Planting date: March 26.
It couldn’t be! These wheat stalks had attained a year’s worth of growth twenty-one days from planting. Mesmerized, Chris walked back up the row.
Each boxed section, approximately ten feet square, represented a different stage of growth divided into seven three-day periods. If the information on the white cards was accurate, the crops’ growth rate had been accelerated at a phenomenal clip. The implications of this would be enormous. He tried to think about the relationship between what he had just seen and what Felderberg had told him at Vaduz. But it was no use. He couldn’t concentrate until he was safely out of this place.
Chris reached the end of the row and turned quickly. The bearded scientist blocked his path.
“Who are you? I don’t know you.” His eyes fell on Locke’s badge. “Wait, you don’t belong …”
Chris was already moving in the other direction, breaking into a trot.
“Stop him! Stop that man!”
Another scientist lunged in his path. Without hesitating, Chris raised the steel clipboard over his head and smashed it down hard into the man’s face. The scientist crumpled to the floor.
Locke dropped the clipboard and darted into part of the miniature wheatfield. In seconds his feet found tile again only long enough to project him forward into the oats, then the corn. The door was just up ahead, but so was the security guard fumbling to yank his gun from its holster.
The pistol had just come free when Locke crashed into him with a shoulder block. The guard dropped the gun as he fell backward.
Chris sped into the corridor. He could hear the feet pounding after him only until the security alarm started wailing. He ran down the hall fighting for his bearings, trying to recall the placement of the nearest exit door. He charted how much ground he had covered by counting glass windows of the lab rooms. At the next larger corridor, he turned.
A parade of guards charged from the opposite direction. Locke squealed to a halt and swung to the right. It must have been nearing lunchtime because a number of white-coated figures were moving leisurely about in this smaller hall. They formed his cover. All he needed was an exit to take him into the parking lot. There he could mingle among the workers long enough to seal his escape.
He spotted a red emergency exit sign over a door at the end of the corridor. His heart lurched against his chest as he continued slithering through bodies, gaining precious ground on the men behind him. He reached the heavy steel door and crashed through it into the bright sunlight. He had to squint and half cover his eyes with his hand but he kept moving. The guards would not be far behind.
Luckily, the timing of his exit had been perfect. The end of one shift and lunch for another had brought a flood of bodies pouring from inside the plant, too many people for the guards effectively to sift through. Chris kept his pace steady, not too fast and not too slow, doing nothing to make himself stand out. He headed toward the main parking lot hoping for a taxi, a bus, even a ride from a fellow worker. He was hurrying now, giving in to impatience, afraid to look back in case the Sanii guards were closing on him.
Suddenly a figure appeared before him, big and thick-haired, with gun drawn.
The man brought his pistol up from his hip in a blur of motion.
“No!” Chris screamed, knowing it was too late.
The man fired.
Locke had started backward, tensing for an impact he knew must come. There was a grunt followed by a thud behind him. Chris turned and saw the prone figure of a security guard grasping his bloodied shoulder, a pistol lying on the cement just out of reach. Then people were yelling, scattering, calling for help.
And the figure with the still-smoking gun was beckoning to Locke.
“Let’s get out of here!” the man screamed. “Now!”
Chapter 17
Saturday night Dogan had arrived at Vaduz Station in search of his quarry but found someone else. At first he didn’t recognize the man with a newspaper in his lap smiling at him from the wooden benches. As he drew closer, though, he found himself smiling too.
“Ah, Grendel, I’ve been expecting you. What brings you to Liechtenstein, comrade?”
Dogan sat down next to the Russian in the all but empty train station. “Business. I’m here to kill a man.”
“Yes,” Vaslov said knowingly. “Christopher Locke.”
Dogan didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “You never cease to amaze me.”
“Our intelligence was quite accurate on the subject,” Vaslov continued. “I came to Liechtenstein to make sure you did not complete your assignment. You’re being used. It’s not your own government that wants Locke dead, it’s someone in the Committee.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Locke is the key, comrade. Remember I told you about San Sebastian? We intercepted a taped transmission sent by one of your side’s agents, a certain Lubeck. We believed he was on the Committee’s trail. When the agent was killed along with the rest of the town, Locke was recruited to take his place and retrace his steps.”
“My God, you know all this from intelligence within my government?”
“The bits and pieces, yes. The rest is conjecture but most accurate in this case, I believe. The exact agenda of Locke’s trip eluded me. I learned he was in London only when a report surfaced accusing him of the murder of a Colombian diplomat.”
“I wasn’t told anything about that.”
“Because it would have raised questions on your part. You were told only that Locke had killed a State Department attaché. In fact, that man was running him. It was the Committee who arranged the attaché’s elimination. They needed Locke isolated so they could control his movements. None of this made sense to me until I learned who Locke was to meet here.”
“Felderberg?”
Vaslov nodded. “Recent intelligence all but confirms that he is the financial middleman for the Committee.”
“Was.”
“That’s right, comrade, you were there. And yet you did not carry out your termination order even when the opportunity presented itself.”
“Something smelled about this from the beginning,” Dogan told him. “I was being used and I didn’t like it. The scene at the Hauser just didn’t play right if Locke had really come there with something to sell. After Felderberg’s bodyguards escorted him out, I made a fast check around. Someone killed him with a poisoned cork and the logistics ruled out Locke….”
“Yes,” interjected Vaslov with a slight smile, “I’ve used that method several times successfully myself. The Americans tried it with Castro, only to find out he drank beer exclusively.”
“Locke was set up,” Dogan continued, “which means I was set up too.”
“And Felderberg’s killing was made to look as if Locke were responsible, once again orchestrated by the Committee. They are using him to reveal the pattern uncovered by your agent in San Sebastian, so they can eradicate it.”
“But why would they want to eliminate their own middleman?”
“One question at a time, comrade. Felderberg became expendable because he had outlived his usefulness to them, in which case their latest plot must be nearing completion.” Vaslov sighed. “I had hoped to turn Felderberg to our side myself.”
“And now he won’t be able to tell us anything.”
“Another man can, however.”