The Living Death (5 page)

This could be the key item, Nick," he said. "This could be a light in the dark, a connection we'd never have made otherwise."

"Light it up a little more," I said. "I'm still in the dark."

"We don't know what this Maria Doshtavenko wanted to tell us," he answered. "But from this, we might deduce what it was about."

"From just that name?"

"This, my boy, is not an ordinary name, as you know. Take a look at these names."

He took a sheet of paper from the top drawer of the desk and pushed it at me. There were seven names on it, each one that of a leading scientist who I recognized at once. These were men whose contributions to the world covered a vast area, medicine, physics, metallurgy, abstract theory and applied science. Hawk's tone was grave, almost sad.

"The whole thing's been kept semi-quiet for obvious reasons but each one of these men is, today, nothing but a vegetable," he said. "A mysterious and terrible illness has hit each one of them during the past year, resulting in a complete mental deterioration. They exist today in a kind of living death, vegetables, their minds lost to mankind."

"Medical research hasn't come up with an explanation?" I asked. "A brilliant scientist doesn't become a vegetable without some reason, to say nothing of seven of them."

"The neurological reason is that their minds have absolutely disintegrated," Hawk said. "They are in the total mental collapse that comes only with congenital retardation or massive brain damage. The scientific community is terribly concerned, of course. Scientists like the rest of us, are human and subject to the same fears and alarms as everyone else. A team of leading neurologists and psychiatrists have examined each of these men. They're completely baffled."

"No theories at all?"

"Well, they've come up with a couple of theories, which, as they've admitted to me, are more conjecture than anything else. However, they support these theories with the kind of scientific reasoning which fills the vacuum. In other words, what they have to say holds up because that's all we have."

"What are they saying?" I asked.

"Two things; one of them presupposes tie existence of a form of virus unknown and undetected as yet. The other
is
based on the development of an electrical ray capable of inflicting enormous physical harm. They theorize that the mind is essentially like any other organ in the body. When it is harmed in some manner — either through so-called natural means, that is, by a virus, or man-made means, such as, for example, the electric ray — it can be drastically weakened or even destroyed. A hitherto unknown virus of a specialized strain could theoretically bring on such a neurological collapse. So could an electrical ray, if you think of it as an extra-strong X-ray mechanism."

I found myself grimacing. "I suppose they're possibilities," I said. "But I don't buy them. Maybe I'm out of my depth here."

"We do know one fact," Hawk added. "They have all been stricken right after a monthly meeting of the International Science Scholars."

The International Science Scholars was, I knew, a worldwide scientific association of very advanced scientific thinkers from every country on the globe.

"The fact that these men have collapsed after the meetings does lend credence to the virus theory," Hawk said. "Something picked up at the meetings, just as all viruses are picked up. At least it
did
lend credence to it."

I picked up the inflection at once. He was being cute.

"What do you mean by that?" I questioned. "What are you driving at?"

"Look at the list again," Hawk said. I studied the names again. For a while they were just names, but then my years of training in suspicion, in perceiving things differently than anyone else sees them, came to the fore. Two highly interesting facts took shape and grew like a genie coming out of a bottle. There was not a Russian or a Chinese scientist among the seven names. Nor was there even one who had associated himself politically with the leftist position. Secondly, every one of the seven men had been in some manner associated with the Western powers. The ISS was a worldwide group. Their monthly meetings involved heavy thinkers from almost every country. How come, if it were a virus or a weirdo X-ray, none of the leftist eggheads have been affected?

"I get it," I nodded to Hawk. "It seems to be a highly selective mode of destruction."

He smiled thinly. "Every one of those seven men had contributed or had been working closely with scientific development in the Western powers," Hawk said. "Dunton had developed the electronic advances we use in the latest military hardware. Doctor Ferris, the advanced method of treating battlefield injuries. Horton had worked on the new molecular theories. I could go on but you've got the picture, Nick. Frankly, I had sniffed around at this fact but until this card with Professor Caldone's name and the statements the woman made to you, I hadn't come up with enough to satisfy me. But now, I believe we're putting together a picture here."

The intercom sounded with a message from Vital Statistics. They had done their usual fast, efficient job, and it made the picture even clearer. Maria Doshtavenko was an office worker in the Russian Information Bureau in London, a cover, we knew, for all kinds of Russian activities, including the NKVD.

"Most interesting, I'd say," Hawk said, chomping down on a cold cigar. I was recalling how disturbed and tormented Maria Doshtavenko had been about not being considered a traitor. Yet something disturbed her even more, something she wanted to tell us. I kept thinking of one line she had uttered. "These men have a value to the world that comes before anything else." It tied in more than neatly.

"You think the Soviets are causing these men to become vegetables?" I asked Hawk directly. "How the hell could they do it?"

"I wish I knew the answer to both of those, Nick," the Chief admitted. "But I am convinced there's a connection and something is very rotten here. We are being robbed of our most valuable men — the Soviets are stealing the minds of our scientists before our eyes. Professor Caldone must not be the next victim."

He picked up the index card again and gazed at it. "This card is very disturbing, Nick," he said. "If this living death is man-made, Professor Caldone may be next on the list. He's working on an advanced space-biology grant from the NASA people and the next ISS meeting is in a few days on the Italian Riveria — Portofino. You'll go there and stick with the professor. We'll contact him and you'll be given a firm list of instructions but they'll all add up to one thing — see that nothing happens to him."

I stood up and Hawk also rose. "We've stumbled onto something," he said. "Up to now we, and the world, have lost seven brilliant minds. That's a loss beyond measuring. Whatever this is, Nick, we've got to get at it and get at it fast. I want you here tomorrow morning. We'll have a session with Tom Dettinger and our plans will be formulated then."

I left, feeling that this whole business was something apart from anything I'd ever faced before. There was a quality of latent horror to it, of something shadowy and unreal yet all too real. I knew Hawk would have me on a plane as soon as our briefing was ended in the morning so I spent some time packing and then got off a cable to Denny Robertson. I told her I'd be in Portofino on business for a few days but I'd try my damnedest to come back via London and see her. I had a lot of explaining to do and was still feeling lousy about the whole business with Vicky. As I sent the cable mentioning the Italian Riveria visit, I couldn't help thinking that the ISS held their meetings at very «in» spots.

Outside of a call from a girl I knew just outside Washington, Linda Smythe, the rest of the day was quiet, and I appreciated the opportunity to do nothing and do it slowly. Linda had wanted to do the town, and under other circumstances I would have leaped at the chance. But I couldn't shake the picture of seven brilliant men becoming vegetables practically overnight. It was a chilling, flesh-crawling thought. Our meager facts certainly pointed to the Soviets being involved but the nature of it didn't even fit their operations. When you've been in this game long enough you learn that every outfit has its own character to its operations. This one, in fact, didn't really fit into any niche, unless possibly the Chinese Communists. While the Russians could be ruthlessly cruel, they were esoterically diabolic. Perhaps the Russians were involved, but not the way we were thinking. I was still wondering about it when I went to sleep.

Tom Dettinger was the AXE expert on procedures and techniques for protecting important people. I listened carefully to him, making mental notes as he went on. Hawk sat by, seemingly lost in his own thoughts but, I knew, not missing a word.

"This is a little unusual, Nick," Tom said. "There's really nothing to guard against in a specific way. There's no direct threat of assassination, for example, or no known groups to watch for. We're working against something which we don't know even exists, or if it does, in what form or shape. Therefore, the only approach is the one we call the blanket approach where you become more than a bodyguard. You become glue. I'll detail it for you."

As he went on, I was tempted to ask how you protect someone against a virus, or an invisible X-ray, but I held back. They weren't theories I had bought and neither had Hawk, which just proves that people in different professions see things in very different ways.

What really made the difference about this affair was that Hawk and I usually could indulge in a fine exchange of thinly veiled jabs and banter. Neither of us felt like it this time. When Tom finished, he gave me a few routine protective devices to take along, and Hawk walked to the elevator with me.

"You'll be dealing with something completely unknown and frankly, rather horrible, Nick," he said. "Exercise as much personal caution as possible within the framework of duty."

"You mean I should be careful," I grinned. He coughed nervously. His essential concern broke through that mask every so often. I maintained my casual air. Anything else would have added to his embarrassment.

"I'll watch it," I told him. "I'm not so crazy about vegetables that I want to become one."

His eyes found a twinkle. "Really?" he said. "It seems to me that you're very fond of tomatoes."

I grinned. This was more like it. It gave me a good feeling, a lift I'd been missing.

The Alitalia flight put me down in Milan and from there I rented a car and drove south to Genoa. Portofino was still further south and I continued on without stopping. The ISS meeting was quartered at the Excelsior and a room had been arranged for me adjoining Professor Caldone's quarters. I was to have the only key to both rooms. To add insurance, my instructions were to meet the Professor at a designated service station outside Portofino. He was driving up from Rome to meet me there. AXE had contacted him and thoroughly briefed him and he had agreed to cooperate fully. I turned the car in at Portofino and took an old and uncertain taxi to where I was to meet him.

I found Professor Caldone leaning against the hood of his car, a small Fiat sedan. He was short white-haired and genial with a small, round stomach from "too much pasta," as he put it, patting it fondly. He was immediately likable, a thoroughly unpretentious little man, I quickly concluded. He had an unexpected nugget for me when he announced that his wife and niece were with him to enjoy the Riveria while he attended the meetings. They had botl gone to the washroom in the little service station while he waited for me.

"Other than that," Professor Caldone said, "I am completely in your hands, Mr. Carter. I have been told I must do whatever you say."

I had to smile. He said it like a little boy. Only the twinkle in his small blue eyes set in the faintly cherubic face belied the quick mind at work. Signora Caldone emerged first, a short, square woman, a little more severe than her husband, but polite and pleasant enough.

"This is Signor Carter," he introduced me. "The American gentleman who I told you would be meeting us."

"Ah, si," the woman said. "The one you are supposed to obey." She turned to me and looked up somewhat skeptically.

"I hope you have more success with him than I have had in forty years," she said in mock seriousness.

"He will" the Professor replied before I could say anything. "He is a lot bigger than you, Mama."

I saw the girl approaching over Signora Caldone's shoulder and I tried not to stare. I'm afraid I didn't make it. To say she was beautiful would have been incomplete. To say she exuded sex would have been oversimplifying it. I saw black hair framing an olive-skinned face, falling loosely to her shoulders. Her lips, full and luscious, held the hint of a pout which disappeared when she saw me. Into those black-brown eyes I saw a dark fire suddenly leap as her eyes met mine. Full breasts billowed over the top of a white, scoop-necked peasant blouse, and thrust hard against the fabric. Wide hips emphasized a small waist, softly curving thighs and well-formed legs. I thought of what Byron had said about Italian women wearing their hearts on their lips. This kid wore a lot more than her heart on those full, red, lambent lips. She was sensuality incarnate. She throbbed. She was a smoldering volcano.

"This is Amoretta," the Professor said. Amoretta held out a hand that stayed in mine just a fraction longer than it need have, and I saw her eyes appreciatively examine my over six feet of hard-muscled body. I had a quick talk with myself. You, Nick Carter, I said, are here on a very sticky assignment. You can just ignore this luscious dish. Fat chance, I answered myself. She wouldn't get in the way of my work. They never did that, no matter what they looked like. But to ignore her would be equally impossible. Maybe, if I were lucky, some nice compromise would work itself out. Professor Caldone and his wife clambered into the front seat of the Fiat, leaving me to share the back with Amoretta. I felt the warmth of her thigh pressing lightly but definitely against my leg as she sat down beside me. There are advantages to the smaller European cars which their manufacturers should advertise more.