“Might I ask what that would be?"
“The largest ecological research and development center in America. Three hundred acres—now just farmland—that will be turned into the most beautiful man-made park in the United States. And the whole thing will be open to the public in time—like Disneyland or Epcot or Six Flags—a giant theme park dedicated to the science and art of preserving the environment. It's something you'll be proud to be a part of."
“Wow!” Sam tried to swallow. His throat was suddenly dry. “That's quite incredible.” He didn't know what to say.
Christopher Sinclair went on at length about some of the work that would be done at the environmental research center, and it sounded like important work. Genuinely beneficial and in fact vital research into such problems as acid rain and the greenhouse effect.
“The project has the name ECOWORLD—at least so far. That may change between now and construction time. But because we don't want any of this to leak out between now and then, we're using a code word. When we call you—or if you call us—let's always refer to the project with this word.” He showed Sam the title sheet on the thick summary. RAMPARTS.
“This is a great project. It looks like you'd want to promote it."
“And indeed we shall when the time is right. But remember—we're talking about millions of dollars being expended. Hundreds of jobs will be created. When this thing is turned over to a big agency and the PR guys start doing their thing—can you imagine what will happen to the land values?” He winked knowingly at Sam. “You of all people should be able to see the advantages of keeping this quiet for a while. And if you make a couple of extra bucks in some smart land speculation—” his big, fleshy shoulders went up “—so who's going to complain?"
“Hmm."
“You'll front the project for me, just as I'm fronting it for my party. I expect two things from you—discretion ... and competency. In turn, I promise you that when you make one of these deals for us, and we tell you our check is in the mail, why, that check will be in the mail overnight. And that check will float. I promise you that, too. Okay?"
“Okay,” he laughed. “It sounds good."
“It is good. It is golden, my new friend. You're in the real estate business, and we're funding you to buy up a bunch of it and put it all together for us, and keep it confidential and one hundred percent professional all the way. You do that—” he tilted his large, silver-maned head and grinned—and you'll never have to put together another deal. This can set you up for life, Sam."
“I hardly know what to say. It sounds too good to be true, you know?"
“I know. But here it is in black and white. Are you our man for this?"
“I'll do my best,” Sam said.
“That's what we want. And we're going to make it the best, sweetest thing you've ever been a part of.” He reached inside the breast pocket of his suit coat. “Let's start with the easy ones and work our way around to the toughies, okay?” Sam nodded. “Why don't you get Cullen Alberson on the telephone later this evening, and see if you can't get him to take this off our hands."
“Jesus!” He couldn't help saying it when he looked at the numbers on the cashier's check.
“We want him on our side, too,” Christopher Sinclair said, sitting back with a look on his face that Sam would later recall as “industrial-strength smug."
The basics were laid out, and they parted company, Sam with the heavy-duty check and the thick sheaf of contracts in hand. Sinclair headed back out of town with Sam Perkins's promise.
He would have many occasions to chew over their conversation. Many things about the deal bothered him, shook him to his core if the truth be known, not the least of which was the awesome amount of money. He was certain he'd stepped into something that was way out of his league.
But the one thing that disturbed him the most was the “why” of it. Why would any party, Japanese, Arab, or extraterrestrial, spend major sums of cash to buy the edges of ten prime pieces of Missouri gumbo? They could buy ten times that amount of ground, better ground in reality, for a tenth of the prices they were going to pay.
The answers, some technical double-speak about “suitability for organic research” according to “soil data” made not a whit of sense. Mineral rights—that's what Sinclair's after, Sam figured at first—until he read the contracts with care and saw that in some cases they weren't even buying mineral rights!
Something was jarringly out of place, and though he couldn't isolate what it was, the deal was as unsettling as anything he'd ever been involved with. And that night when he went home after an afternoon of talking with Cullen Alberson, who almost fainted when he saw the size of the check for his “corner ground,” he sat and stared for a long time at the title sheet on the summary given to him by the mysterious Mr. Sinclair.
Even the hokey cloak-and-daggerish code word nagged him like a note scrawled on the bathroom mirror in lipstick the color of blood.
The deal was obviously not what it was presented to be. Or perhaps Sam Perkins was suffering from a case of professional paranoia. He'd know a lot more when he found out whether that monster cashier's check was going to float or not. That kind of money had a way of speaking volumes to a man.
4
MARION, ILLINOIS
“How sure are you of the security elements, Dr. Norman?” the stern, faraway voice asked.
“Completely, I assure you.” Norman was writing as he conversed, being one of those individuals capable of more than one simultaneous act of logical reasoning. “Two hundred monitor units, that is to say assets, will be in the field.” Translation: two hundred armed shooters. “As you know, we have all the technology at our disposal. The coverage on the subject will be total, around the clock, across the compass. Now that the implant has been perfected, there is no way the subject can escape."
“This bug thing—whatever the implant is—it can't suddenly malfunction? The battery can't die or whatever?"
“No.” Norman stopped writing and looked at the phone in wonder. He was genuinely offended by idiocy. “The implant is guaranteed to outlast the life of the subject.” He went on, seemingly oblivious to the joke he'd made. “It's a perfect opportunity for first-generation research."
“I suppose so. I understand the need for the school, but the idea of letting a killer loose and observing him under field conditions seems ... I don't know..."
“Insane?"
“Right. Insane!"
“Sir, every revolutionary idea has appeared to be insane before it was proved. The first airplane, the first firearm, these things always seem implausible until they work. Look, if I may say so, what are the options? Our resources are not what they once were. The country is being swallowed by foreign interests. We've had to wage costly, terrible wars because of one or two madmen. Had we been able to call on expert assassination teams, we could have saved thousands of American lives. If we must sacrifice a few lives now, to save a great many—perhaps even change the destiny of our country—in the future, then that is a price we have little choice but to pay. Don't you agree?"
“In theory, one agrees. But in actual practice things go wrong. This could explode in our faces. Equipment malfunctions. Computers make errors. Human beings make mistakes. Things happen."
“All those things have been factored in. Just remember this, sir, we're dealing with an art or science that is relatively virgin territory. The subject gives us the chance to study a Bundy, a Green River Killer, a Gacey, a Son of Sam, and the Boston Strangler all wrapped up in one execution machine.