The Last Gasp, page 53
Prothero nodded, his long tanned face stiff and without expression.
Chase was silent. Was this any more crazy than what was already happening to the world? In the face of governmental inertia and political funk it was clear that something had to be done. For if nothing was done, what was the alternative? He said quietly, ‘Have you the remotest idea of the cost of such an undertaking? The top line is a hundred million dollars, and I could go on adding noughts until you got dizzy. Have you considered that?’
‘Funding is available.’ Ingrid Van Dorn smoothed her skirt and laced her slender white fingers around her knee. ‘We have obtained pledges and offers of support from wealthy individuals, trusts and organisations. Money is not the problem.’
‘Then what is?’
‘You’re a scientist,’ Prothero said, ‘and you also have proven organisational ability. More important, from our point of view, you are known and respected, and you have an international standing. You could find and recruit the right people. They’ll listen to you.’
‘You want me to head this thing?’
They looked at him without answering.
Did this preposterous scheme have a chance of succeeding?
‘You do realise why it would be a serious mistake to make this public knowledge,’ Ingrid Van Dorn said. ‘The United States government would not look kindly on such an independent research project on its own soil. For that reason we must proceed cautiously, and in the utmost secrecy. For obvious reasons, neither the senator nor myself can be overtly involved because of our roles as prominent public servants.’
‘Very properly you raised the matter of funding,’ Prothero said. ‘One of the biggest items of expenditure will be a research base large enough to accommodate several hundred personnel and all the necessary facilities. Also, it will have to be isolated, hidden away somewhere. That’s a pretty formidable specification,’ Prothero said, though he was smiling. ‘It so happens we already have such a facility, courtesy of the Defense Department.’
‘They’re going to rent it out by the month?’ Chase said tartly.
‘No, it’s entirely free of charge: the Desert Range Station at Wah Wah Springs in southwestern Utah. It’s part of the MX missile silo complex that was abandoned more than a decade ago when the Defense Department decided to phase out nuclear weapons—’
‘—in favour of Weapons of Climate Degradation,’ Chase interjected.
‘Quite so. What you might not know, Dr Chase, is that the total cost of the MX missile system amounted to eighty-six billion dollars – but it was outmoded before it was even completed. They left behind workshops, maintenance bays, living quarters and plenty of room for laboratories and other facilities. What’s more, the entire installation is buried under millions of tons of reinforced concrete in the middle of the Utah desert. The nearest town of any size is nearly a hundred miles away.’
‘You say it was abandoned – but wouldn’t they leave a small military unit behind to keep guard?’
‘As a representative of a Senate committee I toured the area in 2024,’ Prothero said. ‘It’s an empty shell. There isn’t a soul there.’
Ingrid Van Dorn said, ‘We’ve mentioned the need for secrecy, and I’m sure you appreciate the necessity. But there’s another reason, one that might not have occurred to you.’
‘Which is?’
‘You heard no doubt of the assassination of Joan Weinert? She was head of research at the World Meteorological Organisation.’
Chase nodded.
‘This is the third such murder in as many months,’ Ingrid Van Dorn said. ‘Every target has been someone – scientist, politician, administrator – working to improve the environment in some way. They are too well planned and executed to be the work of lone individuals. The pattern is too systematic to be random homicides.’
Neither the UN Special Rapporteur or the senator would be aware of the attempts on his own life, Chase knew, and he decided this wasn’t the moment to enlighten them. He had more than theories to fuel his suspicions of who was responsible. The classified files leaked by Howard Nevison had made a direct connection between the Alliance for the Advancement of American Values and the JEG Corporation, but without evidence it was impossible to know if the AAAV and Joseph Earl Gelstrom were also behind these more recent deaths.
‘You’re suggesting there’s an organisation of some sort behind them,’ Chase said. ‘Who might it be?’
‘My money is on one of the intelligence agencies,’ Prothero said. ‘Take your pick. The US, Russia, China, Israel, Saudi Arabia – it’s a wide field.’
‘I could go along with that,’ Chase said, ‘except you’ve failed to provide a vital element: motive.’
‘That’s true, we don’t have one,’ Prothero conceded. ‘But you and I both know, Dr Chase, that with intelligence agencies screwball ideas are a dime a dozen – the screwier the better.’
‘What you’re driving at, I guess, is that anyone known to be involved in a project such as this is a prime target.’
‘Yes.’
‘As a former head of the EPA, your views are well known, Senator. You’re already at risk.’
‘As are you,’ Prothero said. ‘And I already take precautions.’ He took off his spectacles, flicked out a snowy white monogrammed handkerchief and began to polish them. His eyes were watery, but no less piercing without the thick lenses. ‘And if I were you, I’d do the same.’
‘Even if I decide not to accept your proposition?’
‘Even so.’
‘Though one can take too many precautions in this life.’ Ingrid Van Dorn’s glacial blue gaze was fixed on the ceramic sculpture, yet her remark was addressed to Chase as forcefully as if she had taken hold of his lapels. ‘Sometimes we have to take risks to make it worth the living. For ourselves and for our children.’
5
1
Beaming like a child on Christmas morning, Cheryl followed Boris Stanovnik through the pine-floored hallway and into the long sunny room that was more like a cluttered study than a living room. Bookshelves lined three entire walls and there were books scattered everywhere, some sprouting markers made out of folded typing paper. Piles of magazines, scientific and technical journals, newspapers and files of different colours were stacked on every flat surface. In a recess next to the window was a massive stripped-pine chest, reaching almost to the ceiling. In place of the usual ten drawers there must have been fifty, some quite small, others the size of shoeboxes.
‘This is wonderful!’ Boris hugged Cheryl to him and then held her at arm’s length for a long searching scrutiny. ‘Wonderful to see you! After all this time!’ He beamed at her delightedly.
Shafts of sunlight made slanting pillars at the far end of the room, but even so a log fire blazed in the rough-hewn stone fireplace. Oregon in the fall could be decidedly chilly.
Cheryl smiled, trying to get her breath back after the bear hug. ‘It has been a long time. Five years. Gavin was really disappointed at not being able to see you, Boris, but he was called away on urgent business.’
‘As you said when we spoke yesterday. I’m so glad you were able to come.’ Boris lifted his close-cropped grey head and called out to his wife in Russian.
Amazing how little he’s changed, thought Cheryl. Still the same broad powerful physique and vigour, the same alert-eyed intelligence, and he was well into his seventies. Nina appeared, and to Cheryl it seemed the reverse had taken place. She was small and frail and she now walked with a stick. There was the pinched, harrowed look on her face that those who live constantly with pain acquire; she suffered badly with arthritis.
Cheryl expressed her sympathy, but Boris had to translate; after ten years in America his wife’s English was still limited to a few phrases.
They sat cosily around the log fire drinking the strong tea that Boris had made in the samovar. Cheryl explained about their trip, and after every two or three sentences Boris would dutifully translate. He shook his head when he heard that Gavin and Dan had gone to New York.
‘We know what’s happening there; we watch the reports on TV. They named it now the Rotten Apple . . .’ He grimaced. ‘Very bad there, the East Coast, and the South. It’s like a cancer, eating away the country bit by bit. Every day it creeps nearer.’
Cheryl looked towards the sunlit window. ‘You seem to be all right here. The air smells good.’
‘Yes, the air is mostly good and clear,’ Boris agreed, sipping his tea. ‘There are forests and relatively few people. On some days we see dark clouds, industrial smog, but it blows’ – he pushed his large hand through the air – ‘away to the ocean. Thank God.’
‘Don’t you miss your own country at all?’ Cheryl asked.
‘At certain times of the year perhaps. When all the leaves turn brown and fall like pieces of burned paper. Yes, we feel sad then.’ Deep vertical creases appeared in his cheeks as he smiled. ‘But it is beautiful here too! Mountains, lakes, forests. And it has one tremendous advantage over Russia.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘No Federal Russian Security Bureau. At least here we are not spied on and followed everywhere. Vida is a good place to live and work. We feel safe and protected – look, let me show you!’
He wanted her to see the unbroken range of peaks to the north and east. Their slopes were thickly wooded and dusted lightly with the first snow of the season. It looked like they formed an impregnable barrier, shutting out the rest of the world – but no barrier was impregnable to the climate.
‘Mount Jefferson, South Sister, Huckleberry, Diamond Peak, Bohemia Mountain.’ Boris sounded them off proudly like favourite grandchildren.
‘What work are you doing?’ Cheryl asked him.
Boris stood with his thumbs hooked into his belt, his chest swelling under a dark brown woollen shirt with embroidered pockets. ‘I write and study and do research. I’ve been cataloguing the plant life along the McKenzie River, collecting specimens. There are hundreds; it’s so fertile and varied.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Up to now I have classified one hundred and twenty-six different species.’
‘I didn’t know you were a botanist,’ Cheryl said in surprise.
‘No, I’m not, strictly speaking. I was a microbiologist. Much of my work for the Hydro-Meteorological Service was concerned with the conditions in rivers and lakes, how a change in climate might affect them and vice versa. That meant examining the soil, fauna and flora in order to understand the interaction between them and the natural water supply; my particular study was the process of eutrophication.’
‘Is there any sign of eutrophication in the McKenzie River?’ Cheryl asked, vaguely uneasy.
But the big Russian shook his head unhesitatingly. ‘None. No trace at all.’
That was something to be thankful for. Eutrophication indicated that the biological oxygen demand of underwater plants and animal life was exceeding the water’s capacity to provide it. This led eventually to stagnation – the lake or river turning into a foul-smelling swamp, which is what had happened in the Gulf of Mexico.
Regretfully, Cheryl had to refuse the invitation to stay for dinner. She had to drive back to Eugene and prepare for an early start in the morning. There were two Midnite-Net groups in the general area to visit: one at a place called Goose Lake in southern Oregon, the other across the border in California.
A soft, mellow dusk was falling as she was preparing to leave. The firelight threw dancing shadows along the crammed bookshelves as Boris went across to the large pine chest in the corner, its row upon row of brass handles winking like fireflies. He beckoned to her, and Cheryl sensed a certain reluctance or indecision, as if he couldn’t make up his mind about something.
‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, sliding open one of the drawers and taking out a rigid sheet of plastic. She saw that it consisted of two wafer-thin sheets pressed together and held by metal clips. Between them the stem and leaves of a plant were spread out on display, sealed from the air.
Boris switched on the desk lamp so that she could see better. Cheryl held the plastic sheet in her spread fingertips and bent forward into the light. The leaves were about two inches in length, heart-shaped, with a fine tracery of darkish-green veins.
‘I’m not sure. It looks a bit like knotweed. The generic species Polygonum convolvulus is very similar to this, only much smaller, about one third this size.’ Cheryl looked up. ‘What is it?’
‘Right first time: Polygonum convolvulus,’ Boris said.
‘You mean it is knotweed?’ Cheryl found herself gazing at the embroidered breast pocket of his shirt. Tiny pink hearts on twined green stems. ‘You actually found this along the McKenzie River?’
‘Also many other species that are three, four, even five times bigger than normal.’
Boris took the plastic sheet from her fingers. Its surface caught the reflected glare of lamplight, illuminating his face from below and giving him the appearance of a giant in a fairy tale. He carefully replaced it and slid the drawer shut. Cheryl was reminded of Jack, with a rampant Polygonum convolvulus beanstalk leading up to the giant’s lair. The difference was: this was no fairy tale.
2
They had seen all the sights and visited the tourist attractions: the Statue of Liberty inside its transparent protective dome, like an ornate green cake under a glass cover; the Empire State Building, where they’d hired masks and strolled blindly around the now purposeless observation deck on the one hundred and second floor; Central Park with its hellish landscape of stunted trees, grey grass, searchlight towers and graffiti scrawled in blood on Wollman Rink; the eternal guitar-shaped holographic flame of the John Lennon Memorial on the Upper West Side; Checkpoint X, which marked the entrance into the electrified perimeter fence surrounding Harlem; the shattered stump of the seventy-storey GE skyscraper at the Rockefeller Center near Times Square, whose top thirty floors had burned out and collapsed in the week-long hostage stand-off in 2027.
Dan was eager to see everything, although Chase suspected this was more so that he could boast afterward of having been to New York, which was considered daring and dangerous, like penetrating a forbidden zone, a dark continent, than enjoying the experience itself.
They dined with Ruth at a small restaurant on Third Avenue. All that day Dan had been chirpy and in high spirits, and so the change in him was apparent straightaway. He hardly touched his ragout de boeuf bourguignon. He looked pale and said he felt sick. Chase wanted to get him to the hospital, but Ruth advised against it; hospitals in New York were no places for sick people. Her apartment was three blocks away and they managed to get him there in a sealed cab. In the bathroom he heaved up some stringy black bile and complained of dizziness and buzzing in the ears. Ruth examined him and said he had a touch of ‘Manhattan Lung’, prescribed aspirin and rest, and insisted on putting him in her own bed.
Chase felt guilty at this imposition, though Ruth told him she had two days off owed to her and could catch up on her sleep later.
‘It isn’t anything serious?’ he asked when they had tucked Dan in and closed the bedroom door.
‘Most out-of-towners feel the effects: streaming eyes, nausea, dizziness and so forth. You can’t help breathing in some of the foul stuff that passes for air in this city.’ Ruth poured out two glasses of bourbon. ‘Were you outside for any length of time today?’
‘A few minutes, here and there, that’s all, between cars and enclosures. What did you call it? “Manhattan Lung”?’
‘Some people are more sensitive than others. Don’t worry, Gavin, he’ll be fine in the morning. He’s young and strong.’ She gave him a reassuring smile and sat back in the chunky armchair. The living room was furnished with period pieces and bric-à-brac in the style known as mid-century kitsch. There was a half-moon coffee table inlaid with tiles of antique cars. The three-pronged tubular light fitting had inverted pink plastic shades. In an alcove were a circular dining table and four chairs in matching blond wood.
‘Why does anyone stay in New York?’ Chase asked with genuine consternation. ‘Why do you, for God’s sake?’
‘I guess people just come to accept things. Conditions get worse year by year and you learn to live with them.’ The pallor of Ruth’s face was softened by its frame of dark curly hair. She wore a simple grey silk blouse and a dark blue skirt of fine weave. ‘Think of the really terrible conditions people have endured in the past. New York isn’t the first city to choke its inhabitants to death. It’s been going on for centuries.’
‘Is it safe for Dan to travel? The sooner I get him out of this place, the better.’
‘Let him rest for a couple of days, then he should be okay. Are you ready to leave right away? What about your business at the UN?’
‘Good question.’ Chase sipped his drink. ‘Wish I knew the answer.’
Chase told her about his meeting with Ingrid Van Dorn and the Senator for Rhode Island. As he spoke he could see Ruth’s interest quickening, and soon she was absorbed as Chase outlined the proposal. At one point he said, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, Ruth.’
‘Were you sworn to secrecy?’
‘Not in so many words – but knowing about it could be dangerous if the wrong people get to hear of it. And the last thing I want is to jeopardise your safety.’
‘I won’t breathe a word to anyone – and I wouldn’t have anyway – without your permission. To be honest, Gavin, I don’t see the dilemma. If it’s technically feasible, then you must go ahead. If not your duty, it’s a heaven-sent opportunity.’
‘But Ruth, what you’ve just said – that is the dilemma.’
‘What did I say?’
‘Is it even possible? I don’t know, and I doubt anyone does. Take any ten scientists and you’ll get three who’ll say yes, three who’ll say no, and the other four wouldn’t care to express an opinion either way.’
