Dean Koontz - Dragonfly

“Then we're right back to square one.”

Kirkwood said, “I called the office at six o'clock. They'd just received a telephone call from Tokyo. Canning and Tanaka took off in that Frenchman's jet at five p.m. Friday, Washington time — which is nine o'clock tomorrow morning in Tokyo.”

McAlister handed him a section of the Washington Post. “Let's make a pact: no more talk about Dragonfly until after dinner. The world's full of other interesting crises and tragedies. I would advise, however, that you skip all that negative stuff and look for the harmless human-interest stories.”

Nodding, Kirkwood said, “You mean like 'Hundred-Year-Old Man Tells Secret of Long Life.'”

“That's exactly it.”

“Or maybe, 'Iowa Man Grows World's Largest Potato.' ”

“Even better.”

The waiter returned, interrupting their reading long enough to take two orders for hearts of artichokes in vinaigrette, cheese-filled ravioli, and a half-bottle of good red wine.

Just before the artichokes arrived, McAlister was reading about a famous Christian evangelist's ideas for the rehabilitation of the thousands of men in American prisons. The evangelist wanted to surgically implant a transponder in each prisoner's brain so that the man could be monitored by a computer. The computer would not only keep track of the ex-prisoner but it would listen in to his conversations wherever he might be — and give him an electric shock if he used obscene language or tried to break the terms of his parole. The minister thought that, indeed, such a device could benefit a great many Americans who had never been to prison but who had engaged in hundreds of minor violations of the law all their lives. The evangelist also felt — and said that he was certain God agreed with him — that the punishment for various crimes should be brought into line with the nature of the original transgression. For example, a rapist should be castrated. A thief should have some of his fingers chopped off. A pornographer should have one eye poked out because it had offended God. A prostitute—

“What in the hell?” Kirkwood's voice was uncharacteristically breathless, quiet.

McAlister looked up from his section of the newspaper. “It can't be as bad as what I'm reading.”

After he'd taken a moment to reread a paragraph, Kirkwood said, “Last night, right near here, a prostitute was badly beaten by one of her Johns.”

“Don't read about prostitutes,” McAlister said. “Read something uplifting. I'm reading about this evangelist—”

“She couldn't talk very well because her mouth was swollen,” Kirkwood said. “But she was plucky. While they worked on her at the hospital, she insisted on trying to tell the cops a few things about her assailant. Do you know what this John kept saying, over and over, while he beat up on her?”

“I guess you're going to tell me.”

“He kept saying, 'You can't stop Dragonfly, you can't stop Dragonfly.'”

They stared at each other.

Finally Kirkwood said, “The police think he was just raving, that it doesn't mean anything.”

“Maybe it doesn't.”

“Maybe.”

“I mean even to us.”

“Maybe.”

“Could be coincidence.'

“Could be.”

McAlister said, “Let me see that.”

Kirkwood handed the newspaper to him.

After he had read a few paragraphs, McAlister said, “Did she give a description of the man?”

“Top of the second column.”

McAlister read what the girl had told the police: her assailant had been fat, she meant really fat, three hundred pounds or more, and he was middle-aged, sloppily dressed, didn't belong in that expensive car, probably stole the car, she didn't know what kind of car, maybe a Cadillac or a Continental, all those luxury cars looked the same to her, she knew nothing about cars, she just knew he was fat and strong and kept saying she couldn't stop Dragonfly, whatever in the hell that was… With each word he read, McAlister felt the blood drain out of his face.

Kirkwood leaned over the table and said, “Hey, do you recognize this guy?”

No. It was impossible. It was crazy. It made no sense. He would never have taken such a risk.

Rice?

No.

Rice?

McAlister began to remember things and to connect them: Rice had been so eager to know whom McAlister was sending to Peking, even more eager than the President had been; the Committeemen had tried to kill Canning at his apartment within a couple of hours after Rice had been given his name; and Rice had lied about Bill Fredericks and the list of federal marshals who lived — Good Christ, the federal marshals!

“Bob? Are you there?”

The waiter brought their hearts of artichokes and the half-bottle of red wine.

McAlister sat very still: stunned.

The moment the waiter had gone, Kirkwood said, “You look like you've been pole-axed.”

Softly, McAlister said, “I don't know… I may be wrong and… I have to be wrong! It would be such a foolish thing for him to do! What a risk to take in his position! Yet if he's as unbalanced, as completely crazy as he'd have to be to get involved in this, and if he's feeling the pressure half as much as I'm feeling it, he just might…” His voice trailed off.

Frowning, Kirkwood said, “What in the name of God are you talking about?”

McAlister stood up. “We don't have time for dinner.” He dropped his napkin and turned away from the table.

“Bob?”

McAlister hurried toward the front of the restaurant, weaving between the tables, nearly running.

Bewildered, Kirkwood followed close behind him.

In the second-floor study of a stately old house in Peking, a man sat down at a large mahogany desk and unfolded a sheet of paper. He placed the paper squarely in the center of the green felt blotter. It was a list of numbers which had been transmitted by laser wireless in Washington, bounced off a relay satellite high over the Pacific Ocean, and picked up by a receiver in this house.

The man at the desk smiled when he thought that the Chinese counterintelligence forces had surely monitored and recorded this same transmission at half a dozen different points along the Eastern Seaboard. Even now a score of code specialists would be trying to break down the numbers into some sensible message. But none of them would ever crack it, for there was no intrinsic alphabetic value to the numbers. They referred to chapters and page numbers within a certain book which was known only to the man in Washington and the man in this house.

He poured himself some whiskey and water from the bottle and pitcher that stood on the desk.

He opened the center drawer of the desk and took from it a pencil and a small brass pencil sharpener. Holding both hands over the wastebasket in order to keep the shavings from falling on the carpet, he put a needlelike point on the pencil and then placed it beside the list of numbers. He dropped the brass gadget into the desk, closed the drawer, and dusted his hands together.

Still smiling, he tasted his whiskey.

He was savoring the moment, drawing out the thrill of anticipation. He was not at all worried, for he knew precisely what the message would be, what it had to be. He felt fine.

At last he turned around in his chair and took a copy of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows from the bookshelves behind him. This was the 1966 slipcased Grosset and Dunlap edition, illustrated by Dick Cuffari. In Washington, Andrew Rice had had the same edition at hand when he'd composed the message which had come in on the laser wireless.

The first line of Rice's message read:

8000650006

The man at the desk opened The Wind in the Willows to Chapter Eight, which was titled “Toad's Adventures.” He counted to the sixty-fifth line from the start of that chapter and then located the sixth word in that line. He picked up the pencil and wrote: