Henriksen arrived in the lobby of the residential building two minutes after they did, and together they drove in a Hummer north to where the body was. Again the buzzards had to be chased off, and Henriksen, the former FBI agent, walked up to take a look. It was as distasteful as anything he'd seen in his law-enforcement career.
"He's been shot, all right," he said first of all. "Big bullet, right through the X-ring." The wound had been a surprise for Hunnicutt, he thought, though there wasn't enough of the man's face left to tell, really. There were ants on the body as well, he saw. Damn, Henriksen thought, he'd been depending on this guy to help with perimeter security once the Project went fully active. Somebody had murdered an important Project asset. But who?
"Who else hung out with Foster?" Bill asked.
"The Russian guy, Popov. We all rode together," Maclean answered.
"Hey," Killgore said. "Their horses were out this morning, Jeremiah and Buttermilk were both in the corral. Both unsaddled and-
"Here's the saddle and bridle," Henriksen said, fifteen feet away. "Okay, somebody shot Hunnicutt and then stripped the tack gear off his horse… okay, so nobody would see a riderless horse with a saddle on it. We have a murder here, people. Let's find Popov right now. I think I need to talk to him. Anybody see him lately?"
"He didn't show up for breakfast this morning like he usually does," Killgore revealed. "We've been eating together for a week or so, then taking a morning ride. He liked it."
"Yeah," Maclean confirmed. "We all did. You think he-"
"I don't think anything yet. Okay, let's get the body into the Hummer and head back. John, can you do a post on this?"
This seemed a cold appellation for a dead colleague, Killgore thought, but he nodded. "Yeah, doesn't look like it'll be too hard."
"Okay, you get the feet," Bill said next, bending down and trying to avoid touching the parts the buzzards had feasted on. Twenty minutes later, they were back in the Project. Henriksen went up to Popov's fourth-floor room and used his passkey to get in. Nothing, he saw. The beds hadn't been slept in. He had a suspect. Popov had killed Hunnicutt, probably. But why? And where the hell was that Russian bastard now?
It took half an hour to check around the Project complex. The Russian was nowhere to be found. That made sense, since his horse had been found loose that morning by Dr. Killgore. Okay, the former FBI agent thought. Popov had killed Hunnicutt and then skipped. But skipped where? He'd probably ridden to the interstate highway and thumbed a ride, or maybe walked to a bus stop or something. It was a mere twenty-five miles to the regional airport, and from there the bastard could be i" Australia by now, Henriksen had to admit to himself. But why would he have done any of that?
"John?" he asked Killgore. "What did Popov know?"
"What do you mean?"
"What did he know about the Project?"
"Not much. Brightling didn't really brief him in, did he?"
"No. Okay, what did Hunnicutt know?"
"Shit, Bill, Foster knew everything."
"Okay, then we think Popov and Hunnicutt went riding last night. Hunnicutt turns up dead, and Popov isn't anywhere to be found. So, could Hunnicutt have told Popov what the Project is doing?"
"I suppose, yes," Killgore confirmed with a nod.
"So, Popov finds out, gets Foster's revolver, shoots him, and bugs the hell out."
"Christ! You think he might-"
"Yes, he might. Shit, man, anybody might. "
"But we'd got the `B' vaccine in him. I gave him the shot myself!"
"Oh, well," Bill Henriksen observed. Oh, shit, his brain went on. Wil Gearing's going to initiate Phase One today! As if he could have forgotten. He had to talk to Brightling right away.
Both Doctors Brightling were in the penthouse accommodations atop the residence building, overlooking the runway, which now had four Gulfstream V business jets on it. The news Henriksen delivered wasn't pleasing to either of them.
"How bad is this?" John asked.
"Potentially it's pretty bad," Bill had to admit.
"How close are we to-"
"Four hours or less," Henriksen replied.
"Does he know that?"
"It's possible, but we can't know for sure."
"Where would he have gone?" Carol Brightling asked.
"Shit, I don't know-CIA, FBI, maybe. Popov's a trained spook. In his position I'd go to the Russian embassy in D.C., and tell the rezident. He'll have credibility there, but the time zones and bureaucracy work for us. KGB can't do anything fast, Carol. They'll spend hours trying to swallow whatever he tells them."
"Okay. So, we proceed?" John Brightling asked.
A nod. "Yeah, I think so. I'll call Wil Gearing to give him a heads-up, maybe?"
"Can we trust him?" John inquired next.
"I think so, yes-I mean, hell, yes. He's been with us for years, guys. He's part of the Project. If we couldn't trust him, we'd all be fucking in jail now. He knows about the test protocols in Binghamton, and nobody interfered with that, did they?"
John Brightling leaned back in his chair. "You're saying we can relax?"
"Yeah," Henriksen decided. "Look, even if the whole thing comes apart, we're covered, aren't we? We turn out the `B' vaccine instead of the `A' one, and we're heroes for the whole world. Nobody can trace the missing people back to us unless someone cracks and talks, and there're ways to handle that. There's no physical evidence that we've done anything wrong-at least none that we can't destroy in a matter of minutes, right?"
That part had been carefully thought through. All of the Shiva virus containers were a two-minute walk from the incinerators both here and at Binghamton. The bodies of the test subjects were ashes. There were people with personal knowledge of what had happened, but for any of them to talk to the authorities meant implicating themselves in mass murder, and they'd all have attorneys present to shield them through the interrogation process. It would be a twitchy time for all involved, but nothing that they couldn't beat.
"Okay." John Brightling looked at his wife. They'd worked too hard and too long to turn back. They'd both endured separation from their loves to serve their greater love for Nature, invested time and vast funds to do this. No, they couldn't turn back. And if this Russian talked to whom, they couldn't speculate-even then, could those he talked to stop the Project in time? That was scarcely possible. Husband-physician-scientist traded a look with wife-scientist, and then both looked at their Director of Security.
"Tell Gearing to proceed, Bill."
"Okay, John." Henriksen stood and headed back to his office.
"Yes, Bill," Colonel Gearing said.
"No big deal. Proceed as planned, and call me to confirm the package is delivered properly."
"Okay," Wil Gearing replied. "Anything else I have to do? I have plans of my own, you know."
"Like what?" Henriksen asked.
"I'm flying up north tomorrow, going to take a few days to dive the Great Barrier Reef."
"Oh, yeah? Well, don't let any sharks eat you."
"Right!" was the laughing reply, and the line cut off.
Okay, Bill Henriksen thought. That's decided. He could depend on Gearing. He knew that. He'd come to the Project after a life of poisoning things, and he, too, knew the rest of the Project's activities. If he'd ratted to anybody, they would not have gotten this far. But it'd have been so much better if that Russian cocksucker hadn't skipped. What could he do about that? Report Hunnicutt's murder to the local cops, and finger Popov/Serov as the likely killer? Was that worth doing? What were the possible complications? Well, Popov could spill what he knew however much or little that might be-but then they could say that he was a former KGB spy who'd acted strangely, who'd done some consulting to Horizon Corporation but, Jesus, started terrorist incidents in Europe? Be serious! This guy's a murderer with imagination, trying to fabricate a story to get himself off a coldblooded killing right here in Middle America… Would that work? It might, Henriksen decided. It just might work, and take that bastard right the hell out of play. He could say anything he wanted, but what physical evidence did he have? Not a fucking thing.