Dean Koontz - Dragonfly

There had to be a way out.

And of course, there was a way out.

He saw the door to escape. But to open it and pass through was no simple matter. It was a monumental step, a denial of his past, his family, everything. It was a decision that he would have found impossible, a change in outlook he would have thought despicable, before Ssunan.

Leave China.

Forever.

No. It was still unthinkable.

Yet…

Was a return to Ssunan any more reasonable? Did he wish to end up like Chong Shao-chi, this miserable man beside him? Did he want to be forty years old, a champion killer of rats, whose greatest pleasure in seven years was a one-night reunion with his family?

Remembering his trip to America, Chai suddenly saw that there was one great flaw in the social system of the United States — and one great flaw in China's system as well. In the United States, there was an unreasonable selfishness, a destructive desire to possess more and more things and to obtain more and more power through the acquisition of more and more money. In China, there was an equally unreasonable self less ness; the Party was so concerned about the welfare of the masses that it overlooked the welfare of the individuals who composed the masses. In the United States, there had seemed to be no peace and contentment, for life there was a frantic process of accumulation and consumption and reaccumulation to fuel a new round of consumption… Yet in the United States you could live outside the system; selfishness was not dictated by the government or demanded by the people. And even if the greedy capitalistic rabble roared around you — was that not better than to live in the People's Republic, where you had little or no choice, where the self was denied and virtue was not a choice but a requirement?

If only, he thought as he watched the commune-bound train pass, there were some country in the world where the two systems had been merged, where the flaw in each canceled out the flaw in the other.

But there was no such place. That was a child's dream and always would be.

How terrible to be raised to have a fierce belief in your government and society, only to be given the wit, knowledge, or experience to suddenly see that the system was unjust, imperfect. Chai saw that he had been forced by his society to make certain decisions which that same society had taught him were decadent and shameful.

But there was only one escape from an intolerable future, and it was far from the perfect answer: leave China.

Now.

But how?

As the outbound train finished passing and their own train began to move once more toward Peking, Chai Po-han wrestled with his conscience and tried to make himself accept the only future that made any sense at all.

McAlister took Burt Nolan's pistol from the seat. He held the gun above the dashboard and studied it in the purplish-white light that filtered into the Mercedes from a nearby mercury-vapor street-lamp. He found, the red safety and flicked it off.

Nolan watched none of this. He stared intently out of his side window at the houses across the street.

Shoving the gun into his coat pocket, keeping his right hand on the butt, McAlister opened his door and got out of the car.

Unarmed but game, Bernie Kirkwood climbed out of the back seat and followed his boss across the sidewalk.

Carl Altmüller's house was a small two-story Colonial saltbox, pale-gray, with black shutters and trim. A neat, matching gray-and-black saltbox garage stood at the top of the sloping driveway. The garage doors were closed. The house was dark; apparently Altmüller was not at home.

McAlister felt somewhat foolish stepping into this peaceful scene with his shoulders tensed and a loaded gun in his pocket. Nevertheless, he kept his hand on the gun butt.

The doorbell was set beneath a clear three-watt night light. The chimes produced a four-note melody that sounded like distant Christmas bells striking up “Joy to the World.”

No one came to the door.

“Maybe it's his night for macramé lessons,” Kirk-wood said.

McAlister rang the bell again.

Nothing. No one. Silence.

“He could be at a prayer meeting,” Kirkwood said. “Or counseling a troop of boy scouts.”

Ringing the bell a third tune, McAlister said, “Have you ever considered a career as a comedian?”

“No. You think I should?”

“Well, it would be something to do after I've fired you.”

“Yeah. We could form a team. You'd be the straight man.”

“I don't intend to fire myself.”

“Yeah,” Kirkwood said, “but you won't last long without me.”

Turning away from the front door, McAlister said, “Come on. Let's have a look around.”

“Around what?”

“The house.”

“Why?”

“I want to find a way in.”

“You're going to break and enter?” Kirkwood asked, shocked.

“I won't break anything unless it's necessary. But I damned well am entering.”

Kirkwood caught him by the arm. “Let's get a warrant first.”

“No time for that.”

“You don't sound like the Bob McAlister I know.”

“I've changed,” McAlister said, feeling hollow inside, chilled. “Probably for the worse. But I've had no choice.” He pulled free of Kirkwood's hand. “Bernie, do you realize the trouble we're in if Rice is one of these Committeemen?”

“It's a major scandal,” Kirkwood said, pushing his damp woolly hair back from his forehead.

“It's more than that. We're sitting on a time bomb. Bernie, look, suppose you were a Committeeman with a cover as a famous liberal thinker. Suppose you were a fascist who was the right-hand man to a liberal President who trusted you. You could see, in the years ahead, thousands of opportunities to subtly misuse your power to fascistic ends. You were just beginning… How would you conduct yourself? What would your first priority be?”

Kirkwood thought about it for a moment, then said, “Protecting the power I've finally gotten. Which would mean protecting my cover. I'd lay low. Play it cool. Go easy.”

“And is that what Rice is doing — supposing he is a Committeeman?”

“No. He's taking big risks. Like trying to use federal marshals to monitor our investigations. If one of the marshals rejected his offer and told us about it, Rice would have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Exactly,” McAlister said. “And when he told me that Bill Fredericks hadn't been very cooperative in arranging for the marshals, Rice had to know there was a good chance I'd catch him in his lie.”

“You think he no longer cares whether he's caught or gets away with it?”

“It looks that way to me. Which means Dragonfly will be used soon. So soon, in fact, that Rice figures if we nail him, we won't have time to make him tell us Dragonfly's identity. We won't have time to stop the project before detonation.”

“But he'll end up in jail just the same,” Kirkwood said. “Is he fanatical enough to spend the rest of his life in prison for a cause?”

“Maybe he doesn't think he'll go to trial, let alone to prison.”

“I don't follow you.”

“My imagination may be running wild. I'm beginning to see some very ugly possibilities. Like… Maybe the Dragonfly project, as big as it is, just isn't the whole bundle. Maybe it's only one element in a much larger scheme.”

“Such as?”

“Maybe Rice is taking these risks because he expects his people to seize control of the United States government during or immediately after the crisis in China. If that was what he was anticipating, he would have no fear of jail.”