The Dark River

When the two mercenaries finally arrived, Boone told the ferry-boat captain to head across the river. Sitting in the boat cabin, he tried to evaluate the men who were going to help him kill someone. Both mercenaries were recent immigrants from Romania who were somehow related to each other. They had long names with too many vowels, and Boone didn’t think it necessary to learn the correct pronunciation. As far as he was concerned, the smaller Romanian was Able and the larger man was Baker. The two men sat on the left side of the cabin and braced their feet against the floor of the boat. Able was the talkative one, and he babbled nervously in Romanian while Baker nodded every few seconds to show that he was listening.

Waves rose up from the river and splashed against the bow. Raindrops struck the fiberglass roof of the cabin and made a sound that reminded Boone of fingers drumming on a tabletop. The boat’s two windshield wipers clicked back and forth as a sheet of water flowed across the glass. The Canadian boat captain kept adjusting his radio as the pilots of the container ships announced their position along the seaway. “We’re half a mile starboard,” a voice kept saying. “Can you see us? Over…”

Boone touched the front of his parka and felt two hard lumps hidden beneath the waterproof fabric. The vial of CS-toxin was in his left shirt pocket. In his right pocket was the black plastic case that contained the syringe. Boone hated to touch people, especially when they were dying, but the syringe demanded some degree of physical contact.

WHEN THEY REACHED Dark Island, the captain cut power and allowed the ferryboat to drift up against the dock. The head of island security, an ex-police officer named Farrington, came out to greet them. He grabbed the bowline and looped it around a stanchion as Boone stepped out of the boat.

“Where’s the rest of the staff?” Boone asked.

“They’re having lunch in the kitchen.”

“What about Nash and his guests?”

“General Nash, Mr. Corrigan, and Mrs. Brewster are all upstairs in the morning room.”

“Keep the staff in the kitchen for the next twenty minutes. I need to present some important data. We don’t want anyone walking into the room and eavesdropping on the conversation.”

“I understand, sir.”

They hurried through the sloping tunnel that went from the shore to the ground level of the castle. Boone transferred the syringe case and the toxin to his pants pocket while the two mercenaries removed their damp overcoats. Both men wore black suits and neckties, as if they were back in Romania attending a village funeral. The soles of their leather shoes made a scuffling sound on the grand staircase.

The oak door was closed, and Boone hesitated for a few seconds. He could hear the Romanians breathing and scratching themselves. They were probably wondering why he stopped. Boone smoothed down his wet hair, stood up straight, and led them into the morning room.

General Nash, Michael, and Mrs. Brewster sat at one end of a long table. They had finished their bowls of tomato soup and Nash was holding a platter of sandwiches.

“What are you doing here?” Nash asked.

“I received instructions from the executive board.”

“I’m the head of the board and I know nothing about it.”

Mrs. Brewster took the platter from Nash and placed it in the middle of the table. “I called a second teleconference, Kennard.”

Nash looked surprised. “When?”

“Quite early this morning-when you were still asleep. The Brethren weren’t happy with your refusal to resign.”

“And why should I resign? What happened yesterday in Berlin has nothing to do with me. Blame it on the Germans or blame it on Boone-he’s the one in charge of security.”

“You’re the head of the organization, but you won’t accept responsibility,” Michael said. “Don’t forget the attack a few months ago when we lost the quantum computer.”

“What do you mean, we? You’re not a member of the executive board.”

“He is now,” Mrs. Brewster said.

General Nash glared at Boone. “Don’t forget who hired you, Mr. Boone. I’m in charge of this organization and I’m giving you a direct order. I want you to escort these two down to the basement and lock them up. I’ll call a meeting of the Brethren as soon as possible.”

“You’re not listening, Kennard.” Mrs. Brewster sounded like a schoolteacher who had suddenly lost patience with a stubborn pupil. “The board has met this morning and voted. It’s unanimous. As of today, you are no longer executive director. There’s no negotiation about this. Accept your emeritus position and you’ll be given a stipend and perhaps an office somewhere.”

“Do you realize who you’re talking to?” Nash asked. “I can get the president of the United States on the phone. The president-and three prime ministers.”

“And that’s exactly what we don’t want,” Mrs. Brewster said. “This is an internal matter. Not something to discuss with our various allies.”