Ken Goddard - Chimera

Thirty seconds later, Smith cursed, snapped his cell phone shut, walked back to the chair, sat down and stared contemplatively at Bulatt.

“Gone?”

Smith nodded silently, still staring.

“You owe me something,” Bulatt said after a long moment. “Will you at least tell me their names?

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Even if I did, their real names wouldn’t give you anything to go on. You’d just be wasting your time. They stopped using them a long time ago.”

“What about their military or paramilitary records?”

“Don’t even think about going that route,” Smith advised. “Those files are out of reach, if they even still exist in the first place; too many cross-links to events that never happened.”

“What about our latent print hit? Can you tell me anything at all about that?” Bulatt pressed. “I’m guessing the fingerprint search engine our lab folks stumbled into had to have been yours. Who else would be looking for those guys with that kind of technology?”

Smith hesitated, and then said: “Look, you now know there are three individuals involved in all of this: the team leader, a second man who is basically a very talented hunter-killer and long-range shot, and a third who possesses certain technical skills useful to a hunter-killer team.”

“But who occasionally forgets to wear gloves when he’s changing the batteries in their remotes?” Bulatt guessed.

Smith nodded his head slowly. “We appreciated the latent submission. It was comforting to know these guys can actually screw up every now and then.”

“But, in any case, based on that latent print, you’re absolutely certain these men you described are our subjects? No chance we might be talking about a misidentified latent?”

Smith hesitated again, and then nodded. “We’re certain.”

“Can you give me anything else to go on?” Bulatt asked. “Anything else at all?”

“I can give you a piece of tangential information,” Smith said after a moment. “Before he was killed, our asset reported that Gregor was doing something with a group of Russians who immigrated to the U.S. several years ago; he didn’t know who, what or why.”

“Surely Gregor kept some kind of records.”

“We presume so; but, after his plane disappeared, we tracked him back to a hide-away office. That’s where we found his body and a couple of empty file cabinets.”

“What about the office itself?”

“It was professionally torched,” Smith said. “Anything in the way of useful information that might have still been there went up in smoke and ash.”

“And the plane?”

Smith hesitated again. “Let’s just say the debris situation is being looked into,” he finally said. “But don’t get your hopes up; it’s not likely we’re ever going to find anything useful. The plane was at twenty-five thousand feet when it blew, and it was one hell of an explosion.”

“So now, presumably, all you’ve got to go on is a green camper-rigged truck,” Bulatt said as he stood up, “and me, of course; which probably means you’re going to make an effort to monitor my movements — try to use me as bait if you can.”

Smith stared silently at Bulatt, not bothering to answer.

“Normally, I probably wouldn’t care; as long as your people kept their distance and stayed low profile, like they’re supposed to be able to do,” Bulatt said. “But based on what I’ve seen of your ground surveillance techniques so far, and what you’ve told me about these characters, all your surveillance is going to do is blow my cover again, and possibly get me or one of my partners killed; and I’m not going to stand for that.”

“Oh?” Smith’s right eyebrow rose skeptically.

“So,” Bulatt went on, ignoring the sarcasm, “we can continue to play grab-ass with each other, see if my game-playing trumps yours; or we can go on about our own business, and try not to trip over each other again. I’d prefer the latter, but I don’t mind the former; whatever gets the job done. Fair deal?”

Smith shrugged in what might have been an agreement.

“Okay, I’m done here,” Bulatt said. “Anything you want to ask me before I go?”

“Actually, there is one more thing,” Smith said with some hesitation.

“What’s that?”

“The twins.”

Bulatt smiled. “You’d like our lab staff to have them to stop doing whatever it is they’re doing?”

“That’s right.”

“Are they really that good?” Bulatt asked, finding it difficult to believe that a pair of fourteen-year-olds could be having any significant impact on the secretive entity that ‘John Smith’ and his associates presumably worked for.

“’Good’ is a relative term; I think the appropriate descriptors are ‘inventive,’ ‘persistent’ and ‘unpredictable,’” Smith replied with a discernable edge to his voice. “At least that’s what I’m told by our tech chief, who would dearly like to throttle their little necks personally. He seems to think their baby spider egg sac disguised as a happy face was a dirty trick.”

“Baby spider… egg sac?”

“Apparently technical terms,” Smith said. “At least I hope the hell they are. I don’t know what spiders have to do with computers, and I don’t particularly want to know. But, in any case, I’ve been asked to tell you that our techies have stopped digging at your lab’s firewalls; and they would appreciate it if the kids would do the same.”

“They got through, didn’t they?”

Smith’s glaring look was all the answer he needed.

“But you do know that their mother will be seriously pissed if one of your people actually tries to cause them grief,” Bulatt reminded, trying very hard not to smile. “And I have a feeling she could be a lot more dangerous to your ongoing operations — not to mention your personal set of balls — than any of us bunnies-and-guppies agent-types.”

“We’re all aware that Linda seems to have developed some maternal instincts following childbirth, although God alone knows why,” Smith acknowledged. “The appropriate warnings have been issued at the directorate level. The kids will be left alone, provided that you stop them — ” Smith glanced at his watch “- soon.”

“You could always give them an audition,” Bulatt suggested as he got up out of the chair, and walked over to the swinging doors. “Bring them onto the team; you know, keep your friends close and your enemies closer, that sort of thing.”

“And actually let those little bastards inside our building?” Smith blinked, his expression implying that Bulatt had finally said something completely absurd. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Hidden underground trophy room at the Graystone Fields Ranch

The dining table had been set so that Michael Hateley’s three guests all had a clear view of the centerpiece section of wall that was the focus of his luxurious, underground endangered species trophy room.

The dinner — consisting of a truffle salad, Szechwan green beans, glazed Georgian yams, and young Alaskan Moose steaks easily cut with a fork, followed by an almond creme brule and savory fresh-ground Brazilian coffee, all served by Hateley’s personal chef from a heated stainless steel cart- provided a pleasant distraction from the issues yet to be discussed; and an easy topic of muted conversation among men who had known and engaged with each other for almost two decades.

But finally — after Hateley’s butler had filled each crystal sniffer with a generous portion of rare French Brandy, distributed fine Cuban cigars all around, placed the carafe in the center of the South African yellow-wood table, and then quietly departed — Dr. Stuart Jackson Caldreaux raised his glass in salute.