Creeping silently back until he was well out of whatever meager light the pitiful fire would hurl in the narrow rock-walled corridor, he threw back his hideous head and laughed.
Yes, bring your fire to me… we will see who is afraid…
"Are you Dixon?"
Special Agent Dixon of the Central Intelligence Agency looked up at the sharp rap on the door, his eyes flicking down to check the valid pass and the United States Deputy Marshal credentials the man casually presented.
"I'm Dixon." He rose with the words. "I assume you're Marshal Chaney."
"I'm Chaney. I'd like to talk to you."
Dixon smiled, reaching out to shake. "Sure. Have a seat."
Chaney had already moved into the room, noticing as he shook hands that Dixon was a typical-appearing career man: white shirt, dark coat, dark tie, short-cut hair swept back, pale from too many hours under fluorescent lights, and eyes that seemed none too friendly. Chaney took a seat opposite him. He had been careful not to bring any notes, nor did he indicate that he would take any.
Reasons for that were twofold. First, Chaney wanted to scare Dixon, if he were truly involved in the subterfuge. And second, he wanted Dixon's immediate attention and respect. He had learned that other federal agents who didn't bother with recordings scared Agency people.
Chaney settled back into the chair, almost relieved at the atmosphere, though he knew he was on hostile ground.
With Gina he had been woefully, inadequately out of his league. But here, surrounded by policy and procedure, rules and regulations and the aura of secrets, clearances, and easy betrayal, he was at home. He waited for a moment, just to see what Dixon would do, measuring the man's temperament. But Dixon only leaned back and gestured casually.
"Well, Marshal," he began, in a cooperative tone, "I'm at your disposal and I'll help anyway I can. Of course, you're aware of restraints placed by Article 2453 negating any—"
"I'm aware, Mr. Dixon."
Chaney accented his response with a curt nod to indicate that he wouldn't allow the direction of his investigation to be derailed by regulations or policy. Nor would he allow his concentration to be distracted by protocol.
With Dixon, Chaney felt, it was best to play from strength.
"Ah, good." Dixon leaned forward, aggressive. "Then how can I help you?"
Chaney wanted to set the board up clean, so he didn't hesitate, didn't use a friendly tone, didn't couch anything in polite or tactful terminology. "Tell me about these so-called research stations that run under this program from the Arctic Circle," he began. "The ones where all the soldiers and personnel were injured or killed. I don't have to tell you that I'm investigating them."
Dixon opened his eyes wider and released a deep breath. He shook his head. "Frankly, Marshal, I'm as confused as anyone else. I don't know what is happening, really. All I know for certain is that the program has suffered setbacks due to the violent interference of some type of animal that is attacking our personnel."
"Yeah, I know that much." Chaney held the CIA man's eyes, watching for the slightest flicker. "What, exactly, are these stations designed to achieve?"
"Just geochronology and monitoring of tectonic plate movement." Dixon was all business. "It's a simple affair, really. Virtually every major country has some type of research station in the Arctic. Some are in international territory. Ours are on our own turf, in Alaska." He leaned back, shaking his head with more emphasis. "I can't really tell you why this bear or tiger or whatever the hell this thing is has singled out the stations. I've had people working on it. They say it might be related to radiation, or low-frequency sounds that could be attracting it, but that's all I can tell you. I'm not a scientist."
"Neither am I, Dixon," Chaney answered, purposefully dropping the "Mr." Then: "I only know that the information I've dug up so far indicates that these… facilities… are engaged in something more than seismic monitoring."
Dixon tilted his head. "Oh? And how would you reach that conclusion? Because that's certainly beyond any information that I've obtained."
"I can't reveal my sources," Chaney said, finding faint pleasure in the baiting. "But I believe the stations are engaged in some sort of biological research."
There was no hesitation at all in Dixon's reply. "Really?" He followed with a deliberate pause, as if he were seriously absorbing and considering the weight of it. "I did not know that. Just how accurate do you believe this information is, Mr. Chaney?"
"Accurate enough. It fits."
Silence.
"I see," Dixon responded at last. "So…biological research, you say. Now… of course, you know I can't move on that information unless I have corroboration."
It was the moment Chaney had been waiting for, but he didn't know it until it came. "You don't have to corroborate it. I already have. And I don't care for you moving on it, either. I'm gonna do that personally." He leaned slightly forward. "Tell me about this hunting party you have up there, Dixon. Certainly that information is not classified under the Posse Comitates threshold of' Top Secret and Above! "
"Well," Dixon responded, tapping the desk with a pencil, "I believe that they are an elite unit of specially recruited soldiers highly qualified for jungle survival and experienced at hunting both animals and men. They are all experts in small arms, veterans of combat, decorated to a man, or woman, and possessing appropriate security clearances."
It was just what Chaney had expected to hear; there had been no mention of this man named Hunter.
"What about the guide?" he asked.
"Who?"
"Nathaniel Hunter."
"Oh, yes." Dixon waved vaguely. "According to those who selected him for the mission, he is the best wilderness tracker, as they call it, in the world. Seems like he can find anything in the jungle, the forest, the desert, wherever, and capture it or kill it. I didn't have the responsibility of verifying his credentials, so I really have no idea. Nor did I select him. That was beyond my pay grade."
"Did you ever meet him?"
"Oh, yes, but only for a moment. And it wasn't the type of engagement where you can make a studied analysis." Dixon's face and eyes revealed nothing. He could have been reciting a laundry list. Chaney was impressed. "But in the few moments I shared with him," Dixon continued, "I came to appreciate his understanding of these things. I had no objection to allowing him on the team. We did, after all, need someone who could hunt this bear down and kill it before it caused further damage to the program."
"You keep saying that." Chaney didn't blink.
Seemingly surprised, Dixon looked straight at him, innocent. "Saying what, Mr. Chaney?"
"Saying it was a bear."
Dixon blinked, studious. "Well, what else could it be? Unless a tiger swam the Bering Strait — unlikely — then it would have to be a bear. I have, after all, read reports on the attacks." He shook his head, a jerk. "The loss was…horrendous. Nor am I a man easily disturbed by carnage. It is my profession to remain dispassionate and unaffected by such things. They color judgment. But upon reading the descriptions of such wholesale murder, I knew that we were facing a beast of incalculable strength. As only a bear would possess. And a rather large member of its species, at that."
Chaney decided to change tack; this was going nowhere. He decided to fall back on one of Brick's oldest rules: when lying doesn't work at all, try using half the truth. Just remember to always mix it with enough lies to keep them off balance.
"Do you believe this creature might be a mutation?" he asked.
Dixon gazed at him, open and honest. "Mutation?" He let the question hang. "Well, Mr. Chaney, I believe I already told you that I don't know anything about any… mutations or experimentation… at those stations. However, I do not rule out the supposition. I have been in intelligence too long to doubt any concept, however illogical and bizarre it may seem."