Chilgers just looked at him. “You’re tired, Professor, take some time off. I’ll have your car brought around.”
“Colonel, I beg you—”
“It’s over, Professor, finished.”
Metzencroy’s stare was distant. “It may well be.”
Chilgers knew Metzencroy had reached the end of his rope. The steps the professor would take now were as unavoidable as they were unfortunate. He was a scientist, not a soldier, with no understanding of loyalty or discipline. He would reveal his fears to Washington, perhaps even make them public. He wouldn’t care about destroying Chilgers or Vortex. His stubborn scientific principle clouded everything. Scientists couldn’t be told they were wrong; that was the problem with them. You used them as long as you could and then discarded them rapidly, sometimes permanently.
Such would have to be the case with Metzencroy.
Chilgers considered himself above all else to be an excellent judge of character, capable of understanding when a man under him changed from an asset to a liability. The key was to ferret such men out just as the transition was beginning. There were no boardroom politics at COBRA. A man contributed as much as he could for as long as he could and then was released. Chilgers thrived on a world of such clarity.
Of course, few who reached their limit — none actually — had ever had the potential to do as much damage as Metzencroy. A drastic situation called for a drastic response. The professor was valuable to him; his knowledge in the field of weaponry physics was unsurpassed. It would be a great loss to COBRA and the entire country. But an even greater loss was possible, even probable, if he was left operable. The risk was too great, and risks had to be staunchly regarded, whatever the cost.
Too bad. Chilgers especially would have liked to have had Metzencroy around for analysis of Davey Phelps when the boy was ultimately brought in. Teke was a good man but he was no Metzencroy, and to understand the boy’s power to its fullest the colonel believed he would need a Metzencroy.
But the professor had made his decision.
Now Chilgers would make his.
Chapter Eighteen
“Yo, Josh boy, those dudes still on your tail?”
Bane glanced out from the phone booth at the blue sedan which had pulled up across the street. “Closer than ever, King. How’s the boy?”
“Doin’ fine. I got him shootin’ well enough already to split hairs. Wait till ya see.”
“I’ll look forward to it. No company?”
“Ain’t been a white man within five blocks.”
“They might not be white.”
“I’ll know ’em no matter what color they paint themselves.”
“I figured that much,” Bane told King Cong and hung up the receiver.
It was closing on eleven A.M. and Bane planned on spending the rest of the day tracking down other passengers from Flight 22. He knew that Davey could not have been the only one affected by whatever had happened on the plane. If some of the others were able to tell him more, be more specific about those foggy moments before the jet landed, he’d be able to take the information to Washington. His proof that something had indeed happened to Flight 22 had to be irrefutable; otherwise the risk was too great.
Bane pulled his Cressida into traffic and watched the blue sedan lag comfortably back. Within a few blocks, another car would take its place, and then another … and another. Bane could lose them at any point if he chose to but he did not. He felt more comfortable knowing where they were. Besides, it wouldn’t be hard for them in any case to figure out his afternoon strategy. It was the next logical step for him to take, and Trench certainly would have expected it, professional that he was. So for now an uneasy stalemate existed, a truce of sorts. The men in the cars could receive orders to move in and take him at any time. But Trench wouldn’t want to chance a bloody showdown and risk coming away empty again. That wasn’t his style at all. He’d choose his time more appropriately and on his terms. What’s more, Trench would cling to the hope that Bane might slip up somehow and lead him to Davey. Take him out now, Trench would think, and the boy’s location might remain a mystery indefinitely. COBRA couldn’t have that.
Bane’s first stop was a fashionable high-rise on Central Park South and a man named William Renshaw. He had no way of knowing who on his passenger manifest would be home or not, so he elected to start at random with one who lived relatively close by in the city. He squeezed his car into a no-parking zone and learned from the doorman that Renshaw lived on the eighteenth floor. The man insisted on calling first and Bane was surprised when a raspy, male voice shot back over the intercom to send him up immediately.
Inside of a minute later, Bane found himself ringing the bell of Renshaw’s apartment. The door opened just a crack. A pair of bulging eyes inspected him up and down.
“About time you showed up,” the mouth below them charged.
“Mr. Renshaw?”
“Damn right. They’re everywhere and I’m running out of ammo.”
“What?”
Renshaw’s answer was to unhitch the chain and open the door only long enough to drag Bane inside. The plush, richly furnished apartment lay drenched in darkness, all sunlight held back by drawn shades. Only one lamp was on, casting eerie shadows on the walls as Bane followed Renshaw into the living-room section.
“They’re hiding because they know you’ve come,” Renshaw said with a wink. He was wearing a blue bathrobe over a white T-shirt and floppy bedroom slippers. His thin gray hair hung wildly about his head and he smelled of stale sweat. “If we wait long enough they’ll come back. Come on out, you bastards!” he shouted at the bare walls. “We know you’re there. No sense hiding.”
Bane realized Renshaw was quite mad. He had seen enough men crack in combat to know the symptoms. The issue here was the cause.
“What’d you say your name was?” Renshaw shot at him.
“Bane.”
“Well, Bane, I hope you’ve had experience in these matters before. They’re too big for a rookie to handle. Some the size of rats, I tell you, rats!”
“What are they?”
“Don’t be an ass, Bane. I’ve called the exterminators a dozen times now. They haven’t changed since the first. Cockroaches. Big ones, big as rats.”
“I see.”
“You haven’t yet but you will.” Renshaw gazed back toward the door. “So where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“Your equipment, dammit! Whatever it is you plan to use to kill these mothers! Vacuum them up, isn’t that what you boys do?”
“Depends.”
“Well, I haven’t slept in five nights now. Just get rid of the bastards quick. Big as rats, I tell you.”
Five nights went back to the day Flight 22 touched down, Bane thought.
“There!” Renshaw screamed suddenly. “There’s one!”
Then, from inside his bathrobe, he whipped out a pistol that might have been a twin of King Cong’s cannon.
“On the wall! On the wall! See it! Here it comes! Oh God, oh God … See it!”
Bane looked at the wall and imagined a giant cockroach sliding down. No wonder Renshaw hadn’t been sleeping.
“Bang!” Renshaw shouted, pulling the trigger to an empty click. “Got the bastard. See that, I got him.”
“Good shot.”
“But I’m running out of ammo and they just keep coming back no matter how many I kill. You’d think they’d get the message after a while. What do you think made them grow so big?”
“I’ll take one down to the lab and have it analyzed.”