Fountain Society Part 6

"I know it's horrible for you to hear. But it's true." "I remind you of Yvette?"

He shook his head. "Beatrice. My wife's name is Beatrice. She's back at the base and I don't know what kind of danger she's in. If she's smart and feels the way I do, she'll play possum, maybe hope I'm making a run for 60 Minutes or the New York Times. In which case, however, you would be useless as bait, and we would both be utterly expendable." Elizabeth fell silent, her hands shaking. "On the other hand," Peter went on, wanting to get it over with, "Beatrice may be so angry with me she can't see straight, as angry as you are at this moment. For which I can't blame either of you. She may be of a mind to cooperate with the organization that thinks it owns us both, which makes contacting her potentially suicidal. At least that's how I see it," he said, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice again. There's something I'm missing here, he thought, something vastly important to both of them. "Why would you go to the Times? What is it you've been working on?" "I'm working on stopping something," he heard himself say. "Something I started." Then he blurted it out. "A weapon." He felt her stiffen, but at the same time her gray eyes softened, as though thanking him for his attempt at honesty, no matter how addled she might believe him to be. "What kind of weapon?" she asked.

"Like any other kind," he said. "It kills. It just happens to do it especially well." "Like a nuclear device?" she asked, fear creeping into her voice. "Better than that. Or worse, I should say. It can kill selectively, from a safe distance. Nothing can act as a s.h.i.+eld against it. We were making it small and it will get smaller. There's no radiation. You could exterminate a city and move into it the next day. It's just what the doctor ordered, people will say, to put an end to war in the twenty-first century. But it could also vastly expand war, make it cheaper for the aggressors to destroy anyone they don't want in their way. Now," he said, feeling the plane start to roll, "what do you know about air lanes?" "Not much," she said. Her voice was small and her skin had paled visibly in the last moments of his confession. "Just what you tried to teach me. "What Hans tried to teach you. Go on.

"I know we're supposed to fly a certain direction at a certain alt.i.tude." "Like?"

"Like odd-numbered alt.i.tudes for north and south, even-numbered for east and west. Then it's broken down further, like 2,000 feet for east, and 2,200 feet for west." "Is that it? Odd for north and south, even for east and west, at those alt.i.tudes?" "I just made up those alt.i.tudes as an example," she protested. "I'm not sure what they really are-" She broke off as a plane shot by about a thousand feet to their left. It went by like a bullet, sobering both of them. "What's the lowest you're allowed to fly?" Peter asked quickly "Five hundred feet over water, I think, but the air lanes start higher than that." "Okay, then if we fly at five hundred feet more or less, we shouldn't be meeting anybody else, you think?" "I think so," she said.

He pushed the control column down and they dropped, lower and lower until they could see the tops of the waves. He leveled off and kept it there. In the back of what he could only think of as his no mind, he knew it would keep them out of radar view as well, but it was nerve-wracking flying at best. Spray from the breakers bounced off the windscreen; he entertained visions of an errant seagull plowing through the Plexiglas like a cannon sh.e.l.l. "I think it's over there," Peter said, referring to a glow on the horizon that he hoped was Puerto Rico. He angled the airplane toward it, but when they drew nearer, it turned out to be a cruise s.h.i.+p. They flew over it so low they could see some deckhands looking up in alarm. Then they were on into inky blackness, again. With Elizabeth's help, he found the fuel gauge. It was enough like a car's to read, and it was dangerously close to empty. "Which direction are we going?" "I think we're heading out to sea," she said, with a glance at the instrument panel. "East is toward Africa. That's five thousand miles away. We want to go west to find Puerto Rico. That's eight miles." A sense of humor, he thought. That's a hopeful sign. He turned the plane around as best he could-too much cerebration again-and watched the needle on the compa.s.s swing around until it pointed at 270 degrees. Then he heard Elizabeth gasp as he looked up to see the lights of Puerto Rico swing into view, a huge panorama of welcome luminescence. He realized that he must have been flying with the island directly behind him for the last five minutes. "There!" said Elizabeth, pointing at a sweep of green searchlight. Ahead Peter saw the lights of a major runway. He had to fight much harder this time to still his thoughts: he knew instinctively that landing was the most dangerous part of flying. He imagined his mind to be a jumbleful of sticks that represented thoughts and bulldozed them into oblivion. The plane banked easily toward Puerto Rico's San Juan International Airport, as if he had suddenly learned how to fly. Perhaps it was just that he was too scared to think about it, and Hans, in fact, had taken over. He circled three times, each time closer, until he saw a big jetliner abort its descent and climb back up. He gambled that they had been spotted and that traffic was now being diverted. He headed in, letting his hands and feet do the work, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g rudder, dropping ten degrees flaps, pulling back on the throttle and letting the plane nose down. He felt the flaps braking the plane and relaxed, confident that his body was doing everything required. The plane was coming in for a perfect three-point landing when Peter's racing brain broke through the curtain of competence. He was thinking that they needed to get out of the plane before it came to a stop and was wondering how best to land the plane for the maneuver. His hand faltered, the plane came down hard and Peter instantly reverted to his driver's instincts, trying to steer the aircraft like a car. He turned the control column to the left, which only moved the ailerons, unusable at that speed. Dimly he sensed he should be using his feet on the rudder pedals, but the only foot he was using was his right one, pressing down on the right rudder pedal as though it were a cars brake. The plane banged down hard on the runway and leapt back into the air at a crabbed angle, engine roaring. Now there was no time for thinking or not thinking: the aircraft was out of airspeed and slammed back hard in an ungainly stall. The right landing gear buckled and the plane's nose went to the runway, its propeller splintering in a shower of sparks. The Cessna skidded right, went up on one wing tip, then collapsed into immobility. On wobbly legs, they scrambled out, Sirens and lights were shooting toward them at an alarming speed, perhaps a quarter mile away. They took off in the opposite direction, into the deepest darkness they could find, through sand and gra.s.s, along the cyclone fence surrounding the airport and finally diving behind some brush. Looking back at the runway, they saw emergency vehicles gathering around the wreck of the Cessna. There was also a dark Humvee pulling up, its spotlight sweeping the surrounding darkness, darkness already dissipating in the light of dawn cracking from the east. Ducking lower, they ran again.

And then Peter fell.

It was as though someone had struck him with an iron bar. He hit the dirt clutching his head, fiery pain shooting up the back of his neck and over the crown of his skull, blinding him and driving all thought and reflex from his brain. Terrified, Elizabeth shook his shoulders, urging him up. "Peter? Hans? Oh, G.o.d, are you shot?" He barely heard her voice. Ml was agony. He tore at his head like a madman. Then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone, lifting off him like some medieval torture device s.n.a.t.c.hed away by a s.a.d.i.s.tic inquisitor. Breathless and stunned, he sat up.

"Peter?"

"I'm all right." You deserve everything you get, he thought miserably. "What happened?" She touched his arm.

He struggled to rise, a.n.a.lyzing his own fall. "I think the arteries of my brain are too brittle. Seventy-six years old. They can't keep up with the force of this heart." "Seventy-six-what on earth are you tailing about?" "Not my body," he said, too sick to dissemble any longer. "My body is a hale and hearty thirty-five." She stared at him as though he were speaking in tongues. He looked away, her gaze was too intense. Beyond the nearest taxi lane was the terminal, lots of people and what looked like an empty s.h.i.+pping container. The odds were that they would at least hesitate to kill them in public. He grabbed Elizabeth by the hand and they ran for it. They made it. Looking back, he didn't see any headlights swerving around, heading for them. He ducked back under cover and looked at the woman next to him. She looked so young and so frightened: it struck him full-force how innocent of all this she was. "I'm not Hans," he said gently. "I never was. Hans is really dead, Elizabeth. His mind, his brain and all of its memories of you and him-all that's gone. Incinerated on the base at Vieques." Her hand in his went limp. "What are you saying?" she asked. "Hans was a clone. My clone, to be specific." "That's not funny," she said after registering a millisecond of shock. But from the way her lip was trembling, he knew she was beginning to understand the enormity of this insane situation. "No, you're right, it's not," Peter said, his heart swelling with a drunken mixture of guilt and love. Elizabeth tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn't let her. "Before you walk out of my life for good, there's one more thing I have to say. We have a plane to catch."

American Flight 99 had been ten minutes away from closing its door and taxiing for takeoff when it was discovered that the crew had been shorted ten meals by the local vendor, Caribbean Food Services. A truck had been sent back to its kitchens, five miles away. Impatient pa.s.sengers were given free drinks and treated to an NBA highlight tape. While they waited for the dinners to be brought in, flight attendant Mary Blanchard stood with colleague Heather Zuckerbrod in the open service hatch, enjoying the balmy tropical air. For the first time in months, Mary was taking pleasure in her job, chiefly because she knew she was about to leave it. She was pregnant. Her boyfriend, a first officer for the airline who flew the L.A.-to-New York route, was now willing to marry her. She was getting out and it felt good. No more drunk conventioneers; no more victims of air rage, sneaking cigarettes in the lavatory; no more celebrity parents letting their brats and dogs run wild in first-cla.s.s. She took a deep, calming breath, trying to picture weekends at home with Charlie instead of being in the air at thirty-five thousand feet. Out on the runway in the humid dawn, she saw movement. A ground patrol broadcast had warned them to be on the watch for unauthorized civilians on the taxi lanes, and she had flashed on Elizabeth and her gorgeous friend. If they were the targets of this alert, she was bound and determined to help. What could American do, fire her? Blackball her from the airline industry? She couldn't have cared less. She looked and she stared, and by G.o.d there they were, slipping between two s.h.i.+pping containers. And now a series of moving lights pierced through the lingering darkness, airport police vehicles and Humvees moving down the line of planes waiting for takeoff, training their searchlights on every inch of tarmac. Mary Blanchard of Waltham, Ma.s.sachusetts, hurried down the jet-way's service stairs, and as swiftly and as inconspicuously as she could, she made her way to the s.h.i.+pping containers. Leaning against one, she took out a cigarette and tried to look like someone catching a quick smoke before departure. "So" she said casually, s.h.i.+elding her mouth with her cigarette hand, "what have you kids been up to?" "Mary?" she heard Elizabeth say from between the containers. "It's me, all right. Just tell me this. If I help you out, do I end up in jail?" There was a brief pause, not entirely rea.s.suring, and then came the voice of the boyfriend. "She hasn't broken any laws." "But you have?" Mary asked gamely "None that those Humvee guys haven't broken, too." "All right, shut up," said Mary. She turned as the catering truck drew up beside the plane; its driver hopped out. He saw her and stopped, full of apologies. "Sorry, we got the meals now."

Mary gave him her sternest look. "t.i.to, you owe me one." The driver looked sheepish. "You forget ten meals and then delay the flight. Now what you have to do for me is just look out there." Baffled but dutiful, t.i.to stared where she was pointing, toward the runway and away from the containers. Mary gave a wave and Elizabeth and Peter emerged. "Keep looking," she ordered t.i.to, and gesturing for them to follow, she led the two into the back of the meal truck. As soon as they were safely out of sight, Mary stuck her head back out. "What are you waiting for, t.i.to? Gimme my meals!" He sprang into action, activating the truck's scissor-lift. Hydraulics whined and the entire cargo section of the truck lifted straight up, stopping level with the plane's open service hatch. Mary ducked out first, checking her perimeter, then signaled Elizabeth and Peter out of the truck and into the plane's galley. About that time Heather Zuckerbrod rounded the corner and stopped short, gaping at Mary's two companions. "Special VIPs," Mary said.

"Rr. . . right," Heather said carefully.

Outside the aircraft, a pair of Humvees pulled up. Within seconds, the jetway stairs were clanging with the sound of heavy footsteps. "Elevator," said Mary to Heather.

Heather, wide-eyed, pulled open a narrow aluminum door. Mary motioned Elizabeth and Peter inside and both of them squeezed in. It was a s.p.a.ce designed for one, but somehow they made it in and, somehow, Mary managed to get the door closed. She pressed a b.u.t.ton and the elevator started down. Seconds after the stowaways' heads dropped from view, a pair of armed troopers entered the galley from the cabin. "Did you receive our transmission?" one of them asked. He was young and was looking more than a little annoyed with this exercise. "Yup, we did," replied Mary. "So, who's supposed to be running around out there?" "Not for you to know."

"Do you know?"

"No," he admitted. "Man and a woman. Hijackers, maybe, I don't know." He showed her a fax sheet with two photographs, one a driver's license shot of Elizabeth, the other what looked to be a still from a video frame of Peter at a blackboard with an array of numbers and symbols behind him. "You seen em?" "Yeah," Mary said flatly. "Sure, that's them, all right. We gave them an upgrade. As we speak, they're drinking champagne and eating caviar right now in first cla.s.s." "Really?"

"Duh," Mary said. The soldier gave her a hurt look and headed down the aisle with another armed man. The first officer came out of the c.o.c.kpit, empty plastic cup in his hand. "What's up?"

"Bulls.h.i.+t," said Mary.

"Figures. Once they clear us, we're next out." "Thank Cod for small favors," said Mary, filling his cup with fresh coffee. Two minutes later, having checked the faces of the pa.s.sengers against the photographs they were carrying, the two troopers took a last look in the washrooms and c.o.c.kpit, then left the aircraft. Finally shutting the hatches and doors, Mary Blanchard dropped down in her jump seat and grabbed the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay, but we are now cleared for takeoff. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened and your trays and seats are in the upright position. Our captain a.s.sures us he will make every effort to see that we reach Miami on schedule."

The DC-1O was halfway down the runway when ground control radioed all outgoing flights to hold their positions. In the c.o.c.kpit, Captain Larry S. Graham knew that if he pulled all power and applied full brakes, he could abort takeoff and perhaps be able to stop by the time he reached the end of the runway. This would cause at least a dozen necks in the cabin to suffer whiplash, trigger half that many lawsuits, ruin $20,000 worth of tires and most certainly screw up his schedule. Specifically, it would keep him two thousand nautical miles away from his weekly poker game in Boston the next night, and he badly needed to make up for last week's losses. "f.u.c.k those a.s.sholes," he said to his second officer, keeping his hand on the throttle. The DC-10 lifted off.

"Your transmission is breaking up," the second officer grinned and radioed back to ground control. "Please say again. Repeat, please say again." The plane banked smartly and headed out over open water, heading due north.

The s.p.a.ce Elizabeth and Peter found themselves occupying was a lowceilinged cabin ten feet by six in size. One entire wall was taken up by stowed and locked food carts and a bank of ovens. There were no seats. They sat on the floor, Peter sneaking furtive looks at Elizabeth as he spoke. She sat as far away from him as she could, a s.p.a.ce of perhaps four feet. Her arms were wrapped around her knees and her eyes were shut tight. She was, in fact, wis.h.i.+ng she could fall asleep, half from fatigue, half from not wanting to finally hear what she was hearing. "It was done almost as a lark," Peter continued. "Thirty-five years ago. A group of us were working in the same government laboratory complex and one particular scientist took some skin sc.r.a.pings from the rest of us." He was talking in a sorrowful whisper, but it was one in which Elizabeth thought she detected an eerie note of pride. It reminded her of something Hans had told her about Robert Oppenheimer and his grand p.r.o.nouncement after the first A-bomb test. I have become s.h.i.+va, destroyer of worlds. Some c.r.a.p like that. Hans had gone on and on about "Oppy," and she remembered it was the night he had confessed that he had abandoned a career in physics. Now here was Peter or whoever he was talking about the same sort of thing. She felt sick at heart, but still she listened. What choice did she have? "He extracted the DNA and put it into some mothers' eggs, just to see if it would work. This was thirty years ahead of what anybody else was doing. Are you with me?" "Yes, thirty years, I heard you." Everything is true for thirty years. That was one of Hans's favorite sayings. "The infertile women thought they were getting help from their doctor so they could have children. They became pregnant, that's for sure, but the DNA in their eggs wasn't theirs anymore. In the case of Mrs. Brinkman, the DNA was entirely my own. "Did you give your permission?" she asked in a hushed voice. "No," he said.

"Did you know it was happening?"

"No. We were all experimenting on a wide variety of phenomena in physics, biology, mathematics. And we all used each other benignly as guinea pigs. But I'm not making excuses. At a certain point-much, much later-I did know. I was told. And I eventually went along with it. I did that." "Go on," she said, sensing that he was faltering. She was at the center of the known universe and it was h.e.l.l after all. "So what you're saying is that you're Hans. And that you're Peter. You are Peter's brain in Hans's body." "That's the simple truth of it, yes. I know you don't think it could be possible, but it is. Now." "I said go on," she snapped.

"It's appalling. I admit it. I agree.

"You're a murdering a.s.shole," she said, as tears started down her cheeks. "I told you it was complicated," he said, wanting to take her into his arms. "I'm just human after all." She looked up at him. "You positive about that?" "I'm a fool, I know that," he said and believed it with all his heart. "That makes me human." "And a lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she added, so loudly he was afraid someone above them might hear. She ignored his alarm. "How could you agree to such a thing?" He stared at his hands. "I was dying. I refused to do it at first. But at death's door, I broke. And it was something they wanted, it was something they needed so much from me." "They?"

"My wife. And the man behind it all, Frederick Wolfe. We had been friends and colleagues for many years-the three of us. Beatrice was desperate for me to remain alive and for that I can't blame her. As for myself, I accept full blame, I do. It's unthinkable what I've done." "They needed you to work on the weapon." "That was Wolfe's need," he admitted. "I thought it was more out of friends.h.i.+p, but I see now that it was just for his advancement. And for the program's completion. The project, Fountain Society, is every-thing to him, and to those above him, too. The weapon I was working on, for instance. More than likely it would have died with me. Many other incomplete projects will die unless the lives of their visionaries can be extended." "And you, you continued to work on this weapon, as before. Never giving it a thought." "I had my doubts. As time went on more and more. "Uh-huh."

"Especially after I met you. I promise you that's the truth." He reached out for her. "Don't."

He took his hand back. There was nothing more he could say. The crockery on the food carts rattled as the plane hit an air pocket. In miserable silence they sat for a moment, until Elizabeth looked at him. "And you man aged to keep all this secret?" She was dismayed by her own curiosity. "Wolfe was funded for secrecy," he said. "Then, of course, then the Scots blew everything wide open with that d.a.m.n sheep, Dolly. And so the government's thinking was, well, the d.a.m.n Iraqis are going to be putting out cloned armies of Saddams like buns from a baker's oven, why not clone our best and brightest?" "Don't want to have a clone gap.

He looked at her and grimaced. "Something like that." "Or have our lids learning Arabic in the first grade." She was seething. "That's the general idea," he said, looking at her. She saw such regret and frankness and even love in his gaze that she looked sharply away. Don't let this man charm you, she thought. He can do it. "What did you do in Switzerland?" he asked. "I mean, what do you do?" "I don't care to discuss it."

"You're a writer or an artist?"

"Why the h.e.l.l would you think that?"

"You just seem so- "What?"

"So bright. So intelligent."'

""For what? A blonde? Or a model?"

""I see. So you are a model"

"You sound disappointed. You're even more of a sn.o.b than Hans was. "Was Hans a sn.o.b?"

"You know what? I honest to G.o.d don't want to talk about this." But the next moment she felt her curiosity rise again. She was flas.h.i.+ng on the two of them, together, Peter's brain and Hans's body and herself on the beach of Phosph.o.r.escent Bay. Or did that make three people? Three's a crowd, she thought, with a giddy sense of horror and black humor, remembering the sound of the coquis in the trees. A nameless dread came over her. "So arc you implying that you're not the only one?" "I am so far. I guess I was the guinea pig." "Emphasis on the pig," she said. She focused on the engine's whine, trying to drown out the coquis, the sounds of which seemed to be mocking her in some horrible fas.h.i.+on from the depths of her memory. "You don't know who else is on the A-list? The other geniuses in this-what do you call it?" "The code for it is the Fountain Society. And no, I don't know who else might be cloned, I swear to you. ""And the party back at the base-the one whose loyalty you were asking about-that would be your wife?" ""That's right," he said, impressed by her observance and memory. He was gazing at her with admiration and Elizabeth reacted sharply to it.

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't look at me like that," she said. "As soon as this plane lands, I'm going back to Switzerland." "They won't let you," he said, his warning dull and flat. "Not Switzerland, no. That's too obvious. We could try for something else." "We?" she said in astonishment.

"You might be stuck with me, actually. What you saw back in Vieques was only a fraction of what they're capable of. You haven't even met all the players. You wouldn't know them if they walked up to you in a crowded room. You wouldn't know if they were carrying a knife or a pair of handcuffs or a gun- He seemed to be thinking out loud, as though he, too, were learn- ing as well from this litany. And then she saw that his eves were welling up with tears. "What did your parents do for a living?" he asked. She gave him one last look of defiance, then shrugged. "My father was in the Navy, my mother was a housewife." "And where was your dad stationed?"

"I don't remember. For G.o.d's sake, why are you crying?" "Was I? I didn't realize that I was." His voice was filled with exhaustion. "Were you thinking of your wife?"

He stared at her in grat.i.tude. "Yes, actually, I was. "You should have staved with her," she shot back, although not with as much venom as she had intended. "Yes, I know." He was searching her eyes. No, he was searching her eyebrows. Looking for what? "And I'm not staying with you, Peter. The minute we land, I'm gone from your life." His shrug was subtle, which infuriated her. When the elevator motor clanked and whirred sharply. she reflexively reached for Peter's hand. As soon as he squeezed it, she pulled away again, furious again and more confused than ever. The elevator descended and Mary Blanchard stepped out holding two cups of steaming coffee. Peter and Elizabeth eagerly accepted the gift as Mary scrutinized the couple. "How are you two doing? Behaving yourselves, I hope not?" Elizabeth nodded lamely and Mary, sensing that she had walked in on something serious, began to fuss with the food carts. "You guys are lucky. The DC-10's the only plane we fly that has a below-decks galley. Most people don't even know it's here." Peter's eyes were closed. He seemed lost in the steam from his coffee mug. Elizabeth offered a wan smile. Mary sighed. "Fighting already. Sorry, but maybe all this activity will give you a break. Gotta start breakfast." She began shoving meals into ovens and twisting dials, ignoring them both. She was right: Her presence helped. Peter's hands unclenched and Elizabeth got up to a.s.sist Mary. All the bustle muted the sound of the coquis still singing in her ears. 15 LEARJET N-94838.

In the aftermath of the Fountain Society's success with Peter's transplant, Oscar Henderson had a.s.signed the Learjet to Wolfe as a congratulatory plum. Wolfe adored the plane, though its pedigree embarra.s.sed him slightly: it had once been Ollie North's shuttle workhorse for his trips to Central America. That aside, the Learjet had sumptuous leather seats, burl walnut tables and a Lavatory with real marble. In his early, underpaid years as a scientist, Wolfe had always expressed disdain for worldly goods. Now he saw his youthful position as just so much posturing. The Learjet had brought out a yearning for the good things in life and it became a symbol of his everexpanding pride in having achieved the summit he had clawed his way towards through so many years of struggle. At the controls of the jet this day was Captain Bob Culpepper, a ten-year veteran of NASA, fresh from a flight delivering a sealed package to an agent in Bogota. Inside that particular package, although Culpepper neither knew nor cared to know, were the head and genitals of a high-level drug operative of the Medellin cartel. The man had killed a Texas DEA agent the day before and a message needed to be sent. For Culpepper, the trip's only significance was that now his digestive tract was disturbed, the result of having eaten two tapas he had bought from a vendor at the Bogota airport. He cursed himself for his stupidity, turned the controls over to his co-pilot, Second Officer David Anspaugh, and made his way toward the rear of the aircraft. "Everybody comfortable?" he asked nonchalantly. Since everyone said yes, Culpepper proceeded to the toilet at the tail of the plane. As soon as he was gone, Henderson and Wolfe put their heads together again. "I thought this clone sonofab.i.t.c.h was a banker," Henderson fumed. "He was," said Wolfe quietly; keeping a close eye on Beatrice. She was seated across the cabin, staring out the window at the pink-tinged clouds in apparent absorption but Wolfe still thought she might be listening. "Well, then," grunted Henderson, "why don't you tell me how your boy managed to cold c.o.c.k a Navy Seal, not to mention outwit the best civilian muscle money can buy?" "I can only imagine what the quality of the local muscle is on Vieques," Wolfe said dryly. Henderson said nothing, but inward-ly he cursed himself, knowing how pound-foolish he had indeed been. "As it turns out," said Wolfe, "Hans Brinkman was something of an athlete. I rechecked his dossier: he happened to have been a skilled amateur boxer, quite a skier, and he flew his own jet. He was as accomplished physically as he was intellectually. Not surprising, really. if you consider his provenance. Besides, he was fighting for his life and perhaps even for the girl's. The bottom line is," he concluded in a voice as cold as steel, "if you weren't such a penny-pincher, the team you sent in would all have been Seals." "It wasn't a matter of money," Henderson shot back. "It was to keep us clean. If there were fingerprints-as indeed there were-we wanted it to look like a robbery." "And what does it look like now?" Wolfe asked, his anger rising. "I should have locked him up when I had the chance. Along with your precious grandson." "Oh, please, both of you just shut up!"

Beatrice was turned around in her seat, staring at them with hostility. Wolfe and Henderson fell silent, quarreling children silenced by their mother. Beatrice moved to the seat directly across from them, surveying them bleakly. "What else do you know about his clone?" she asked. thing you want to hear," Wolfe said gently Her lovely gray eyes had a pained look he couldn't bear. "Any other hobbies besides boxing and fixing?" Her crisp tone encouraged him. "Skiing, as I said, tennis, bird watching, some martial arts. He was an amateur geologist and paleontologist." "Fascinating," she said.

"Yes, isn't it." Wolfe decided to take a risk. "Peter loved paleontology," he said, a.s.suming a tone of a gentle regret. Henderson ground out his cigar. "Well, he must have studied tae kwon do with a flicking T. Rex because he certainly kicked serious a.s.s back at the hotel." Wolfe sighed. "Oscar," he said quietly, "if you made even the feeblest attempt to display human compa.s.sion, this would go much more easily for all of us." Beatrice waved him off. "That's all right," she said, looking at Henderson. "Actually, the most feeling thing you can do right now is to spare me your bankrupt sympathy." Wolfe fell silent. The pilot was coming back on his way to the c.o.c.kpit; the smell from the lavatory was faint but unmistakable. "Jesus, somebody blow up a f.u.c.king dog in here?" Henderson barked. He Looked back toward the rear of the plane. "Yo, Lance. Do me a favor." Lance Russell, the Navy Seal, stood up and closed the lavatory door He had been listening to the conversation and the look on his face said he wanted very much to meet Peter Jance, Jr. again. Returning to his seat and flexing his hands, he imagined Peter's trachea beneath his fingers. "It's not the first time I've seen this," said Henderson, having to comply with Wolfe's edict. "A good man brought down by a manipulative girl." Beatrice's nod was noncommittal. "I understand she fought bravely, too." She was staring straight at Wolfe. "Panicked is what she was," said Henderson, lighting a cigarette. "Anyhow, she's not going far without credit cards. Fact is, she doesn't have an ident.i.ty anymore. "Who was she?" asked Beatrice.

Past tense, noted Wolfe. Yes, she won't take much coaxing. "Elizabeth Parker," said Henderson. "And how do we know her name?" Beatrice asked. Wolfe shot Henderson a warning look and refilled Beatrice's wine gla.s.s. "That's the name she used when she registered at the hotel." "She must be special," Beatrice said simply. Wolfe's heart ached for Beatrice. He made a decision to tell her just a bit more, hoping to ease her pain. "I'm not sure," he said carefully, "but she might have known him before." Beatrice looked at him. "Peter?"

"No. The clone. She's also from Switzerland. It's possible that she slipped through the cracks in our surveillance of Brinkman. Maybe she was a secret." "A mistress, you mean?" Beatrice indeed took notice, but Wolfe wasn't sure whether she was rea.s.sured or not. "Possible. So you see, there might be some sort of attraction there, indigenous, if you will, to the body." Beatrice sat back, speechless for several moments. Then she straightened, her eyes boring into Wolfe's. "If that were so, what was she doing here? Surely Peter wouldn't have had any conscious knowledge of her existence, let alone her telephone number." "No," admitted Wolfe uneasily. "Not possible." Beatrice continued to stare at him. "Then how would she know to come here?" Beatrice demanded. Wolfe s.h.i.+fted his weight uneasily. "Alex," he said at last. Beatrice blinked. "Alex sent for her?"

Wolfe looked away. The intensity of her gaze was downright unsettling. "He was apparently starting to have his doubts." "About what?"

"About everything. Fountain Project. The Hammer. And certainly Peter's defection didn't help." Beatrice thought for a moment, stunned by this revelation. "How did Alex know about her if you didn't?" she asked. Wolfe shrugged. "He made it his business to know more about the clones than I did. Perhaps he was monitoring this clone's e-mail-I don't really know." Beatrice mulled this over with great intensity "But why call her down here? What did Alex possibly hope to accomplish by that?" "I suppose," said Wolfe, "he wanted to undermine the project. Maybe this was a monkey wrench in the gears sort of thing." "Did he meet with her?"

"We don't know, but we think not. Apparently, Alex never knew where to find her None of us did until Peter did," he added quietly. "And where is Alex now?"

Wolfe and Henderson exchanged glances. "He's gone AWOL," said Henderson. Vanished without a trace." "You don't think he's with them, do you? Peter and, what did you say her name was? Elizabeth?" "I highly doubt it," said Wolfe. "Third wheel and all that. Understand, I rue the day that I allowed Alex in on the project. He was too d.a.m.n curious. He must have gotten into the encrypted files somehow. Just like a big kid, really, going through his parents' dresser drawers to see what he can find." Wolfe took out his pack of Gauloises and offered one to Beatrice. "And what does this woman do for a living?" said Beatrice, accepting the cigarette. "Beatrice," said Wolfe, "you don't need to torture yourself." Keep it up, he thought, lighting her Gauloise. "I just asked you a question."

"She's a photographer's model."

"I see. So she's very beautiful?"

"You don't have to worry, Mrs. Jance," Henderson said. "We'll get her." "Beatrice. I'm not Mrs. Jance anymore," she said, her voice cold as ice. "And Peter isn't Peter anymore. I think I knew that from the start. If I had been completely honest with myself I could have spared my-self a great deal of grief and worry. "I'm relieved to hear that," said Wolfe. Relieved? Her words thrilled him. "He f.u.c.ked us all," Henderson put in gracelessly. "He's a danger we can't ignore." She nodded, her eyes dead. "I suppose not," she said. "Do you think he's told this model who he really is?" "Oh," said Wolfe, "I doubt that very much." "Depends on how much in love he is," said Beatrice. She smiled sadly. "I don't think he's in love with her," Wolfe said, trying to regain ground. "It's more or less an animal thing under these circ.u.mstances. Beatrice looked away. "Even so, I'd guess Peter's come clean," she said. "I know him." "In which case she'll probably' head for the hills, wouldn't you think?" Beatrice examined her fingernails. "Or perhaps try to alert the media? In which case, what?" She looked back up at him and there was fire in her eyes now. "You have orders to terminate her?" "Well," said Wolfe, "no."

"Why not? If Peter's expendable, why isn't she? Or do you intend to use her as bait to lure him back into the fold?" "No," said Wolfe, "we don't intend to use her as bait." "So why not just kill her?"

He looked at her full-on. "Because," he said, "she's essential to our future." Beatrice started back at him. "I don't think I understand." Wolfe drew on his cigarette and tried to continue casually. "She was born in Vieques. She may have been seen by somebody who knew her. We have to be extremely careful." Beatrice c.o.c.ked her head, her mind now racing. "Was her father in the Navy by any chance?" "Yes," said Wolfe.

"And did she come through your clinic?" she asked. "Possibly."

"Well," said Beatrice. "That's interesting." She said this last as though it were the understatement of the century, then rose and walked to the rear of the plane, taking a seat near to where Russell sat sharpening a knife on a whetstone. He folded it into his pocket when he saw her, then got up and joined the men at the front of the plane. Beatrice lay her head against the window Looking back, Wolfe saw that she was crying. He went and sat beside her, offering his handkerchief. "I'm sorry;" he said. "This is h.e.l.l for you, I know" "How long have we known each other, Freddy?" "I don't know;" said Wolfe gently "I believe it was after the glaciers retreated, but I'm not certain of the exact date." She laughed mirthlessly and rested her head briefly on his shoulder. Wolfe closed his eyes and smelled her scent, his heart pounding. "I do trust you," she said quietly She opened her hand and allowed him to take it in his. "I hope you do," he said carefully "Ever since we met, I've wanted you to be happy. In your work, in your marriage. And now that the latter is gone, I feel an impulse to protect you as well. I hope you'll let me do that now. Protect and preserve, you do understand what I'm saying, don't you?" He checked back over his shoulder, making sure Henderson and Russell were engaged in their own conversation, then leaned closer' to Beatrice. The sparkle in her eyes was emboldening him: "For as long as we're together." "So where do we go from here?" she asked. He inhaled deeply. "We've still got risks to a.s.sess. The cerebral events Peter experienced, the mini-strokes, they continue to pose a life-threatening problem, though I'm confident the sclerotic changes are reversible if the rest of the organism is healthy. We know a good deal more now She traced the veins of his hand with her finger. "You're going to operate again." "The work must go on. There's still so much to learn. This time it should be easier." She nodded. "Is he abroad or is he in the U.S.?" "The subject?"

"The clone," she affirmed.

"New York."

"Is that our eventual destination? New York City?" "Yes," he answered. She lifted his hand to her Lips. "Thank you for telling me all this." "You're welcome." He sat beside her for a long moment gathering his courage, then added: "And I don't suppose it's been any secret, either. This most powerful feeling I've had for you all these years... I Love you, Beatrice. And as right as he might have seemed, I have al-ways felt that Peter was somehow wrong for you. She gave a small shrug and caressed his hand sadly. "I suppose he proved that, didn't he?" "Completely," said Wolfe.

"And your intuition is correct. I have known all along what you've felt for me," she said quietly. "Thank you for saying it, finally; and thank you, Freddy; for making things easier for me." "We will be together, Beatrice," he said. "For a long, long time. I have every confidence." "So do I, Freddy," she said. She kissed his hand. "And now, if you'll excuse me?" She waited until Wolfe swung his legs out of her way, touched his cheek, then walked down the aisle to the rest room and locked the door. After the lights flickered on, she stepped close to the mirror and studied her face, running her fingers over her cheeks, her eyes, her hair. She looked at herself for several minutes, with only the faintest tremor, then turned and lifted the commode's seat, kneeled over it and vomited for the first time since she had stopped drinking fortyfive years ago. She didn't stop until everything she had shared with those men-every whiff of cigar smoke, every cigarette, every ounce of liquor or wine she had accepted from them-was out of her system and flushed into oblivion. Beatrice Jance stood up and took out her makeup case. For as long as she remained with this madman and his sycophants, it was important that she look normal. Absolutely normal. And, by Cod, she would. Even if it killed her. ***

As soon as the Learjet landed in Puerto Rico, Lieutenant Roger Thornton, a stocky U.S. Ranger who ran the security force at Roosevelt Roads, briefed Henderson. Wolfe and Russell listened carefully. Everywhere they looked there were troops and semi-armored vehicles. The airport was under siege. "We sealed it and searched it, Colonel. There's no way Dr. Jance or anybody with hi m got through the fence, We have vehicles every hundred yards." "But you don't have Jance," said Henderson. "No, sir, we did not find him."

"What about the terminal, the baggage dock?" asked Russell. "Sir, my troops have searched every building, shed and vehicle on the grounds, as well as every plane." "Any aircraft take off since the crash?" asked Henderson, whose ears were turning red with fury "Only one, sir. American Flight 99. It was midway through its takeoff roll when we sealed the airport. But we'd already searched the aircraft thoroughly." "Where's it headed?"

"Miami International, sir. Should have landed about five minutes ago. "Then I want a team at every gate five minutes ago!" he screamed, sprinting back toward the Learjet. The others scrambled to catch up, while Beatrice Jance watched intently from the window.

MIAMI, FLORIDA.

For twenty minutes after American Flight 99 landed at Miami International, Peter and Elizabeth remained in Mary Blanchard's galley bay. After all the pa.s.sengers and crew had disembarked, Mary came for them. They emerged from the elevator and slipped down the jetway service stairs. With Mary's card, they entered without incident through a service personnel door, pa.s.sing through the flight attendants' lounge, down another flight of concrete stairs and through the chaos of baggage handling. Since Mary knew many of the people in these behind-the-scenes areas, they moved quickly and without challenge. If anyone noticed them at all, they were thought to be pa.s.sengers on an escorted search for lost luggage. Mary brought them into the public s.p.a.ce of the airport near Baggage Carousel 3, which was at the moment tumbling out luggage from an arriving flight from Chicago. The area was a maelstrom of exhausted pa.s.sengers, pus.h.i.+ng and shoving, grabbing bags and wheeling carts, all eager to be out of the airport and into the southern Florida suns.h.i.+ne. "This is it for me!" Mary said to Elizabeth and Peter. "You gonna be okay?" "Thank you, Mary Thank you so very much," Elizabeth said with tears in her eyes, giving Mary a quick hug. Then they were on their own, weaving through the crowd, heading for the door. Their clothes were still caked with dried mud, causing a few heads to turn. "Try to smile," Peter said. "And make it look a little like we're together." She said nothing.

In fact, the entire time they were threading through this ma.s.sive airport, Elizabeth had ignored all of Peter's attempts to speak to her, pulling away eyen if their arms accidentally touched, But as they pa.s.sed at last through the sliding doors into the humid Miami air, they saw three patrol cars pulling up at the curb not more than a hundred feet away. Uniformed officers began pouring out and Peter saw Elizabeth freeze. He eased up beside her, nudging her toward the taxi stand. This time she didn't recoil. The line for taxis was six deep. Peter fished the last twenty out of his wallet and palmed it into the dispatcher's hand. "Medical emergency;" he explained to the other people waiting for cabs, silencing their instant barks of protest, and hustling Elizabeth inside. He hoped it was no more than a white lie, for during the last five minutes an optical migraine had been causing an ominous pressing in the lower margin of his visual field. As the cab slipped past the squad cars, Peter rolled a thumb and finger into his eyelids, trying to make the lights go away. Then Elizabeth spoke for the first time in a long, long while and her voice was unwittingly tender. "Peter?" she said. "Are you okay?

"I've been better," he said, and meant it. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. But thank you for asking."

Their eyes met for an instant, then she looked away. But in that instant an immeilse amount of information was conveyed to Peter, although it was all still a jumble. There was hurt, anger, love and terror-all of it transmitted in that one moment. He hadn't felt so protective of anyone since the third year of his marriage when Beatrice had suffered a miscarriage and was thrown into a depression so profound that she didn't know whether she wanted to live or die. He touched her hand. She didn't respond, but neither did she take it away. And Peter felt overwhelming love for her. "As I said, Elizabeth, we may be stuck with each other for a while," he said, as their cab, just entering the Dolphin Expressway, pa.s.sed a string of police cars and Army vehicles going in the opposite direction, roaring into the airport with sirens blaring and lights blazing. They both fell silent, realizing both how close they had come to being trapped and how ferocious and far-reaching the search for them had become. "What's that about, man?" the driver wanted to know. He was about forty-five, no taller than five feet, with a keloid scar bulging over his ear like a wad of bubble gum. His head was barely visible above the steering wheel. "d.a.m.ned if I know," said Peter.

The driver eyed them in the rearview mirror. "You guys look like you been out in the glades. Been hunting gators?" "Just a filthy airplane. Don't every fly Air Guyana." The driver barked out a laugh. "Hey, I get it. You holding any weed? You bring in a s.h.i.+pment of Marimba?" He was eyeing Elizabeth closely. "No," she said. "But thanks for asking." "We were doing some work in Cuba," said Peter, taking a flyer on the cabby's place of origin. "No s.h.i.+t. What kind of work?"

"Well," said Peter, darting a look at Elizabeth, "let's say something for freedom. They shot down our plane." "No s.h.i.+t! You with the guys who drop leaflets?" "Something like that," said Peter. They were going to need all the help they could get. "Right on, man!" the driver erupted, twisting around to shake Peter's hand. Peter took it quickly, eyeing the semi roaring by them six feet away. "Mind your driving, now," he said.

The driver turned back to the road. "I knew those last guys who got shot down," he said, shaking his head. "Good family guys." He swerved through a tiny opening between two all-terrain vehicles, blasting his horn and shooting them dirty looks. "Bay of Pigs, man. I was just a kid, but I almost got my a.s.s shot off. You know what I say? Good for you. Here, take my card. You ever need anything-a car, a little smoke-you give Ramon Martinez a call." "How about a nice out-of-the-way hotel? Where we can sort of regroup for a while?" "No problem, man." He rummaged through a tray of business cards and handed one back. To Peter's relief, Elizabeth took it. She was a partic.i.p.ant in their flight now, no matter how conflicted about it she might be. He desperately needed her help, and even more desperately' wanted her to accept him again, despite every justification for her not doing so. It looked very much like Wolfe and/or Henderson had pulled out all the stops on the hunt. Which meant that some sort of cover story had been concocted to explain the chase's urgency. Most likely it was something that made either him or both of them out to be a threat along the lines of the Unabomber Meets Patty Hearst. The migraine flicked heat lightning inside the lower rims of his eyeb.a.l.l.s: he knew he could easily go down with a ma.s.sive embolism at any moment. But he found he was much more terrified of losing Elizabeth. By the time they reached the Rosaria Hotel in Coral Cables, Martinez had given them the address of all his favorite restaurants in Havana and the name of his uncle, a one-star general in the Cuban army. "General Jesus Pinar del Rio. He's plotting from the inside to get rid of the old maricon, you know what I mean? You need a ticket fixed, any other favor, he's good for it-just pick up the phone and give him a call. Jesus Pinar del Rio, don't forget it." He shook both their hands and, refusing payment, drove off. Peter booked them into adjoining rooms. Elizabeth accepted without comment. His room was large enough for a bed, a Formica table and a television. The bathroom didn't even have a counter. Clearly the driver and the manager were family, but Peter didn't care. The place felt anonymous, permissive and for the momentproviding his cerebral vessels continued to function-relatively safe. He took a ten-minute shower, letting the hot water warm his skull and, with any luck, expand his blood vessels as well. It seemed to work. Feeling much better, even a little optimistic, he shaved with the Bic razor and lozenge of soap included in the hospitality pack. He then picked up the phone and from memory dialed Beatrice's lab number. He was so relieved to hear it ring that his teeth began to chatter. Beatrice, I'm still alive, do you care? There was no answer, and then came the little hiccup in the ring signaling that her voice mail was about to kick in. There was a good chance, he realized, that Henderson had installed a caller ID on the phone, so after listening to her outgoing message, simply to hear the sound of her voice, he put the phone back into its cradle. Her message had not been altered and that disappointed him. Idiot, he thought, what did you expect? Hi, if this is Peter calling, all is forgiven. Even if she were having second thoughts, she wouldn't risk alerting Wolfe-she was too smart and cautious for that. He sat for a few moments staring at the floor, lost in guilt and conflicted love, then knocked on the door between his room and Elizabeth's. A minute later she let him into her room. She had rinsed out her T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans and dried them with the hairdryer. "I need to do some shopping," he said. "If you decide to take off, I only ask that you leave a note telling me that it was under your own steam. Not that you owe me such a consideration," he admitted, "but if I thought you might be coming back, I would probably wait for you until-" "I'll go shopping with you," she said. Her mood was solemn and he sensed there was more she wanted to ask him. He hoped that somehow they would have time together again, but there wasn't that much room to maneuver. He figured they had bought twenty-four hours at most. They took a cab through Coral Gables, past luxurious Mediterranean houses and manicured lawns. "One of America's first planned communities," the driver told them, mistaking them for tourists. "We do not speak much English," Elizabeth replied in a preposterously thick Teutonic accent. Peter looked at her. She gave a faint shrug, as if to say "What the h.e.l.l?" Then in perfect American English, she turned to Peter. "What's your wife like, Peter?" He was so taken aback he didn't reply at first. "I know that's an industrial-size question," she admitted more gently. His heart skipped a beat. "Beatrice is a force of nature," he said. "A wonderful woman." "A scientist?"

"Neuroscientist."

"A doctor?"

"She has her M.D." They were pa.s.sing a freshwater coral lagoon, the Venetian Pool. The driver decided to keep the sightseeing information to himself. He had already concluded that his pa.s.sengers were having an illicit affair, and he wanted nothing more to do with them. He was a Fundamentalist Baptist and took sin seriously. "What's she look like?"

Peter looked at her. She wasn't confrontational. She seemed simply curious. He sighed. "What's she look like? She's lovely. Beautiful. A handsome woman, I guess you would say." He was sorry he had added that. Patronizing b.a.s.t.a.r.d. The words felt like ashes in his mouth. "We've been married fifty years," he said, as if it mattered. She took that in. "Fifty."

"Fifty last June."

"Are you still in love with her?" she asked, her voice trying to remain neutral. He didn't hesitate to answer. "Yes."

"Good. Then do you think it's possible to love two people?" she asked. There was something edgy and accusatory in her tone, but also vaguely playful. Even her having brought up the subject made a certain mad hope spring up in his heart. "Yes, apparently it's possible."

"You're not sure?"

"No, I am sure. I'm the perfect example. I love her, and I love you, that's all I know" Elizabeth looked at him for a long time, then the cabby interrupted. They had arrived at their destination. He had deposited them at the Miracle Mile shopping district. There they each bought enough clothes to last a week, and suitcases in which to carry them. Peter asked Elizabeth's advice on his purchases and she gave it sparingly, usually in a "yes" or "not a good idea" sort of way. Otherwise she went about her business silently. Peter bought shaving supplies, then found an ATM and maxed out his bank card for $300 in twenties. He found a sports store with a survivalist slant and bought a canister of mace and something called a Gerber/Applegate Combat Folder. The latter was a four-and-one-half-inch folding knife that opened with a thumb stud so it could be deployed, the term the clerk used, with one hand. Its handle was made of fibergla.s.s-reinforced nylon, the rear forty percent of its edge was serrated, and it had an overall length, when opened, of ten and one quarter inches. According to the salesman, Ranger and Special Forces personnel, as well as police and game wardens, favored the Combat Folder. Peter bought it, struck by how easy it was to arm yourself in America, but comforted by that dark reality on this day. His last purchase was made at an electronics store. He had found a set of Motorola citizen-band walkie-talkies. He figured if they were separated, they could keep track of each other. They were small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and supposedly had a range of up to three miles. Unfortunately there was, for the first time, a problem with his credit card. "I've been using it a lot today." he said to the clerk. "It probably raised a flag. Let me talk to them." The young man handed him the phone.

"h.e.l.lo, this is Peter Jance."

"This is Peter Jance?" a man asked.

"Yes, I said it was.

"Are you doing an unusual amount of shopping?" "Yes. We-I'm on vacation. It's quite all right. The card isn't stolen. Do you want to know my mother's maiden name?" "We noticed that you purchased an item from Coral Gables Wilderness Inc. for ninety-five dollars," the voice said, ignoring Peter's question. "A Gerber/Applegate Combat Folder. Did you make that purchase?" "Yes," said Peter. The hackles began to rise on his neck. "It's a pocketknife." "Combat Folder, though."

"Yes, well, you know how they like to give fancy names to things these days." "Do you know how to use it?"

"What?"

"Do you know how to use it?" the voice on the other end of the line repeated the question. Peter felt a cold shudder shoot up his spine. The man's voice had taken on a harder, more mocking tone. "Well," the man asked. "Do you?"

"Yes, I do," said Peter as firmly as possible. "Good. You had better."

There was a pause and then a click. Peter swiveled around. "Elizabeth!" he shouted. Absurdly, a line from Emily Post, a writer he had devoured at twenty-four when he had begun courting Beatrice, echoed in his mind. A gentleman never calls the name of his lady companion in public. "Elizabeth!" he screamed again.

"Peter?"

He spun around. She was no more than ten yards away. "Come on," he said. She saw the look on his face and took off with him as he ran out of the store and down the crowded sidewalk to the nearest pedestrian alley Seconds after they were out of sight, a dark green Ford Bronco with smoked windows pulled to the curb outside Suns.h.i.+ne State Electronics. Five men in civilian dress who looked like military types charged into the shop. Peter and Elizabeth waited until they were out of view, then ran to the other end of the alley, coming out on SW 57th Avenue. Peter started to hail a licensed cab, but Elizabeth steered him toward a gypsy instead. "No radio," she explained as they fell back onto its torn seats, out of breath. His head was pounding and he had to force himself to remain engaged with her. "Right. They'll call the cab companies. She nodded. "Be on the lookout for two people wearing clothes that still have the price tags on them." Peter checked his clothes. On the adjustment strap of his baseball cap, stamped "Gator Hunter," he actually did find a tag; he threw the cap out the window. The taxi was a block away by the time the Marine reinforcements swooped into the shop's perimeter, and completely out of the area before a chopper arrived to get a bigger view. Peter started to give the driver the name of their hotel, but Elizabeth stopped him. "You paid by credit card," she said.

"You're right again," he said, head throbbing. She was taking charge now. It was as though she could sense his weakened state. In an agonized daze, he considered if that meant that she had decided her best chance for survival lay in sticking with him. "Vieques," she said softly.

"I'm sorry?"

Her eyes were closed. "Just thinking out loud. The cloning experiments you mentioned. You said they were all conducted on Vieques?" "I guess I did." He didn't really want to go through this again. "Why?" "Just sorting through some memories." She looked at him and smiled. But her smile held a touch of acid. "And coincidences. The way we met at Phosph.o.r.escent Bay, for instance. Did I mention I dreamed of the place before I saw it? And El Fortin-I knew what it was without looking it up-same for the tree frogs. I didn't mention this?" He smiled uneasily. "No, I don't think you did." "And you know, of course, that my father might have been stationed in the Caribbean." His rising panic was beginning to cloud his brain. "Really, Elizabeth, we should be thinking of how to get out of here. Do you have anyone you can wire for money to buy a couple of plane tickets?" She looked at him and saw the pain. She got it. "Find a bank," she said to the driver. "And a phone booth." The driver did both. With her travel bag weighted down with quarters, Elizabeth called Annie in Zurich. Peter stood outside the booth, keeping an eye out for soldiers and cops, but also trying to eavesdrop. "-in deep s.h.i.+t, Annie," he heard her say. "Am I missing him? Not as much as I'd like to. Sorry to be so cryptic... Yeah, I guess it's fair to say I'm feeling awful... I hope you can help." He edged closer, but she caught the move and stood there with her eyes on him until he understood and moved well out of earshot. Peter retreated to a pile of new tires chained to a sign. They were calling from a pay phone at a gas station and he idly watched the business come and go. A metallic taste was creeping into his mouth, either a herald of another mini-stroke or a symptom of his growing confusion. When his stomach growled, he realized that neither of them had eaten in twelve hours. Finally she hung up. Smiling. They headed back to the mall. "Mission accomplished?"

"Yes, thanks to Annie."