? I mean, given the French presence on French soil?"

"We couldn't." What else was there to say? Just let it go. The desks never understood operational issues, never had, never would.

Justin was watching him carefully. Paul realized that the needle had been inserted on purpose. Justin was probably trying to make him feel vulnerable, to throw him off-balance.

This meant only one thing: this was not a conversation. It was not a report. It was an interrogation and he was in trouble. The question was, what the h.e.l.l kind?

"Well, Paul?"

"Justin, I don't know what to say. I don't like your drift. 'Want me to feel it' - what the h.e.l.l is that supposed to mean?"

"You lose agents!"

"I'm fighting a war!"

"You and Don Quixote. We're not sure about your war."

"The White House is bothering the director, and you're taking heat. Is that it?"

Justin did not reply, confirming the accuracy of Paul's diagnosis.

"Tell 'em they have no need to know. Like the alien business."

"The alien business! We don't exactly have a directive from another world enforcing the secrecy in this particular case, Paul. All we have is you."

"Thing is, how did the White House find out in the first place?"

"The French have a program. The Germans have a program. For all I know, everybody has a program. This is a secret that's about to come out. And they are scared, because when that press conference has to be called, they will have to explain you and your killing spree, and they don't know how to do that."

"I've done my job. The French have done theirs. No doubt the others have, too. We've been effective. End of story."

"Yeah, the French have a casualty rate of seventy percent. You've lost four out of eleven people in two years. That's very effective, but not in the way we want, Paulie Paul."

"Everybody loses personnel. I saw the French clean out dozens of vampires when I was there."

"We prefer to call them differently blooded persons. DBPs."

He did not like the drift of that. "Who decided this?"

"The Human Rights Directorate." Justin shuffled more paper. "I printed out their memo for you."

"I didn't know we had a Human Rights Directorate."

"It's attached to the Office of the General Counsel. It was mandated under PD 1482 a year ago."

Presidential Directive 1482 had established humane practices guidelines for the Directorate of Operations. Since Paul was not dealing with human beings, humane practices, he had a.s.sumed, were not relevant to his work.

Justin held the paper out to him. "We've been instructed to use these guidelines as the basis for a policy recommendation. We're a.s.sembling facts for the Directorate of Intelligence now."

Paul took the sheet of paper. "Who wrote this?"

Justin did not answer directly. "Read it."

We must determine if these alleged vampires are human. These are the questions that should be asked in making this determination: Do they have language? Do they plan? Do they experience emotion? Have they enough basic intelligence to perform human activities? If all of these things, or most of them, are true, then it must be a.s.sumed that they are human or humanlike creatures, and should be afforded all the protection of the law.Further, if indeed they must consume human flesh as a natural condition of their lives, then it is not clear that they can be identified as murderers or terrorists, any more than any predator species can be considered the murderer of its prey.At the same time, there is nothing that prevents us from warning our citizenry about them and providing, for example, survival guidelines. The right of the prey to attempt to thwart the predator would seem to be as fundamental as the right of the predator to kill. However, their status as conscious creatures would preclude simply destroying them to relieve the threat.Additionally, their relative rarity may identify them as an endangered species and, on that basis, mandate a level of protection of their habitats and limits on killing them.In summary, the existence of these creatures should be made public, along with guidelines about how to avoid capture by them. Their lives would be protected under the International Human Rights Convention and possibly by endangered species acts in various countries. Their right to kill to eat must not be interfered with, except insofar as to aid legitimate attempts to avoid them.

Paul continued to stare at the doc.u.ment, not because he was still reading it, but because he was literally paralyzed with amazement. Had all of his blood descended into his feet? Is that why he felt this sense of having totally lost contact with reality? Or was it the piece of paper in his hand?

"Justin, could you tell me something? Could you tell me if Franz Kafka is still alive?"

"He's dead. What's the point?"

"Oh, I just thought he might have written this - you know - as a sort of kafkaesque joke."

"Paul, I'm required to inform you that an investigation of your activities has been inst.i.tuted. As there is a possibility that criminal charges could be levied against you, it is our official recommendation to you that you retain counsel. If you don't have a lawyer of your own -"

"I haven't got a d.a.m.n lawyer!"

"Then you can apply to the Office of General Counsel for a referral to a legal representative who has an appropriate clearance match with you, so that you can discuss your situation with him freely. If you cannot afford to pay your lawyer, you can be referred to a legal aid lawyer with a clearance."

Paul thought, Just sit, keep breathing, don't turn white, don't turn red, don't hit anybody or break anything. Just sit, keep breathing, don't turn white, don't turn red, don't hit anybody or break anything.

"Paul?"

"Just a minute. I'm trying to decide if I should laugh or cry. What's your thought? Tears?"

"I didn't write it, Paul."

"d.a.m.nit, Justin, don't you see what this is?"

"It's an attempt to recognize the human rights of an alien species."

"It's a license for the vampires to hunt and kill human beings. Jesus Christ, I lost my father to these things! A little boy waits, and a wife, she waits and waits, and Dad just never comes home. You go on for years wondering, 'Did he die or get killed, or did he walk out on us?' It eats away at your heart and makes you hard, and gradually, it kills your heart. In my case, I found my dad. Most people never find a d.a.m.n thing."

"The government has decided that the differently blooded are part of nature."

"Justin, pardon my stupidity, but aren't we out there trying to protect people? I mean, isn't that the fundamental promise of government? If a rancher gets his cattle killed by coyotes, you know what happens? He goes out and he d.a.m.n well shoots the b.u.g.g.e.rs or traps 'em. Nature made the coyote to eat cattle. But that doesn't mean the rancher's just gonna let it happen."

"You're under investigation for suborning your orders, Paul."

Suborning was an ugly word. It meant misusing your orders or intentionally misinterpreting them. It was the kind of word you heard in trials. "That's the criminal route." was an ugly word. It meant misusing your orders or intentionally misinterpreting them. It was the kind of word you heard in trials. "That's the criminal route."

"I told you to get a lawyer. This is a serious situation, buddy. You could be looking at a count of murder for every single creature you've killed."

"Justin, for the love of G.o.d, help me!"

Justin stared at him like he was something in a d.a.m.n zoo.

"This is coming from the White House."

"A bunch of college kids with no experience of life. Look, this is about people being killed. You know - mothers and sons, fathers and daughters."

Justin worked at his pipe. "I'm only the messenger."

"Why don't you tell Mr. President something for me - for this stupid grunt n.o.body who just happens to value human life above all things. A couple of days ago in Paris, I was in a room - deep underground - where I saw maybe half a million dead people stacked in rows . . . long, long rows. Every one of them was a tragedy. Every one of them was a broken family, or a broken heart, or at least a life stolen from somebody to whom it was precious."

"People will have the right to defend themselves."

"From something that can move so fast you can't see it, that's four times as strong as you are and twice as smart? I don't think so."

"The state will protect them."

"Only one way to do that. Kill the vampires."

"Paul, a stupid rancher does the environmentally unsound thing when he traps and poisons the coyotes on his place. A smart one plans so that his herd is never in jeopardy. The state's simply gonna be the smart rancher."

"But they'll get through. They'll find ways!"

"Some people will be killed. But it's been like that for all of history, hasn't it?"

"Let me pose you a hypothetical. You wake up some night, and one of these things is drilling into your neck. What do you do - I mean, personally?"

"This isn't going to happen to me."

"Hypothetically. Do you call Nine-one-one? Come on, be real, here! Christ!"

"The good rancher uses various appropriate and effective means to chase off the coyotes. We'll be proactive in the same way."

Paul got to his feet. "I'm in the middle of a mopping up operation in Paris. Gotta get back."

"We are not going to continue with this barbaric exercise of yours. It's over, Paul. Totally and completely over! over! Okay? And there are some people you need to meet." Okay? And there are some people you need to meet."

Danger always tapped on Paul's shoulder before most people realized that it had entered the picture. Something about Justin's tone of voice suggested that these people were going to give him a whole lot of trouble.

The U.S. had secret prisons for people who had broken the law in the course of cla.s.sified activities. The law in those facilities was a strange, surrealistic version of the law on the outside. You had rights - just not the right to leave. Administrative prisons, that was what they called them.

Well, he still had the right to leave at the moment, or at least the ability, so he d.a.m.n well walked out the door. He went through the outer office and into the corridor. There were two men coming toward the office. He went the other way.

Behind him, he heard their footsteps get quicker and louder. G.o.dd.a.m.n, he didn't want this. He'd been part of this organization all of his adult life. He had stood before the Memorial Wall and wept a tear for fallen comrades. He had loved CIA and stood by CIA and been absolutely loyal to CIA, no matter how dumb he thought the latest director was or how misguided the latest policy.

He got the h.e.l.l out of the building, hurrying out the new entrance to the west lot where he'd parked. As he got into the pretty little Saab that had been waiting in his garage for the past two years, he wondered if he would be fast enough to pa.s.s the gate or if Justin had already called them and told them to detain him.

He pulled up to the guardhouse, showed his ID card, waited. The guard looked at it, made a notation, and opened the barrier. He drove out and was soon headed for the freeway. It was a sunny summer afternoon, and once he was out of Reston, the world came to appear innocent again, even sweet. He loved the people in the cars, felt their hopes and loves with the special empathy that only a person who has killed in the line of duty can ever know. There is something about the taking of human life that makes human life seem incredibly precious. Even if killing somebody is necessary, the fact is that your dead remain with you all the rest of your days. Not your dead vampires, though. Only the people.

What if people knew that they were liable to be hunted down and killed, and it wasn't against the law? The very notion was absurd.

On this deceptively peaceful afternoon, he knew that he had to act with the utmost professionalism and speed, or he was going to be hunted down himself. Right this minute, there was an urgent meeting taking place somewhere in the building - probably in Justin's office - covering the issue of Paul Ward. He'd become what was known as a "runner," an agent who, when his actions were challenged, had immediately taken off. To CIA, this response was prima facie prima facie evidence of guilt. The Company was very skilled at hunting such people down. evidence of guilt. The Company was very skilled at hunting such people down.

What he needed to do was clear: he needed to kill as many vampires as he possibly could between now and the time they did manage to catch up with him.

He took 495 to 95, thinking that he'd go to Baltimore, park the car somewhere, and take ma.s.s transit to the Amtrak station.

According to what little he knew about the vampire in America, he needed to go first to New York. The reporter Ellen Wunderling had disappeared there researching the gothic subculture. In Paul's opinion, it was possible that she had stumbled across a real vampire, discovered too much, and been eaten.

So he'd go back to the plan of looking for her. She had disappeared in New York, so that would be his first destination.

He was a man who carried a lot of cash, always, so he'd be able to put some s.p.a.ce between himself and his pursuers.

What a h.e.l.l of a thing that he'd sacrificed lives for the French Book of Names and now he couldn't use it. He couldn't read a word of it himself, and he certainly couldn't stop by NSA and ask them to help him with the translation.

When he reached the exit for Route 32, he decided to make it interesting for whoever would be coming after him. He took 32 up to Columbia, which was a big enough town to have both a bus system and a taxi company.

He went to the Columbia Mall and parked in the covered parking, where his car would be harder to spot. He turned on his cell phone and strolled into the mall. It was so nice, so d.a.m.n American. He went into the Sears, strolling easily, looking at the washing machines, the clothes. He bought a couple of shirts, a pair of pants, a blue blazer and some black sneakers. When he came out of the men's room, he looked like the same guy in different clothes. He knew that you weren't going to be able to disguise Paul Ward, but every little bit helped.

He dropped his phone in a lady's shopping bag. They'd follow that, for sure, probably track it down in about an hour. There was going to be some excitement in her sweet life.

He went outside and hailed a cab, which he took to the campus of St. John's College in Annapolis. A thousand years ago, he'd been a St. Johnnie for a couple of semesters. The school followed a great-books curriculum, starting with Homer and ending with Freud and Einstein. He'd read the Iliad Iliad and the and the Odyssey Odyssey under Professor Klein, who'd had his fingers broken by the n.a.z.is for playing the piano better than an Aryan. Still, as much as it hurt, he had played of an evening, Debussy and Chopin and Satie . . . He hadn't weaned young Paul away from doo-wop, but the playing had been awesome. under Professor Klein, who'd had his fingers broken by the n.a.z.is for playing the piano better than an Aryan. Still, as much as it hurt, he had played of an evening, Debussy and Chopin and Satie . . . He hadn't weaned young Paul away from doo-wop, but the playing had been awesome.

Paul had been the only kid in the whole school who'd favored the war in Vietnam, and also been dumb enough to put a statement up on the bulletin board about it. As a result, he'd soon found himself being recruited by CIA, and thus had begun the rest of his life. Old George Hauser, of blessed memory, had sat with him on that bench right over there under the great oak and spoken to him of what it meant to be an operations officer, how hard it really was, and just how disappointing it could be . . . and how much it mattered.

He went up the brick walk toward McDowell Hall, the administration building and meeting hall, where the choir had met. The young voices returned, calling to him from the quiet that he entered when he entered the building. Downstairs was the coffee shop, and there also was the bulletin board where his current life had begun.

There were people here and there, but the campus was quiet in midsummer. He went through the bas.e.m.e.nt of McDowell and out into the little quad. There was Randall Hall, where he had lived - given a single room even though he was only a freshman, largely because they could not imagine anybody who had written an entrance essay like his successfully living in close proximity to another person. He'd written on Saint Thomas Aquinas, the Summa Theologica Summa Theologica. In those days, he had been a fiercely ardent Catholic. How long ago that was, the days of the skinny kid with the close-cropped hair and the delicate wire gla.s.ses.

He wondered why he had come here. Was it because he was dying, and the inner man knew it? He'd seen many an operational death that started with just this kind of official abandonment. I will not go to prison, I will not go to prison, he told himself as his eyes counted windows to his old room. How small Randall Hall looked now. He remembered it as a grand place. But look at it, you could almost jump over the d.a.m.n thing. A vampire probably could, or come close. he told himself as his eyes counted windows to his old room. How small Randall Hall looked now. He remembered it as a grand place. But look at it, you could almost jump over the d.a.m.n thing. A vampire probably could, or come close.

He'd gotten to this place on the back of a h.e.l.l of a scholarship, the Stephens Piper Award for Scholastic Diligence. Full tuition to the college of his choice.