Michael Crichton - Binary

Graves said, `The gas is up there. Is there any antidote?'

`To ZV? Nothing very good.'

`But there is an antidote?'

`There's a sort of theoretical antidote. If a person has a mild exposure, it may be possible to inject chemicals to block the effects of the gas.'

`Can you get those chemicals?'

`Yes, but not in sufficient quantities to protect very many -'

`Get as much as you can,' Graves said. `Do it immediately.' He turned to Phelps. `Notify the San Diego

police. Evacuate this block and cordon it off. Cordon off the blocks on both sides as well. And I mean a cordon - nobody in and nobody out.' He paused. `What happened with the President?'

`He's leaving within the hour.'

`For sure?'

`I assume so.'

`Better check again.'

Phelps nodded towards the lobby. `Is he talking?'

`He's saying what he wants to say,' Graves said.

`My God, he's a cool customer.'

`What did you expect?' Graves said, and went back inside.

When he returned, he found the marshal smoking one of Wright's slim cigars. Graves shot him a look; the marshal quickly stubbed it out.

`Waste of a good cigar,' Wright said. `Why can't we all be friends?'

Graves sat down. `What did you paint in the hangar?' `Paint? amp;

'Yes. We found a spray gun and several cans of paint.'

`Oh, that.'

`What did you paint?'

`I don't believe I'll answer that.'

`What did you paint?'

`You show a certain redundancy of mind,' Wright said. `It's tiresome, and disappointing. I expected you to be more clever.' He was silent a moment. `I will tell you one thing,' he said.

`What's that?' Graves resented the eagerness that he heard in his own voice.

`I have devised a multiple staging system. Actually, several interlocking systems. If one fails or is thwarted, another takes over. It's quite beyond you, I can assure you of that. However, I will tell you I am dependent on one external system, which is fortunately quite reliable.'

`What's that?'

`You,' Wright said. `Everything has been designed especially for you, so to speak.'

Wright's calmness was infuriating. Graves bit his lip, trying to control his anger.

`What time is it?' Wright asked.

`Three forty,' the marshal said.

`Thank you. Do you have any other questions, John?'

`One or two,' Graves said. His anger was so intense that it clouded his judgement. He fought the feeling.

`I can see you're upset,' Wright said. `And you haven't asked me some rather obvious questions. One is, when will the gas go off?'

Graves stared at him, almost shaking with fury.

`The answer,' Wright said, `is five PM exactly. The gas will go off then. It will begin to drift in a predictable way and will have blanketed the city with good saturation by about five thirty, the peak of the rush hour: maximum number of people on the streets, and so on. Now, it seems to me there was something else I wanted to tell you…'

Graves wanted to beat the man to a pulp. He wanted to smash his face, to shatter his nose, his teeth… He had a brief image of himself standing over Wright, pounding him.

`Damn,' Wright said, `it was just on the tip of my tongue. Well, no matter. It couldn't have been that important.' He sighed. `I think,' he said, `this concludes the questions for today. I have nothing else to say.'

Graves stared at him for a moment. `You don't leave us much choice.'

Wright smiled. `I believe you call it "softening up"; is that right?'

`More or less.'

`An interesting notion,' Wright said, `but now I must leave.'

And with astonishing speed he jumped from his chair and raced for the door. The marshal crouched down and held his gun stiffly.

`Don't!' Graves shouted, and knocked the pistol away. The marshal looked stunnL d. `Don't shoot him!'

Wright was out the door. A second marshal stood outside. He wore a look of surprise as Wright slammed him in the groin with one knee. He doubled over. Wright sprinted for the stairs to the basement.

`He's going for the garage,' Graves said. He pushed the other marshal towards the door to the basement and then ran outside.

Phelps was directing a half-dozen marshals and policemen to cordon off the area.

'Wright's escaped!' Graves shouted. He ran down the street, looking for the underground garage exit.

`Where?'

`The garage.'

`Can he get out?'

The marshals and police all drew their guns. A single shot echoed inside the garage.

`How did this happen?' Phelps demanded.

Graves looked at the marshals and the cops standing by the ramp from the garage. `Don't shoot him,' he said. `Whatever happens, don't shoot him.'

There was a long silence. Nothing further was heard from inside the garage.

`I demand to know what happened,' Phelps said.

Graves listened.

Nothing.

The cops looked at each other.

`Hey,' a cop shouted, from the garage. `He went out the other exit!'

Graves instantly realized that he had made a mistake. Wright was too smart to think he could escape from the garage of this building; he would have another plan. Graves started to run. So did the police.

`Where'd he go?'

`Next building. Other block.'

Graves sprinted down the ramp into the garage and towards the other garage exit. He ran up a short flight of stairs through an open door and came out into an alley. The alley connected with the opposite block. He ran down it, the cops following, their footsteps echoing.

They saw no one.

`Where'd he go?'

Graves held up his hand. Everyone paused. They heard the sound of an engine. It was coming from the garage of a building on the adjacent block.

`Where's the exit from that garage?'

Graves ran forward. The exit must be on the street. They came out into the next street - deserted, heavily cordoned off at each end, with a police car crosswise blocking the road, cops standing around.

The sound of a racing engine. They saw a ramp.

`Don't sh -'

Wright's Alfa came up the ramp, moving very fast. The cops and marshals scrambled out of the way. They fired as they ran.

Graves felt sick.

But the Alfa was still going. It made a twisting righthand turn, slamming into a parked car. There were more gunshots. The side windows shattered into great spiderwebs, but somehow the car continued, gears grinding as it raced down the street.

Wright had planned it well, Graves thought. He would have made his escape by sneaking through the buildings if it hadn't been for the roadblock. He didn't expect that; Graves himself had ordered it on the spur of the moment.

The Alfa roared down the street.

`He wasn't expecting the roadblock,' Graves said. `He didn't count on that.'

`Whose side are you on?' Phelps demanded.

At the end of the street four policemen waited by the parked patrol car. As the Alfa bore down on them,they dropped to their knees, holding their guns stiffarmed before them.

`Don't shoot!' Graves screamed.

The cops began to fire. The tyres on the Alfa exploded. The front windshield shattered. The car wobbled, flipped on its side, and slammed into a parked car. The horn began to blare.

Graves ran over to the Alfa and tried to open the door. It was jammed shut. He looked in through the shattered windscreen and saw Wright's face, a bloody pulp, the features indistinguishable. As he watched, a tiny stream of blood spurted rhythmically from Wright's neck. Then it became a seeping red stain across his collar.

He turned away from the car.

`Is he dead?' Phelps said, running up.

`Yes,' Graves said. `He's dead.'

`How can we turn off that fucking horn?' Phelps said.

Graves stared at him and walked away.

His sense of shock was profound. Of all the alternatives, of all the possibilities and options, he had never expected this. He had never expected Wright to die.