14
THE CITY OF LIGHTS

WESTERN MICHIGAN

Harley followed the ramp up to the first level of the city underground. Gardens, lit by ultraviolet lights, lined the walkway. In the main corridor, conveyors moved men and women in both directions. They wore white jumpsuits and had ginger hair. They cruised past him like ducks in a shooting gallery.

People turned with suspicious glances as Harley boarded the northbound conveyor. He disembarked at the third exit and scanned the choice of passageways until he found the Conference Concourse.

Negotiating a busy revolving door, he entered a circular lobby with rooms arranged like spokes on a wheel. Finally, he found the door labeled Omega and opened it.

A half dozen people stood chatting in a group, but their conversation halted when he entered. He could read their thoughts.

Where’s Senator Willson? Where’s the big cheese? They were all thinking it.

He smiled and nodded hello.

Damn Willson. He set me up to take the fall for him. Harley Quinn squared his shoulders and took a seat.

A woman in a gray suit gave him a hard stare. Harley held her gaze steadily, unflinching. She was creepy. She made his skin crawl. A pitcher of ice water sat sweating in the middle of the buffet, and Harley poured himself a glass to wash away the nerves he was feeling. He waited for his anxiety to ease. You never know what might happen in these situations.

His immediate neighbor was General Howard Robinson, a tall Black man. The officer had so many military decorations that he probably needed a forklift to move them around.

They were a pack of wolves waiting for the alpha female. Barbara Hagopian was a tough, no-nonsense senior United States Senator. She burst through the door and hunched over the lectern like a vulture.

“We have a crisis with Omega.” Her eyes swept the room, selecting targets for her verbal strikes. “I want to seal this coffin before the US Senate becomes the night of the living dead. Omega is compromised, and we need to wipe our fingerprints off this sucker yesterday.”

“Omega has been operating covertly for decades, but I believe it’s about to come into the bright light of day,” General Robinson said. “It’s a Pandora’s box with a tiny crack. And I don’t think the world wants to see what might spill out.”

“A crack? Is that what we’re calling it, General?” Hagopian’s smile masked her disdain. Harley expected her tongue to flick from between her narrow lips and snatch the general into oblivion. “We have three fronts in this battle: Underhill and the dead kid, an infection that’s affecting clones here in Sanctuary, and a meltdown in our relationship with Al Amorta Ujung. I sense there’s a pattern to this chaos.”

“The misappropriation of a cloned child by a United States Senator was news to me,” the General said. His sharp look shot a quiver of arrows through Harley. “Now we discover that at least one other child has been pilfered. You know what I’m saying? Or shall I be more candid?”

“Please, spill all,” Hagopian replied gently.

Robinson said, “Blake’s adopted kid.”

“No,” she gasped. “As payoff for what? Does Blake have something on Willson?”

“No.” General Robinson looked at Harley, who pretended to be confused by the turn of the conversation. “This Quinn guy shouldn’t be here.”

“Willson’s deal is that he’ll run as Nicholas Blake’s Vice President in the next election.”

“A bipartisan ticket?” Hagopian laughed. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she sneered. Then she turned the Howitzer on Harley. “What do you have to say about this?”

“The Senator apologizes for any inconvenience his absence causes the Committee,” Harley replied curtly. “As he told you, he has unavoidable business on the Hill today.”

“Inconvenience!” she snorted. “He’s caused more than an inconvenience! That man has single-handedly jeopardized the Omega Consensus. We were quietly shutting down this project, you son of a bitch. Removing the bullets from Al Amorta’s weapons so we could leave them with rubber band guns—that would have reduced oil prices for American citizens before the next election. Now we’ve got a mess on our hands.”

“What about the Sumatran Compound?” General Robinson asked. He looked at Firdaus. The man seemed a little too squirmy.

“Dr. Syringh Firdaus is Holmstead’s man and our liaison with the Sumatran branch of Omega,” Hagopian turned to the raisin-skinned doctor. She sent the message that she preferred his answers. “You were born in Sumatra Barat, is that correct?”

“Yes, that is true,” Firdaus replied, and waited for the drilling he knew was coming.

“What are your thoughts on this mess?”

“I’ve heard nothing from Sumatra,” Firdaus admitted. It was true, but he hadn’t made contact because he knew Dr. VandenHeuvel would be in a murderous rage over Azara’s death. “I’ll be checking for you, Madam.”

“Good, at least someone has a brain around here,” she snapped. “What about you, Watson?”

“The Justice Department needs a heads-up on how serious this situation is,” the round-headed bureaucrat replied. “The Attorney General wonders if this requires a special prosecutor.”

“Are you seriously oblivious? This is as urgent as a heart attack. We have a dead clone lying in some hick’s field, and we still need to recover the evidence. That’s in progress, isn’t it?”

“Right,” Firdaus and Robinson said in unison. They glared at each other threateningly.

“And we’ve got a perp wandering around who knows God knows what about the inner workings of the government,” Hagopian was foaming at the mouth. “Christ almighty, he could have state secrets stashed in his underwear drawer.”

“May you excuse me, please?” Syringh Firdaus mopped his brow with a hanky as they fixed their eyes on him like a half dozen bayonets.

“This afternoon, I visited the site where the clone unit was abandoned. I examined the body and removed evidence linking Omega, specifically the ID chip. I can assure you this was not a case of violent death. In fact, it seems to be the same infection that is spreading here at Sanctuary.”

“And what about the transporter? Why was he disposing of the body like roadkill?” Hagopian demanded.

“We picked up the clone known as Kowa last night,” General Robinson said. “He was forced to abandon the body when his vehicle had a blowout. He wasn’t familiar with the area and encountered a rather nonverbal young man. Then a tow driver surprised him when he was unloading the trunk. He had to hide. Given the turn of events, he thought it was best to conceal the body and return for it later. We picked him up in a Black Hawk without incident.”

“Without incident, General? It sounds like a damn media event. Why didn’t you pick the body up right then and there?” Hagopian sniped. “Eh? Just send in a team and take care of business?”

“Infrared revealed a patch of heat in the middle of a tree—it might have been the possibly autistic man. We sent a rescue team the following day. We were within fifty feet of the site when the farmer’s little girl found the body.”

“You should have killed the child and finished the whole business,” Hagopian suggested. “Then, you should neutralize this Underhill fellow.”

“Kill the child? Do you think we’re just common thugs?” General Robinson was appalled.

“Don’t you people know anything about damage control?” Watson bleated. “Sometimes you have to kick ass and take no names.”

“Just rub them out?” Harley blurted, then, seeing the hostility building around him, he shut up.

“My God.” General Robinson’s face showed his disgust. “We aren’t in the business of killing citizens, especially innocent children and disabled folks. I never signed up for that duty.”

“Are you a warrior?” Hagopian turned the blade she’d stuck in his back. “Or aren’t you?”

“Madam,” Syringh Firdaus tried to soothe the infidels. “The local authorities are unlikely to discover any DNA abnormality. I don’t believe this is a widespread crisis.”

“Mr. Quinn,” the chairwoman hissed, turning her furious face toward Harley. “How did this clone end up in the hands of a predator like Underhill? And what’s this about Blake’s baby?”

“Actually,” Harley hedged, “there’s a good explanation. Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to divulge that information. Senator Willson will have to answer those questions.”

He paused, and hostile faces fixed on him like a bug in a collection. “I don’t know about Blake’s baby. That’s news to me. The other—well, the Senator does get himself in a pickle sometimes.”

“More than likely, his pickle is the problem,” she nailed him. “So, can I infer Underhill’s connection to your boss is of the sordid variety?”

Harley admitted, “That’s safe to say.”

“The clone’s body is in St. Cecilia’s Hospital morgue. The case’s pathologist is Dr. Gene Walker,” General Robinson interrupted. “We’re confident the body can be recovered and all traces of the investigation eliminated within twenty-four hours.”

“General, please excuse me,” Dr. Firdaus said. “These people will suspect something other than death by natural causes if we intervene. I have examined this child. There were no serious or life-threatening wounds.”

“And if this Walker fellow figures out that this child is a clone?” Hagopian asked. “What then? Is your boss going to eliminate him?”

“If that is necessary, we will consider all options. Let us first see what he discovers. In the past, Dr. Walker has published cloning abstracts and journal articles.” Dr. Firdaus said. “Mr. Holmstead has been watching him closely. If he makes a move, the CIA will know.”

“The CIA can’t operate within US borders,” General Robinson pointed out. “I suggest Dan Urban of the FBI is the man to contact.”

“Nobody tells Holmstead to butt out,” Hagopian confessed. “I don’t want my name on his ‘retaliation list’. I’m not that stupid.”

“Let this fellow run his studies and carry out his testing routines. Their tests are too rudimentary and their experience too limited to discover anything,” Firdaus said with an authoritative manner that quelled their dissent.

“I agree, Madam Chairperson,” Watson, the Justice Department’s loyal supporter, nodded. “Thank God, Holmstead’s man has a brain.”

“It’s the safest course for now. I hope we don’t live to regret it.” Hagopian pinned them to their chairs with her glare. “But let me warn you. If there’s one more goof, Art Holmstead will need to bat clean-up. The evidence will never be found after he runs you through his inquisition team.”

Harley assured, “Senator Willson will deny everything if any of this becomes public.” He told me to say that.

“Denial of culpability is not one of his options,” General Robinson snapped. “He should resign and slink back under whatever rock he crawled out from.”

“We’re completely aware of Senator Willson’s leisure activities, Mr. Quinn. As his VALET, I’m sure you know that.” Senator Hagopian gave him a wicked grin.

“Anything you care to add, Doctor?” Hagopian looked at a very old man in a white lab coat who had yet to speak. “Josef is an old friend of Senator Ashton. And he’s the Medical Director of Sanctuary.”

“There is a slight problem.” His German accent was as thick as that of a new immigrant. “Several clones at Sanctuary have succumbed to a mysterious infection.”

“Why is it a mystery?” Dr. Firdaus asked. “Do you not know the pathogen?”

“The bacterium is usually harmless. Doesn’t cause serious illness, much less deaths in the zoo animals that carry it,” the old man replied. “These clones are succumbing within a few days of the symptoms’ onset.”

“Well, Josef, isn’t that nice?” Hagopian said, almost furious. “Our clones have been contaminated like the monkey house at the zoo?”

“I’m telling you it is not a strange coincidence that they are susceptible to the same bugs as the common orangutan, or any other barnyard beast,” the wizened physician replied. “If we are lucky, this pathogen will ONLY affect clones.”

“And if we aren’t? What then? You’re saying that it could affect everyone?” Hagopian asked intensely. Harley imagined shards of light shooting from the top of her head, but it was just the natural adrenaline kicking up his fight-or-flight system.

“Is this a fucking plague?” Barbara Hagopian grasped her temples as if she were suffering an impending stroke.

“You have a very coarse manner, Madam,” Sanctuary’s Chief of Medicine noted. “Are you Jewish, perhaps?”

“Armenian,” she spat. “What’s it to you?”

“Very interesting,” he noted. “Very interesting indeed.” He sat down, having said all he was going to say about the matter.

“Jah Lo has made contact,” Barbara Hagopian said, a bit shaken, and changed tactics. “He’s demanding that we buy one million barrels of oil at four times the market rate. He says this will compensate the Al Amorta Ujung for their security services in Sumatra this month. That bastard has upped the ante for the last time. We’re going to shut him down.”

“Then what?” the General asked.

“We’ll evacuate VandenHeuvel’s team from Sumatra and disperse them. Then, when we’re ready, we’ll nuke the region and remove the Sultan of Timoresh from his throne.”

“Just what the country needs,” General Robinson grumbled. “Another Vietnam.”

“We have no options left,” Watson agreed. “This highway robbery is the biggest boondoggle in US history. Everything, including Omega, must end here and now. The world won’t tolerate another human rights scandal.”

The meeting ended on a bleak note. The participants drifted away in groups, engaged in tense conversation, leaving Harley by himself.

Quinn found the lobby, sat down, and packed tobacco into his pipe’s bowl. He struck a match and watched it burn to his fingertips.

“No smoking here.” The uniformed guard suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

“Fine,” Harley agreed, handing his pipe to the redheaded soldier. “You want to pound that up your ass for me?” Then he took the elevator back to civilization.

As he moved through the trap door, a wave of relief washed over him. It just didn’t feel natural to explore an underground city.

Kowa had anticipated his arrival and waited with Harley’s carryall bag. “Watch the north edge of the driveway. It’s a regular minefield.”

“Are you shitting me?” Quinn gaped. His pulse had to be about two hundred beats per minute. Snagging his tote, he walked through absolute darkness. Once in his auto, Harley followed the gravel drive, staying so far to the right that he took out small spruce trees.

At the log cabin near Sanctuary, Kowa and Onu sprawled on the porch, watching the night sky through the treetops.

“You didn’t really tell him that,” Onu chastised his companion.

“Yup. Probably shit his pants,” Kowa replied.

As Harley turned south onto M-37, a gray sedan pulled out behind him. His surveillant remained two cars back.

I made it. His chest muscles and arms relaxed just slightly. Quinn reached into his glove box. The compartment was empty. I was sure I left my gun in there.

Holmstead’s man parked a quarter mile away in a private driveway, watching Harley Quinn with his night vision goggles. The senator’s valet sat on a dirt berm, smoking a fat cigar and clutching his flask.

The agent recorded in his log:

Time: 10:45 PM; Location: M37, six miles north of Newaygo; Subject: HARLEY QUINN stopped for a brief rest.

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