Nearest Night, Page 2

  “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m out. I’ll be talking to Markis about you two.”

  “No, no, no, please, sit down. I must apologize if our manner seems odd to you. Coba and I are old lovers. We have seen many things in our lives. Perhaps we moved too fast, assumed too much of a young, virile man like you.” He leaned back and folded his hands across a belly that wasn’t there.

  Larry suddenly realized one thing that had been bothering him about these two. They moved as if ancient, economical of motion, yet vastly confident and comfortable, not like people in their mid-twenties, as they appeared.

  Of course, all Edens looked young at first glance.

  Larry’s eye narrowed. “How old are you?”

  The woman – Coba, the man had called her – smiled and said, “Mees will be ninety-three this year. I’m only eighty-nine.” Her eyes crinkled in amusement. “Do you wonder why we gladly accepted the Plague?”

  “Not a bit. I’m just not used to people being so…”

  “Sensual? Isn’t that our reputation here in the Netherlands? Prostitutes tapping coins on the windows in Amsterdam, a sex shop on every corner, porn on the public television channels every evening at midnight? I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

  Larry wondered if he had more in common with the Congolese than with these effete dilettantes. He found them difficult to take seriously. “Sorry, I’m not used to this kind of, um, society. I’m just a good ol’ boy from Georgia.”

  “Forgive us, Mister Nightingale. We’ve lived a long time, seen many things. It’s not often we encounter someone so…novel.” Coba lifted a hand as if to touch him again, and then put it back in her lap.

  “I’m not your plaything or your novelty. I’m happy to talk business. Otherwise, send me someone else.”

  The two exchanged glances, and then their demeanor changed, becoming more serious. Mees said, “Of course. Pardon us. This was a test. We had to be sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “We were told you were an amateur to this business. A professional would never have reacted with such discomfort, or threatened to walk out.”

  “Unless he were an extremely talented actor playing the part of an amateur,” Coba murmured with a wink.

  “No, no, no, my dear. Don’t tax the man. Let’s finish and go. We’re all friends now, yes?”

  “All right,” Larry said, turning his attention to his food, keeping a wary eye on his companions. He felt off balance, as if the ground under his feet were unstable.

  They left in a large Mercedes. Coba drove while the two men sat in the back, another oddity to Larry. Five minutes and a dozen confusing turns brought them to a large gated house, or perhaps a small mansion, solidly built of brick and stone in the local style. They drove into a garage and did not exit until the door had rolled shut behind them.

  Inside the house, they finally had the serious conversation Larry had expected, discussing how Edens would be smuggled or assisted out of unfriendly areas, places where they might be turned in, registered, arrested or interned. Larry relaxed, accepting that while these people seemed peculiar, they did have an excellent grasp of their own local people and culture, and of how the operation would work.

  By the time they returned Larry to the Kurhaus, he’d changed his mind about them. The pictures of grandchildren, great-grandchildren and even great-great grandchildren, along with sixty-year-old black-and-white photographs of the two looking much as they did now, convinced him that they were simply two odd ducks, now given a new lease on life, frisky as teenagers. After facing the end of their lives, the Eden Plague no doubt made them feel as if every new day were a bonus, gambling with the casino’s money of life.

  At some level, though, he wondered if they understood the risks they were taking. He believed they had more money than sense, and thought of the business of helping Edens escape to a Free Communities nation as a cloak-and-dagger adventure rather than a real, dangerous business. They took everything so cavalierly. Perhaps they thought themselves to be immune to disaster, having lived so long, and with many apparent connections to the wealthy elite of northern Europe.

  Still, he was quite happy to return to the hotel, order more food from room service, and fall asleep to the sound of the sea drifting into his open window.

  The next morning, after a relaxing breakfast, he received a message that a car would pick him up at a particular corner several blocks away. He bundled up against the chill, and strolled to the appointed place. Another Mercedes, a different one he noticed, pulled up beside him and the rear door opened.

  Inside, he noticed the back seat was partitioned from the front, like a limousine. He couldn’t see the driver through the barrier. “Hey, buddy,” he said. “Hey, where we going?”

  The driver didn’t answer, but drove to the nearest motorway and headed eastward, toward Amsterdam, according to the signs. By that time, his morning coffee had worn off and his big breakfast made him sleepy. He dozed off.

  An indeterminate time later, he slowly awoke in a place reeking of metal and mold, head splitting with pain. When he tried to move, he found himself strapped to a chair.

  Damn. I’ve been set up.

  Chapter 3

  Water everywhere, Sydney Bauersfeld thought with wonder. All around her it seemed the defining consideration of everything seen and much of the unseen. She looked out over the tabletop landscape and studied the numerous flat, parallel canals that were so typical of the Netherlands. Where tourists saw a cozy and charming beauty, the Dutch recognized their own strenuous, longsuffering efforts – and those of their ancestors – to claim land from the sea.

  Perhaps more than any other people on the planet, they had reconstructed the world around them in order to survive and prosper. Those canals were not only for waterborne trade; they were a place for all the water to go, and a way for it to get there. The Netherlands at its core constituted a vast swamp, mostly below sea level, changed by mighty engineering into a prosperous nation.

  But the water was always there, waiting, threatening, held back only by dike and polder, levee and berm. In World War Two, both sides had considered breaching the barriers to flood areas used by their enemies. Fortunately, this never became a widespread practice. Half the country might have disappeared.

  Those canals were also a reminder of impending disaster, Bauersfeld realized. Flat, tranquil, and peaceful, but if the people of the Netherlands even for a moment became complacent about the sword hanging over their collective heads, one mighty oceanic storm surge or extra-heavy rainy season might trigger the disaster.

  “The land is like the people,” Bauersfeld whispered, thinking of the evil virus sweeping the globe. As she always did when imagining the parasitic organism, she rubbed her gloved hands over her arms, as if to brush away any of the Eden germs that might have managed to alight on her.

  It doesn’t work that way and you know it.

  Bauersfeld did know it, but that didn’t keep her from being revolted by the idea of the Eden Plague. She peered closely at those passing her on the small street. Any of these people could be hosts and she wouldn’t know it, giant Petri dishes of a predatory life-form, its sole purpose the extinction of genuine humankind, to replace it with something…alien.

  Sydney Bauersfeld had been a midlevel accountant at a moderately successful financial firm before the first two nukes went off in Los Angles and West Virginia. She’d been a bland, faceless speck of insignificance floating in a cacophony of frantic, purposeless activity.

  That was Before. With a capital letter.

  She often thought in capitals. It made the words more important in her head.

  Before, she’d been blissfully unaware of how fragile her beautiful world was...like everyone else. Before, she’d been a drone, a mindless sheep in a flock of millions. Before, she’d been a cog in a pointless, joyless machine.

  Now she had a purpose, one she’d been made for, or perhaps chosen for. She didn’t know by whom or by wha
t. Call it God’s Will, or Fate, or simply Things Working Out in The Wash, as her grandmother used to say. It didn’t matter why. Now, though, she had a Purpose.

  Her Purpose was her Work. Her Work was nothing less than the survival of the Human Race, and her Method was the elimination of the Eden Plague.

  She’d been called a fanatic by some. Any more, she didn’t bother to disagree.

  Bauersfeld checked the house number and positively identified the dwelling, though one she’d never seen before. The safe houses always varied and were never used twice, an unfortunate but necessary logistical burden on their clandestine organization.

  A small, reasonable faction within the government of the Netherlands supported the anti-Plague resisters behind the scenes, but most of the populace and civil service didn’t want the attention or controversy. Like so much of Europe, they were still trying to walk the tightrope between those who recognized the threat of the Eden Plague and sought to eradicate it, and those who were sympathetic to the horrific so-called Free Communities. Those were nothing but a pathetic attempt at a fake, legitimate-seeming government of the extraterrestrial invasion-by-germ.

  Bauersfeld believed that, as with anyone who walked a tightrope long enough, Europe was likely to fall to its death.

  Turning into the narrow driveway, she looked up at the house. Typical of most Dutch homes, it was tall and narrow. This one even had a traditional thatched roof, though it looked to be in need of replacing soon.

  She climbed the short steps and rang the bell. As she did so, she turned to the corners of the porch so whoever manned the cameras could get a good look at her.

  After several seconds, the door unbolted and was opened by a small, fit but elderly woman in a gray woolen pantsuit, simultaneously practical and elegant.

  “Hallo. Kan ik u helpen?” the lady asked.

  Bauersfeld smiled. Even if this one didn’t serve the same masters as she did, she was certain the woman certainly spoke good English, like the vast majority of the Dutch.

  Reaching into her purse, Bauersfeld pulled out a small brochure, the only one like it, and held it in front of the woman. “Hello. Would you be interested in contributing to the education of poor children in Rhodesia?”

  The woman studied Bauersfeld’s face closely, and then the brochure.

  Bauersfeld controlled her impatience. She’d completed the first half of the recognition code. There was no such country as Rhodesia anymore. The woman obviously knew Bauersfeld was supposed to be there, but remained standing patiently, waiting for the safety signal. Forcing the issue with these gatekeepers was a good way to end up in restraints, or worse.

  Raising her hazel eyes slowly from the brochure to Bauersfeld’s, the resident spoke in English. “There are poor children everywhere.”

  “Yes, but education is the key to prosperity,” Bauersfeld responded. “Might I come inside and share some tea with you?”

  The woman’s lips tightened, and then she nodded, stepping aside and opening the door.

  Bauersfeld walked inside.

  The woman closed the door behind her.

  Bauersfeld found two men pointing pistols at her. Raising her hands, she submitted to a rough, thorough pat-down. She knew the procedures. After all, she herself had written them.

  After a search of her bag, one of the men ran an electric wand over her body, looking for any implanted transmitters or bugs. He eventually nodded, and then used a small device to conduct a retinal scan to confirm her identity.

  After a cheerful beep from the scanner, the men relaxed, putting their pistols away. “Welcome, Miss Bauersfeld.”

  “You’re not done,” Bauersfeld said darkly.

  The men froze.

  “You know who I am, but you don’t know what I am.”

  The woman fidgeted nervously. “Do you really think that is necessary, dear?”

  Bauersfeld turned to the woman and glared at her. “How do you know I haven’t been infected?”

  The two guards looked at each other nervously.

  “You don’t. I know I’m clean, but you can’t take my word for it. Don’t think; just follow procedures and do your jobs.”

  The two men glanced at each other before one went over to a table and retrieved a small plastic case, opening it to remove a swab.

  Bauersfeld opened her mouth to allow the man to wipe the inside of her cheek, picking up saliva and skin cells on the cotton. He replaced the swab into its clear tube.

  Then they waited the requisite two full minutes.

  The swab remained white. A change to green would have confirmed the presence of the Eden virus. “She’s clean.”

  “Well, dear, I’m glad we got that settled,” the old woman said with a thin smile.

  “Yes,” answered Bauersfeld, slowly pulling her glove back on. “And I’m going to need all your names and national identification numbers before I leave here.”

  The woman’s smile vanished and a hint of fear flashed in her eyes.

  “My name is Sydney Bauersfeld. You know who I am and the Agency I work for. If you ever refer to me as ‘dear’ again, I’ll turn you into a lab specimen.” Bauersfeld turned away from the shocked woman, toward the two men. “Now, take me to him.”

  A short walk down the hallway led to a set of stairs that plunged steeply into a dark basement, a rare thing in a nation of ridiculously high water tables. As Bauersfeld descended the worn stone stairs she could smell the dampness and see a pale sheen of moisture on the shadowy walls. A sump pump line ran up one corner, undoubtedly the only way the cellar could be kept clear.

  A stocky man she knew only as Adam stood at the bottom of the stairs with his customary wide grin. He wore a white butcher’s apron, now stained carmine.

  “Miss Bauersfeld,” he said with a small bow. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

  As she descended, she detected the ferrous odor of old blood, and something else she often associated with places like this. They said that people couldn’t smell fear, but Bauersfeld thought she could. It hung thick in the air.

  The man strapped to a chair in the center of the room inhabited a mass of dim shadows. His dark skin glistened with perspiration despite the chill in the moist air. Bauersfeld didn’t fully appreciate how massive the black man was until she stood near him. Even seated and hunched over, his head rose nearly even with hers.

  Bauersfeld looked at the blood pooled out on the plastic sheet beneath the chair. Several intact teeth lay there as well, roots and all. She lifted her eyes toward the man and found it difficult to focus on anything else other than at the bloody stumps where fingers, toes, and an ear had once been.

  “I thought we were going to try RH-46 on him,” she said.

  Adam nodded. “I did, but it’s as we suspected. He’s resistant. I don’t know why a truth serum would be counteracted by a virus that repairs cellular damage, but it does.”

  “Either that or specialized training. Perhaps hypnosis. However, I see you didn’t waste too much time trying to figure out why,” Bauersfeld said tilting her head toward the amputations.

  “Tried and true methods are often best.”

  “Did he tell us what we need to know?”

  “Not yet,” Adam answered, slapping the man roughly on the back of the head, “but he will. The things we’ll learn from him will be most valuable.”

  “I agree, but most urgently, we need his contacts here. We have to move fast before they go to ground.”

  “Slow and steady gets the job done,” Adam answered with a mischievous grin, rubbing his gloved hands together.

  Bauersfeld’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t like the way the interrogator reveled in his cruelty, and she detested the petty dramatics he couldn’t seem to resist.

  That she herself might be subject to the same failings never occurred to her. A neutral observer might point out her own moments of petty drama, and the joy she took in her power.

  The man in the chair slowly lifted his head and turned eyes, swollen shu
t, toward the sound of Bauersfeld’s voice.

  Always nervous about possible infection, Bauersfeld forced herself not to step away from the monster before her. “They look so normal, don’t they? Like real people.”

  “Indeed,” Adam answered. “Truly a remarkable creature. Actually, a superb training tool for my line of work. I’ve been able to test and perfect techniques on Edens that were never possible with humans.”

  The man in the chair coughed and spat a wad of blood.

  Bauersfeld jumped back, out of range.

  The prisoner raised his head and rasped, “I am an official envoy, special attaché to the United Nations Representative from South Africa. I have diplomatic immunity.”

  “I see he’s still sticking to his story,” Bauersfeld said.

  “You can’t do this. I’m Special Envoy Alex Crester. I’m an engineer, here to consult on public works projects.”

  Bauersfeld peered intently at the monster in front of her. “That’s true, you are an engineer of sorts, though according to your file you know more about weapons engineering than building dams and canals. The rest is lies. You are none other than Lawrence Nightingale. You were with Daniel Markis himself when this all started. You were one of the first humans ever infected with the Plague.”

  The man shook his head. “I’m just a man, here to help people.”

  Bauersfeld smiled wryly. “No. You are the very devil himself.”

  Her prisoner dropped his chin to his chest. “Funny, the Afrikaners used to say the same thing about people of my color. ‘Black devils,’ they called us, and worse. Now Edens are the new niggers in your world. At least the virus is an equal-opportunity microbe. Progress, I suppose.”

  “This isn’t about race. It’s about the infection that turns humans into…something else.”

  The man in the chair lifted his face to stare at her with blind contempt. “You’re right. It’s not about race anymore. It’s not even about the Eden Plague. Not really. It’s about an excuse for your leaders to divide people and exercise power over them. Fanatics like you are tools for those who only care about themselves.”