Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

"There aren't any cities in the Bering Sea. And what, exactly, is ethylene?"

"Dunno. Part of your job's gonna be to find out." She slipped the report across the desk. "Take this with you. It's classified, of course."

"Of course." Jason would not have been surprised if the people at Langley classified their grocery lists.

"That's jus' a summary. They got a complete one they'll deliver to you, a report on 'the Breath of the Earth.'"

"The Breath of…?"

"Breath of the Earth. At least, that's how the note on Alazar's computer refers to whatever it is."

Jason recrossed his legs, this time at the knee. "Breath of the Earth, sulfur, ethylene… sounds more like halitosis to me. But then, halitosis is better than no breath at all."

Mama leaned forward, the desk groaning under her bulk. "Make all the jokes you like; our client takes this very, very seriously."

"So, you want me to do what?"

Mama shrugged. "First, we need to ascertain exactly what happened to those men on the fishing boat, the loggers, the others, see if there's any threat in this Breath of the Earth, whatever it might be. Then destroy it and whoever is using it."

"I don't suppose we have a name, an idea of who's behind this?"

Mama leaned farther forward, her elbows on the desk. "Matter of fact, we have an idea."

"Want to share it, or you'd rather I find out myself?"

She slowly shook her head in disapproval. "Sarcasm doesn't become you, Jason. There's an organization-if you can call it that-called Eco. Maybe you didn't know it, but the various conservationist groups around the world raise more money than the economy of a lot of third-world countries. Eco has gotten rich from unwitting but well-meaning green groups. Every concert in Japan to cease whaling operations, every T-shirt sold in Germany bearing the Grun logo, every contribution to a conservationist cause, even the sale of some ecology-friendly devices such as recycling bins and biodegradable trash bags, Eco gets a cut, either by contract or just plain, oldfashioned extortion. You know, 'We'll "guarantee" your rally for the three-toed tree frog will be peaceful' et cetera.

"Eco's agenda, so far as we can tell, certainly includes the industries where people have been killed, and they have the money. We don't have anything more concrete than that."

"So, why not infiltrate and see what they're up to?"

"Easier said. They don't have members in the conventional sense. The only reason they came to our client's attention was a large transfer of cash to Alazar's Swiss account from a number of banks around the world, all within twenty-four hours."

Although the Swiss still prided themselves on bank secrecy, they could do nothing to prevent a record of any wire transfer of funds by SWIFT, Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunications, the Brussels- based clearing center for all electronic transfers. Most of the world, including international criminals, were ignorant of SWIFT's existence or its post-9/11 cooperation with the CIA, FBI, Interpol, and other agencies. Fortunately, so were American politicians, whose rush to expose the arrangement in televised displays of righteous indignation would have compounded the country's security problems.

"And the CIA traced those accounts."

Mama treated him to another gleaming grin. "Anytime that much money changes hands, they know about it."

And the American people still thought privacy existed.

"Anything else?"

"Running some cross-checks, our customer believes

Eco is run by a man name of Boris Eglov and some buddies from the Russian Mafia. They have the money to finance something like this but haven't been heard from since the Russian police were hot on their trail a few years back. Not likely they all became honest businessmen."

"They don't get involved in causes other than their own pocketbooks. What's in it for them besides skimming and

"Most of the ecology-friendly groups are honest and nonviolent, but the word gets around when Eco strikes a real blow-something other than chaining little old ladies to bulldozers. You'd be surprised how many activists secretly cheer them on. After the murders on that fishing boat, contributions jumped forty percent to worldwide causes-and Eco gets a cut, remember. They want that sort of cash. Also, when Eglov was running black-market fencing and extortion schemes in Moscow, he was fanatic on the subject of the ecology. May have something to do with the fact that his parents and younger sister died from radiation at Chernobyl when the nuclear plant blew. He's suspected of personally strangling two of the surviving plant managers with his own hands."

Jason was impressed. "You've done your homework."

She reached into the same drawer and slid two sheets of paper across the desk. "I try. Here's what our friends in

Jason studied the picture stapled to the top right-hand corner of the first page. Though the image was grainy, he saw a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head. The eyes were hooded, slightly Oriental, while the rest of the face had a Slavic flatness. Below was a list of attributed crimes. Murder in one form or another was the most frequent offense, with strong-arm extortion or robbery a

"I'm surprised they let a guy like this stay on the

"You'll notice he wasn't convicted of any of those charges."

"I also notice a high mortality rate of witnesses."

"Some people are just lucky."

"Not if the police want you to testify against this guy."

Jason finished the list. "Professional criminal, vegetarian, and passionate friend of the environment. Somehow it doesn't seem to add up."

Mama retrieved the papers and returned them to the drawer. "What? You saying a criminal can't be a nature lover? Seems to me the man has set up a worldwide scam of conservation organizations to fund his own agenda."

Jason groaned. "You're saying we're dealing with an idealist here, someone who kills in pursuit of his own Utopian ideals. Or, not to put too fine a point on it, a nutcase."

"Perhaps, but a deadly one."

Jason stood, circling his chair. "The customer didn't hire us to do a job unless they need to be able to deny any involvement. What is it you're not telling me?"

The woman's eyes widened with mock surprise. "Are you suggesting I wouldn't tell you everything?"

"Not suggesting-clearly stating. Come clean; what's the hitch?"

Mama put her hands on the desk, fingers interlocked. "If we are talking about a chemical agent here, chances are Alazar's buddies didn't manufacture it-at least, not in his part of the world. Not much chance of setting up a laboratory when you're on the run."

"So, our clients figure whatever it was, it was concocted somewhere else, maybe some sovereign nation that might just resent foreigners conducting an operation on their soil."

Mama nodded. "You're smart, Jason. Looks like mebbe Langley finally figured out the sovereignty thing."

Both remembered the international outcry raised when an undetermined number of CIA operatives had snatched a terrorist suspect right off the streets of Milan. The Italian authorities had indicted six names on credit card receipts that indicated the kidnappers were American. Luck, rather than tradecraft, had stymied the prosecution when no real people could be matched with the credit cards. The only clue to surface so far was the fact that the cards involved were all Diners Club, a less than helpful discovery, even if the CitiCorp card did constitute less than three percent of the world's credit card charges.

Jason walked over to study one of the Renoirs, a woman lounging in the bow of a boat being rowed by a man in shirtsleeves and a straw hat. He was forever fascinated by the works of the earlier impressionists, pictures more likely created with palette knife than brush. At a few feet, the subject was clear. At close range, the whole thing dissolved into meaningless globs of paint. Only one of many things that didn't withstand minute inspection at Narcom.