“Look, of all people back then, I knew just how unstable, how volatile, how deadly dangerous was the situation in Cochin and Tonkin at that time, especially for anyone who might be considered to be or taken for a Frenchman or Frenchwoman, particularly one in any way connected with their military or governmental establishment.
“It was risky enough to send you, but some risk had to be taken, just then, to achieve my ends, get the information needed, and I knew you and knew that if anyone could take care of himself in a sticky situation, it was you.
“When Martine chose to accompany you, I decided that she would provide deeper cover for you. Anyone—man or woman, friend or complete stranger, Caucasian or Oriental—could tell when you two were together just how much of love and caring one for the other was in your relationship, so how could it then be even so much as suspected that you were anything more than what you were supposed to appear—a wealthy American couple spending some time as the guests of certain French people in Saigon? Had I taken the time to think, had I only taken that little bit of extra time to think it out as deeply as I should’ve …”
“Look, General,” said Milo earnestly, “think now, think back on it, huh? Martine was killed, yes, but not by intent. Daphne, Madame Cler, she was the target of that bomb, it was her car that they rigged, and we never knew for certain just who did it, either. Yes, it could’ve been, might’ve been, the Vietminh, but it just as well might’ve been any of half a dozen aggregations of racketeers—Asian or French—for not only the Minh had it in for Daphne’s husband and her brother. It doesn’t take much sophisticated skill to wire a bomb to the ignition of an automobile, only access to wire and primers and explosives, all of which were in abundant supply all over Saigon at that time, hell, still are and will continue to be into the foreseeable future.”
Barstow grimaced. “Until the Cong come in and take over Saigon of course,” he said bitterly, adding, “Which scenario seems to be nothing less than exactly what McGovern, Church and the rest of that flock of pinkish doves want to see. They’ll gladly let the rest of the world go Communist or go to hell, just so long as they can be free to legislate this country into a fucking Swedish-style socialist welfare state, completing the work of Roosevelt, Truman, Kennedy and Johnson.
“That McGovern!” He spat in disgust. “He swears he’s going to, if elected, give one thousand dollars to every man, woman and child in this whole frigging country, just because they’re here and alive, apparently. What he doesn’t think about or talk about is where the fuck he’s going to lay hands on the two hundred plus billions it’s going to take, not to even make mention of the four or five billions more that the fucking bureaucrats will gobble up in the distribution. I tell you, Milo, the Democratic candidate—or, more likely, whoever is telling him what to say, what to promise—has a cranium stuffed with top-quality fertilizer, fresh from the horse.
“But since we’re back on the subject of shit, you’re deep in it, my friend, so far as the Pentagon is concerned. They’re no longer at all accustomed to truth-saying and honesty over there, you see, and they’re therefore scared to death of anyone who is capable of speaking out bald facts and, more, of anyone who does so. Your encounter with Henshaw rattled not a few cages, and the intent is to make you pay dearly for such temerity, such unbridled honesty. But I just may be able to pull you out … with your cooperation, of course. Will you cooperate, Milo?”
VI
In the dank little underground room, James Bedford’s sometime private office, now lit brightly by a gasoline lantern as ancient as the other artifacts cluttering the space, Milo set bis eyes once more to the laminated pages of Redford’s personal journal.
“I’m beginning to suspect unplumbed depths to Dr. Harel,” he read. “His behavior, all of what I thought to be mere bluff and impressive bluster performed for simple shock effect. may well be in truth that of a really violent, incipiently dangerous man. So, although I’ve left the v-phone cable disconnected for the nonce, I’ve just placed some calls on my private, scrambled line to some folks back east; I want to know more about Harel, a great deal more, and in as much detail as possible. If his tantrums are not as deliberate as I thought, are really more or less uncontrollable, then we’d best—for our own safety—get him the hell out of here.”
The next page in the binder began: “Just spoke with contacts in re the snow leopards. Cheers! They’re still available to me and this project. I’ve arranged, moreover, to trade the surviving bull and cow wisents for them—even trade, no cash involved, which will certainly help us here, under the circumstances. I’ve put Juan and Joe to preparing a place for them and such other cats as we might later acquire or breed.
“Everyone seems exhilarated over the prospect of changing our project over into another direction … everyone except Harel, of course. The man is always either sullen and completely uncommunicative or livid, shouting, beating on inanimate objects, throwing things and stamping his big feet. When I refused to reconnect the v-phone at his order, he proceeded to go into a towering rage and smash and batter the set into so much plastic and metal junk, roaring that if he couldn’t use it, no one would. He’s used the regular phone, though, to place several late-night calls of some duration to Russia, to his buddy, Piotr. Those calls weren’t scrambled, but as they were conducted in some dialect that no one here seems to understand, they didn’t need to be. After each succeeding call he’s been more hostile.
“Singh, on the other hand, is ecstatic, there’s no other word to adequately describe him and his demeanor since we decided to override Harel’s Latifrons obsession and go back to Stekowski and Singh’s original Project Feethami. He and Stekowski have been on the phone to Canada, among other places, and have been assured that the genetic material will be here any day now, they’ve also gotten word of the capture of one of the exceedingly rare white, mountain jaguars and have been heating up the lines between here and South America trying to get either her or genetic material from her.
“Nor is Singh the only one. I’ve never seen this place throbbing with so much life, such intense purpose. Dr. Marberg has found us a replacement for Harel, too, an old friend of hers, a German, a Dr. Wilhelm Müller, who worked on both the Panthera spelaea project in Greece and the Thylacoleo project in Australia. Old as he is. and he’s quite a few years Stekowski’s senior, such a man still will be invaluable to this project. His in-depth knowledge of and vast experience with the very species we are attempting replication and eventual reproduction of should speed up our success, and, strapped as we now are, every day saved is precious.
“Once we get close enough to even apply for an international patent, of course, we’ll be out of the woods, every investor and his maiden aunt will be clawing each other for an opportunity to put money into the project and we’ll be as rich as the mammoth project down in Alabama or the creodont project in Texas. But until that happy day, we’re going to be on a tight, an exceedingly tight, budget, even if I plow every available cent of my own year’s income into our project.
“But back to Harel. I want the loud, arrogant bastard out of the project altogether and off this plateau. If my investigators come up with information to indicate that he’s not dangerous to people he works with, maybe I can get him a slot in that new project down in Southern California, that dwarf mammoth thing—surely he’d be happy with that, and he does seem to know his stuff professionally, so he would certainly be valuable to them.