“I imagine the rest of the world won’t be faring much better,” Dogan said lamely.
“Even worse, if you can believe that. Without us to supply them with food at drastically reduced prices or through direct aid, developing and Third World countries will be totally unable to feed their people. England, France, and Japan won’t be far behind either, nor will the effects be limited to our allies. Last year we exported fifty million tons of grain to the Soviet Union and another twenty to other Warsaw Pact nations. People starve just as quickly behind the Iron Curtain as in front of it.”
“But say someone else was able to supply them — and us — with crops.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if a powerful force was able to organize all of South America into a vast food-exporting consortium? What if they had discovered a means to genetically increase crop growth enough to turn this whole continent into a greenhouse?”
Some of the red seemed to fade from Halloran’s face. “Then that force would be in a position to hold the rest of the world hostage. The results would be a massive swing of global economic power over to it, political power too; for, in effect, the whole world would know where its next meal was coming from … or not coming from.” Halloran hesitated. “But don’t expect any of this to make things any easier for the boys and girls back home. The good old U.S. of A. would still be facing drastic economic realignment.”
“Economic what?”
“Realignment. If a system doesn’t work anymore, it’s got to be thrown out and replaced. Regardless of what happens in South America, we’d still lack even the semblance of an economy as it’s known today. No trading, no commodities, no stock exchanges, no banks as they function now, and cash itself would become increasingly worthless.”
Then something suddenly occurred to Dogan. “But how could crops be grown in South America or anywhere else once the fungus is released? It would spread across the whole globe, wouldn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. This fungus of yours could easily be engineered to be chemotrophic, meaning exposure to sunlight and oxygen causes it to gradually break down. It might have a built-in time clock of, say ten days — plenty of time to knock out the United States, Canada, and parts of Central America, while sparing South America and the rest of the world.” Halloran ran another piece of crumpled paper over his face. “But don’t worry because ten days would be plenty of time to plunge half our population into very real poverty. You’d see the evolution of a new two-class system divided simply into those who can afford food and those who can’t. You’d need martial law, curfews, holding pens for the millions of homeless driven to live in the streets. There’d be more people unemployed than working, with the gap continuing to widen because the resources and capital wouldn’t be available to reverse the trend. I could go on forever with this, but then so can you. Just use your imagination.”
Dogan had been doing just that for much of the flight, trying to see what the world would be like as Halloran described the Committee’s vision. Now, as the 747 streaked for the runway, his mind turned to more immediate concerns. After he had spoken to Halloran, Dogan had initiated a series of calls through usual channels in an attempt to make contact with his own people apart from Division Six. None of the conversations had gone well. There was hesitance, uncertainty, contrivance in the responses of his contacts, and only one explanation was possible: Since Dogan had failed to comply with his orders, he had been quarantined. Field operatives would have been warned not to cooperate with him, especially those he’d worked with in the past. And if the quarantine order was restricted, as he fully expected it was, isolation was just the beginning. Qualified field agents would have an open mandate to take him out.
And there was more. Dogan tried to recall the final words of the woman he had killed in the shack overlooking San Sebastian.
The Committee is changing and there is nothing you can do to stop it. It‘s too late. You can‘t fool me with your words. I know they sent you.
The last sentences seemed to indicate a charge that he was part of the Committee. But if so, who did she represent? Perhaps a faction of the Committee had broken off. But what would such a faction have to gain? The operation was well underway. U.S. crops were going to be wiped out while the Committee began the process of turning South America into the greatest crop producer the world had ever seen. So why would there be need for change? What was it he couldn’t stop?
The 747’s tires grazed the runway. Dogan rejoiced to be back on the ground, ready to pick up the elusive trail once again. His trip had filled in all the missing pieces of Locke’s story. He recalled the college professor’s rendition of Lubeck’s final words on tape.
I‘m in a position overlooking the fields now. It appears that … Oh, my God. This can‘t be. It can’t be! I‘m looking out at—
Lubeck must have been looking at the very sight the boy had described for Dogan in San Sebastian: a few fertile rows of crops standing amid utter destruction. The shock of that would have triggered his final, panicked words. Lubeck had known all along the key was food. He must have realized instantly the true significance of San Sebastian. And his report would have detailed it, but they had gotten to him. Yes, it made sense.
What didn’t make sense was that on top of all this, something else was going on, as hinted at by the woman in the shack.
The 747 came to a halt at the terminal building.
The passengers started crowding into the aisles and he joined them. His isolation was a temporary matter. He would contact Vaslov with news of a shadowy terrorist group called SAS-Ultra. Its one-eyed leader had to be found and convinced to join him in attempting to destroy the Committee.
Locke would be waiting for him at the Rome Hilton. Dogan would begin the process from there.
Forenzo, the hotel manager, knew his old friend would be arriving sometime that night. Of course, the American could not be allowed to enter the hotel. The forces that had caught Locke were undoubtedly still about and discretion had to be observed. It would be a small matter to ward Dogan away and one that Forenzo would take on himself. His friend would be looking for him and Forenzo had already prepared the signal. The only other thing required was his presence in the lobby.
Night had already fallen when Forenzo returned to his windowless office. The hotel still had to operate and he was behind in his work. He opened the door to his office and limped inside, flicking on the light switch.
Nothing happened. The bulb must have blown, he figured. He had started to turn back out the door when he felt his shoulders grabbed and twisted. At the same time, the door closed all the way plunging the room into total blackness.
Forenzo was shoved viciously against the wall and was about to scream when he felt the burst of agony in his abdomen. All that emerged was a gasp and a gurgle as the blade was pushed in and drawn up, splitting his midsection in two. Blood poured up his throat but Forenzo was dead before it began to spill out. He slumped down against the wall drenched with his own insides.
Minutes later, after depositing the manager’s body in a pile of dirty linen, Shang stepped into a room on the tenth floor and began the wait for Dogan.
Audra St. Clair held the receiver tighter to her ear.
“Dogan will be out of the way by the end of this evening,” Mandala reported.
“And Locke?”
Mandala hesitated. “He slipped away from us again in Plymouth but he won’t get far.”