“Lysenko,” the officer instantly replied. “Lieutenant Frol Lysenko.”
“Why were you sent here?” Blade demanded.
“To capture one of your Family alive and transport them to Washington,” Lysenko responded.
“How were you going to get back?” Blade asked.
“By helicopter,” Lysenko said.
Blade pondered a moment. “Is this helicopter waiting for you or are you supposed to signal it?”
“Signal,” Lysenko disclosed.
“How are you to signal it?” Blade queried. “Be specific.”
“We have a portable radio transmitter stashed about ten miles southeast of here,” Lysenko answered.
Blade contemplated his next question. He was excited about the transmitter. If the radio could be retrieved, the Family would be able to monitor the Soviet broadcasts and perhaps learn information crucial to the continued safety of the Freedom Federation. “How did you discover the location of the Home?”
Lysenko almost laughed. He hesitated for a fraction, then recoiled in fear as the Bowie slashed toward his abdomen. “The spy!” he screamed.
“The spy!”
Blade halted his stroke inches from Lysenko’s stomach. His brow creased. “Spy? What spy?”
“We have a spy stationed in Denver,” Lysenko revealed.
Blade straightened. A spy in Denver? In the capital of the Civilized Zone, one of the Family’s allies? “What’s the name of this spy?”
“I don’t know,” Lysenko said. He saw Blade’s arm tense. “Honest! I really don’t! General Malenkov never told me. All I know is a spy infiltrated the government of President Toland about a month ago, and has been feeding us classified information ever since.”
Blade and Plato exchanged glances. President Toland was the duly elected leader of the Civilized Zone, and one of the few people aware of the Home’s exact location. Many persons knew the Home was in Minnesota, but Minnesota contained almost 80,000 square miles. Anyone searching for the compound could waste a decade in the hunt and still come up empty.
“You mentioned General Malenkov,” Blade noted. “Is this the same Malenkov Hickok encountered when he was in Washington, D.C.?”
Lysenko nodded. “Hickok’s escape embarrassed the general. It was so public… so spectacular. And so many lives were lost! The general hates your Family. He wants you eliminated.”
Blade nearly grinned. General Malenkov’s reaction was understandable.
Hickok, with his usual flair for mayhem, had stirred up the proverbial hornet’s nest in the former American capital. “All right. You stay put. I’ll be back to question you some more later.” He glanced at Geronimo.
“Escort him to the bathroom. Then park him here until further notice.”
“You’ve got it,” Geronimo said.
Blade looked at Plato, then nodded toward the doorway.
Plato followed the Warrior chief outside into the bright sunlight.
“Is there anything you want me to ask him?” Blade inquired.
“Not offhand,” Plato said. “We are already familiar with the Soviet system, and cognizant of their logistical and industrial problems, thanks to Nathan.” He paused. “We must contact Toland and inform him about the spy. Perhaps this secret agent can be apprehended.” He paused again, frowning. “But there is something I would like to discuss with you.”
“What is it?”
“Before I proceed,” Plato stated, “I must qualify my complaint.” He adopted a paternal air. “Blade, I know the Founder had his reasons for organizing the Family the way it is. I know Carpenter believed it was necessary for the head of the Warriors to be permitted to override the Family Leader in a time of crisis. I comprehend the wisdom of the arrangement. And I know interrogating a prisoner is your province.” Plato sighed. “But I really must protest your treatment of Lieutenant Lysenko.”
Blade went to speak, but Plato held up his hand.
“Bear with me,” Plato said. “Lysenko isn’t the first prisoner you have treated so brutally. I doubt he will be the last. And, yes, I can recognize the validity of the psychology behind your methods. But I want to pose a moral issue for your consideration. Don’t answer me right away. Meditate on this.” He cleared his throat. “We, the Family, believe in the guidance of the Spirit in our lives. We believe in exalted concepts of love and brotherhood, don’t we?”
“Yes,” Blade replied.
“We are, after a fashion, symbols for those still languishing in a squalid cultural darkness, are we not?”
“I never thought of it that way,” Blade admitted.
“You should,” Plato said. “Talk to some of your friends in the Freedom Federation. You’ll be surprised at how favorably they view our accomplishments.”
“What’s this have to do with my methods?” Blade asked.
“Simply this. If we claim to be living on a higher moral and spiritual plane than those unfortunates still suffering from the delayed ravages of the nuclear war, don’t we have a certain responsibility to them and ourselves to conduct our behavior according to our highest spiritual dictates?”
Blade studied his mentor. He’d always admired Plato’s wisdom, and reciprocated Plato’s abiding affection. But in this instance, he felt, the Family Leader was wrong. “So what you’re getting at,” he deduced, “is that I should treat our prisoners differently. Not be as hard on them. Is that it?”
“Precisely,” Plato said, smiling. “You see my point?”
“I see it,” Blade declared.
“Excellent.”
“But I don’t agree,” Blade commented.
“Why not?”
Blade raised his right hand and pointed at the west wall. “On the other side of that wall is a world filled with evil, a world where people are murdered over trifles, a world where survival of the fittest is the norm. Oh, there are a few exceptions. The Civilized Zone. The Flathead Indians. The Cavalry. Us. But by and large, a lot of folks out there take each day as it comes, never knowing if they’ll still be alive at the end of it or not. There’s no peace of mind, no security. Existence is hand to mouth.” He swept the compound with his hand. “Well, that’s never going to happen here! I won’t allow it! The only reason we’re able to live on a higher moral and spiritual plane, as you put it, is because those walls, and the Warriors, keep all the killers, all of the degenerates, all of the power-mongers, and every other type of social parasite conceivable outside the Home. Not everybody lives on the same plane we do. A lot of people are outright evil. Wicked. Living to harm others.” Blade leaned toward Plato. “The only methods those vermin understand are the same methods they employ. Violence. And more violence. And if that’s what it takes to preserve the Family, then those are the methods I’ll employ!”
This time it was Plato’s turn to open his mouth to speak; instead, he mutely scrutinized his protege. Plato had taken Blade under his wing after the death of Blade’s father, had even let it be known he wanted Blade to succeed him as Family Leader after his demise. He knew Blade was an outstanding Warrior, perhaps the best the Family had ever seen. Oh, Blade wasn’t as deadly as, say Hickok or Rikki or Yama. But Blade’s overall temperament, despite his tendency to brood periodically, qualified him to be the top Warrior. One day, Plato hoped, if his tutelage was successful, Blade would also qualify to hold the post of Family Leader.
Blade gently placed his right hand on Plato’s left shoulder. “I’m sorry if my methods disturb you. But it simply can’t be helped.” He somberly gazed at the west wall. “You haven’t been out there, Plato. You haven’t seen what it’s like. The constant killing, the senseless slaughter. You must stay on your guard from the moment you leave the Home until the moment you step back inside. It’s sheer hell.”