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  “No, Terry,” said Schmidla, shooting Whitsun twice in the chest, “you were only serving yourself.”

  Whitsun fell backwards, the shots echoing through the high-ceilinged room. “Sanctimonious old fool,” said Schmidla as the Admiral’s body slid down the stairs, coming to rest at his feet. He turned back to the others. “Can’t leave you three behind,” he said, turning his gun on Angie and pulling the trigger. He was rewarded by a dull click.

  “It’s broken,” said Angie as he tried to work the Walther’s unmoving action.

  Voices made Schmidla look up. Jim and Billy Budd were staring at him through the observation room window He met Jim’s eyes for a second then fled out the side door.

  As he left Kaeko reached out, gently increasing the tempo of a minor harmony that had long played within him. “Good bye, Uncle Richard,” she said.

  Jim’s weariness and pain were swept aside by relief and elation at the sight of Angie, Kaeko and Maria, coming to him as he ran down the stairs into the Chamber. He got as far as, “Hey, Milano...” before she was on him, kissing him, her arms around him. Someone—Billy?—slipped the machine pistol from his good hand as he held her. Feeling him winch, she pulled back, looking at him. “You’re wounded!” she said, seeing the blood.

  “It’s not much,” he said. “It’s already clotted.”

  “A hospital must have a first aid kit,” she said, looking around her.

  “Maybe not this kind of hospital,” said O’Malley. “Good to see you, Jim.”

  “Likewise,” said Jim, as Angie left to rummage the observation room.

  “Hi,” he said to Kaeko, who hadn’t moved since Schmidla had left. “I’m your Dad.”

  She looked at him appraisingly. “You were the guy at my Bobby Rich lecture.”

  “Yup.”

  “We don’t look much alike,” she said coolly.

  He shrugged, instantly regretting it as pain shot through his shoulder and down his arm. “You come from a big gene pool.”

  Kaeko did a quick scan of his mind, searching for proof, but his pain made it too hard. “My father used to carry me on his shoulders,” she said. “Sometimes we’d go to a park, and he’d sing to me, always the same song.”

  “Ue Wo Muite Arukou,” said Jim, surprised to find the old title rolling off his tongue. “Sukiyaki in the U.S. release. ‘I Look Up When I Walk’. By the late Kyu Sakamoto.” He launched into it, a cappella:

  Ue wo muite arukou,

  Namida ga kobore nai yoo ni,

  Omoidasu haru no hi

  Hitoribotchi no yoru.

  He was interrupted as the second woman in three minutes threw her arms around him, silently crying, saying nothing, just holding him.

  “Welcome home, Kaeko,” he said hoarsely.

  “Your Japanese is very bad,” said a new voice as Kaeko let go, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “Fine song, though.”

  Musashi, Eddy, Enrique and Dee came into the room. “Hello, Kaeko,” smiled Musashi.

  “Tennu! Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

  “Johnny Kim?!” cried an unbelieving Tim O’Malley.

  “Tim?!” laughed an equally incredulous Musashi.

  “How...” began O’Malley.

  “Synchronicity,” said Musashi, shaking his head. “And my name’s Musashi—Tennu Musashi.

  “Are any you feeling somehow changed?” he asked the returnees.

  They all nodded.

  “Where did you go?” asked Jim.

  “Kaeko’s little playground universe,” said Angie, returning with a first aid kit. “Am I right?”

  Kaeko nodded. “Probably. When I was little, I’d escape the island and Uncle Richard by fantasizing that I lived in a castle. I think it started off as a Disney-ish castle, you know, complete with fairies and pirates? Then, over the years, with my studies, it became Leigh’s Priory, the old Rich family home in Essex. I’ve been there—it’s a very nice wedding venue now. It was part of my doctoral research.”

  “It’s also part of you,” said Jim. “Robert Rich was your ancestor. Our ancestor. ”

  “No!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed, the last of her reserve gone. “Impossible! I couldn’t have known that.”

  “Some part of you must have,” said Jim.

  “Maybe you were always looking for your parents, and you found a grandparent,” said Angie. “Is Leigh’s Priory as we saw it?”

  “No,” said Kaeko. “That was the 16th century structure. Just two gatehouses and the main house survived the 18th century. The property’s in a hollow—you can’t see Felsted Church from there. There’s no maze—probably never was. And I doubt Bobby Rich kept a pistol close at hand—he had a few hundred armed retainers on the payroll.”

  “You have a deep and still mostly untapped Potential,” said Musashi, looking at Kaeko with something close to awe. He glanced down at Whitsun’s body. “Who killed the Admiral?”

  “Schmidla,” said O’Malley. “Whitsun finally figured out he’d been Schmidla’s dupe all these years and told him off.”

  “I see,” said Tennu. “And where are Schmidla and Colonel Lokransky?”

  “Schmidla went out the back door,” said O’Malley. “Lokransky left before the shooting started.”

  “They’ll be heading for the archives,” said Musashi. “Lokransky must be stopped before he kills Schmidla.” He turned to Eddy and Enrique. “Eddy, with me, please. Enrique, stay here and provide security.” Enrique opened his mouth to protest but stopped at look from Eddy.

  “Wait!” snapped Jim. “I’ve been looking forward to killing that psychotic bastard ever since this started. And you’ve been telling me I can’t. Why not?”

  ““It’s very complex,” said Musashi.

  “I’ve got time.”

  “No, you don’t,” said the Japanese.

  “El Tee?” said Eddy.

  “Tennu’s right,” said a new voice. Kaeko walked over to her father. “Schmidla’s not to be harmed.”

  “Why not?” said Jim.

  “It’s important.”

  “He’s a monster!”

  “Sometimes evil inadvertently does good,” said Tennu.

  “Zen and the art of indecision,” said Angie as she came back down the stairs. “Make up your mind, Jim. Time’s slipping away.”

  Jim reached a decision. “Go with Tennu, Eddy, please. Do what he says. I’ll be along once I’m repaired.”

  Chapter 29

  Fred Kessler picked his way through the shattered hospital lobby, Colonel Caddock beside him, broken glass crunching beneath their feet. It was an abattoir: pockmarked walls flecked with blood and gore, the torn bodies of Spesnatz lying amid the ruins. The Russians hadn’t tried to surrender, instead taking as many of the Rangers with them as they could. Kessler had watched from his chopper as a Stinger missile streaked up from the hospital, exploding the lead Apache and showering the first wave of Rangers with burning derbies and exploding ammunition.

  Nikolev had fired the Stinger. He would have been proud to know how many of the enemy he killed and maimed. But Nikolev was dead, killed even as the Apache exploded, his body cut neatly in half by a round from a tri-barreled Vulcan cannon.

  With the Rangers almost at the hospital, Bakunin had triggered the landmines planted close-in during the night. Seizing that brief moment of confusion, he’d led his men out through the shattered windows, charging the Rangers, screaming and firing.

  None of the Spesnatz lived beyond the next twenty seconds, Bakunin himself cut down as he jumped through the window. Dying, his intestines spilled around him, he was struck by how much the American gunships resembled some sinister airborne arachnid.

  Sixty-five Rangers had been killed or wounded. Colonel Caddock assigned a special squad to see to the Russian wounded. The squad moved carefully among them, delivering the coup de gras with the traditional pistol shot to the base of the skull.

  The Black Brigade was the most special of SpecialOps.

  T
he wounded Rangers were soon gone, evacuated by helicopter to Boston-area hospitals, their medical staffs impressed as much by their taciturnity as by their wounds. The dead, Russian and American, were being laid out in the meadow for later removal. Massachusetts State Police had secured the mainland end of the bridge as Apaches circled the island, shooing off the news choppers, they and Air Force F-16s enforcing the no-fly zone imposed by the FAA. A Coast Guard cutter, augmented by two Navy destroyers and police boats, patrolled the waters around the island, working with the Army helicopters to keep at bay the growing flotilla of the curious. Smalls Island was quarantined until further notice, local and national television reporting that Federal authorities had smashed a major terrorist plot, the biggest and most dramatic Federal raid since Waco.

  “Was this necessary?” Kessler asked Caddock as the Rangers fanned out past them, moving quickly into the hospital and toward the fort beyond. The FBI agent watched as the torn bodies were hauled off amid the occasional sharp crack of a pistol. He felt ill and soiled and doubted he’d ever feel clean again.

  “Just doing my job, Mr. Kessler,” said Caddock. “Besides, you know what Joe Stalin said about making an omelet.”

  “I know what Lincoln said about charity and malice, Colonel. And what happened to guys like you at Nuremberg when they said they were just following orders.”

  “Guys like us, Mr. Kessler,” reminded Caddock, listening to a message coming in over his headset.

  “Yeah, guys like us, Colonel,” agreed Kessler, watching as more bodies were heaped into the center of the lobby.

  “Very well,” said Caddock into his radio. “Leave one squad to guard the operations area, the rest continue securing the facility. Your people are nearby and intact,” he told Kessler.

  “Lead on,” said Kessler.

  Caddock was a lanky, hard-eyed Carolinian, with over twenty years in the Army and a leathery face seamed from years of operations carried out in fierce weather and inhospitable climes. His operational planning had been meticulous, his execution flawless, and his concern for his men and his mission in the finest tradition of the United States Army.

  Kessler couldn’t stand him. He thought him a remorseless, technically adroit chain-of-command automation—an antipathy sensed and returned by Caddock. Kessler, a civilian and mission leader, had, without discussion, modified Caddock’s original orders: no civilians on the island were to be killed and the place was not, repeat not, to be destroyed. Not unless Fred Kessler said so.

  “Are they all right?” asked Kessler, as they moved out toward the operations center, a squad of Rangers guarding them front and rear.

  “No one seriously wounded,” said Caddock, pistol in hand, his eyes scanning doorways and intersections as they moved quickly toward the operations area.

  Turning off the main corridor they passed a small group of dead Spesnatz, twisted bodies sprawled along the floor just outside the operations entrance. Inside Rangers stood guard, saluting Caddock as he strode past them, Kessler at his heels.

  “About time,” said Jim Beauchamp. He sat in a chair as Angie bandaged his arm, doing a neat professional job with a roll of gauze and some tape.

  “Hey Freddy,” said Billy. He sat atop a console, sipping a bottle of water taken from the room’s refrigerator.

  “Gentlemen. Commander Milano,” nodded Kessler as Caddock and his men moved on down into the Chamber, ignoring the civilians. “The chatty bird colonel is Colonel Caddock,” he added. “You okay, Jimbo?”

  “Yeah. What about the Russians?”

  “Dead,” said Kessler.

  “Your troops are wearing numbers where their name tapes should be,” noted Jim.

  Billy snorted.

  “They’re not doing anything they want to be remembered for,” said Kessler. “Looks like Rourke won’t have to listen to Terry Whitsun anymore,” he added as the Rangers hauled Whitsun’s body away. “Who killed him?”

  “Schmidla,” said a weary voice.

  Kessler turned to see a lovely young woman emerge from the lavatory, wiping her face with a paper towel. “Did you use to have a funny tee-shirt with a silly red woodpecker on it?” she asked, staring hard at him. “A cigar-smoking woodpecker?”

  “Kaeko!” exclaimed Kessler, beaming as he hugged her.

  “You remember this big ugly guy?!” exclaimed Jim. “You were five years old!”

  “Sure. Uncle Freddy, right?” she said, a sudden smile lighting her face

  “Yes,” laughed Kessler, delighted. “I can’t believe you remember that shirt! I used to play softball in it with your Dad, just about every Saturday. Remember that, Jim? Camp Drake, Zama, Tachikawa—we used to play against everyone.”

  “And everyone used to beat us,” said Jim. “Especially the Bar Hostesses League. Remember Billy?” he asked, pointing to the CIA officer.

  “Sort of,” she frowned. “You wore something different, too,” she said. “But I can’t remember what.”

  Budd shook his head. “No, my dear. I’m not a funny shirt guy like Freddy. And I’m not much at softball—can’t catch worth a damn.”

  “Where’s Schmidla?” asked Kessler.

  “Gone,” said Jim, as Caddock came back into the room. “Probably going to collect stuff from the archives vault.”

  “It’ll do,” said Angie, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “I’d have made a great nurse.”

  “Doctor, maybe. Nurse, no,” said Jim as she helped him pull on his jacket.

  “So, how come no one’s gone after him?” asked Kessler a bit testily.

  “They have,” said Jim, bending the truth a bit. “Mr. Musashi, our Japanese associate, my friend Eddy and one of his guys. More than enough for one aging physician.”

  “Final body count’s in,” said Caddock. “We’re missing at least the Russian CO, Lokransky. Think he might know about those archives?”

  “Bet on it,” said Kessler. “Where’s this vault at?”

  “Only Musashi knows,” said Jim.

  “Does he have a radio?”

  “No,” said Jim.

  “Brilliant,” said Caddock. Turning aside, he started issuing orders into his radio, directing more of his force into Fort Strong. As he spoke, Jim picked up his machine pistol. “Angie, stay here with Kaeko.”

  “She doesn’t need me,” protested Angie.

  “Angie. Please?” asked Jim.

  “Fine,” she said reluctantly.

  “I can help,” said Dee, joining him. She’d been sitting quietly atop an equipment console.

  “Sure,” said Jim, after a second’s hesitation. “Fred?”

  “Best if I stay with the good Colonel,” said the FBI agent, glancing at Caddock as the officer continued coordinating his men. He was giving Caddock no opportunity for independent action.

  Nodding, Jim headed out the door with Dee.

  Schmidla entered the last digit on the keypad and was rewarded by a faint click and the status light winking green. Grasping the steel handle, he swung the door wide. Halogen lamps flared on, illuminating a narrow passageway containing hexagonal arrays of cryogenic storage cylinders filled with liquid nitrogen. Only the gas remained in the cylinders. The pipettes containing the genetic material of over two hundred Potentials had been carefully packaged and shipped months before, sent via four separate flights to Vienna. There the transport canisters had gone by four separate helicopters to a biotech research facility near Graz, Austria. An extensive title search would have shown that the facility was owned by a non-profit German foundation headquartered in Aachen. The foundation was established in 1979 and was headed by one Greta von Kemnitz. Surprising, as Greta von Kemnitz had died in 1937. Though he planned a greater immortality, among the DNA had been several samples of Schmidla’s own.

  Walking quickly to a wall safe at the far end of the vault, Schmidla keyed another combination and removed a tan attaché case. Snapping it open, he ensured that the three CDs were still there, nestled in their cases and held in place by Velcro
straps.

  Attaché case in hand, Schmidla left the vault for the last time. The boat, summoned by satellite phone during the fighting, would be waiting in the old smuggler’s cove. A quick trip across Boston Harbor to Logan Airport’s commuter pier and he’d be on the first available flight to Europe, even flying coach if necessary, just another passenger with a false passport.

  “Leaving us, Herr Doktor?”

  Schmidla slowly turned, the case suddenly much heavier. “Colonel Lokransky,” he said. “How goes the battle?”

  The Russian stood in the middle of the corridor, pistol pointed at Schmidla. “The battle is lost, but not the war. What’s in the case?”

  “Nothing of any use to you.”

  “Set it on the floor, handle toward me and open it.”

  Schmidla complied. He stepped back as Lokransky advanced, pistol leveled. The Russian glanced down. “What’s on the CDs?” he asked.

  “Medical records of project participants.”

  “Where is their genetic material?” demanded Lokransky. “The samples you took from them?”

  “Closer to Moscow than to Boston, Colonel.” And totally useless without the information on the CDs, thought Schmidla desperately. The genetic material that waited in cryogenic sleep at The Institute bore only identifying numbers—numbers correlating to those assigned to the project’s subjects. Without the ID numbers and the detailed records that lay in the attaché case, halfway between him and Lokransky, Telemachus’ genetic material was a useless collection of proteins. Yet, to have shipped the records home was to have invited betrayal by certain European associates who thought him an oddity, if not a freak. Undone by my own paranoia, he thought. And I always thought it would be hubris.

  “The location can be taken from you,” said Lokransky.

  Schmidla laughed, putting on a brave mask. “Not in the time you have left, Colonel. I’m sure the Americans will be along at any moment, in their usual overwhelming numbers. Certainly you can kill me. But that’s all you can do. As for the records, they’re useless without the genetic material.”