“Again?” St. Clair said, shaking his head. “You know something, maybe we should just call this whole thing off with them. Just let them go.”

  “That might not be wise,” Herr Hahn said. “They seem intent on following you.”

  “Let them try,” St. Clair dismissed. “They’ve got no idea where I even am.”

  Hahn’s reply caused St. Clair to tighten his grip on the slender phone.

  “They traced you as far as Macapa,” the killer said. “I attempted to use the excimer laser on them. It failed.”

  “That ultraviolet thing of yours?” St. Clair asked weakly. “I thought that barbecued the others like chickens.”

  “It did. However, this time it did not. Right now they are about to hire a boat to head up the Amazon.” For an instant the threat, of head cancer was forgotten. St. Clair pressed the phone tight against his ear.

  “They’re on the river?”

  “Nearly,” Herr Hahn said.

  This was something Hubert St. Clair had learned early on his dealings with the Swiss assassin. Whenever possible, Olivier Hahn kept his answers short. The better, he thought, to hide his accent It didn’t work. Even with one syllable Herr Hahn was obviously as French as a dirty armpit.

  “What does she think she’s doing?” he wondered aloud.

  “The men she is with are not ordinary bodyguards,” Herr Hahn explained. “They are assassins. According to reputation, they are possibly the best in the world. It is likely that they are not even interested in the Lifton woman. Except, perhaps, as a path to you.”

  “Me?” St. Clair asked, shocked. “They’re assassins and they’re coming after me? You’ve got to stop them.”

  “I will,” Herr Hahn said. “I said they are possibly the best in the world. Before this is over we will find out if theirs is a reputation earned.”

  St. Clair noted the proud determination in the Swiss assassin’s voice. He sounded like every French waiter St. Clair had ever detested.

  “I don’t want to get caught in the middle of some professional pissing contest you’ve got going on with those two,” the CCS head insisted. “Just kill them. You like that exotic stuff too much. You should use a damned gun. Sneak up behind them and pop.”

  “I choose my own methods, and I do not fail.”

  “You’re right about the first part,” St. Clair muttered.

  Hubert St. Clair had tried to discourage Hahn from the more flamboyant means he’d used against the C. dioxa team, but Herr Hahn had become intrigued with the dire environmental predictions made by the CCS over the years. By incorporating them into his execution methods, he brought his art to a whole new level. It became easier to just accept it and let him do his job as he pleased.

  “So where exactly are they now?” St. Clair asked.

  “They are on their way to the Macapa waterfront. I strongly suspect they will rent a boat to follow you,” Herr Hahn said. “I estimate they are ten hours behind you.”

  “You have to stop them,” St. Clair ordered.

  “The defenses I arranged for you at your special site are more than adequate to the task. I am en route there myself. I will rendezvous with you shortly.”

  Without so much as a goodbye, Hahn broke the connection.

  The Swiss assassin was like that. Arrogant, rude and condescending. No matter how much he tried to be German, the French in him always seemed to come through loud and clear.

  St. Clair slipped the phone into his pocket. With worried eyes he watched the tops of the trees speed by.

  The CCS head knew the defenses Hahn was talking about.

  A sudden split in the jungle canopy and the Amazon became an explosion of blue among the green. In that brilliant blue, Hubert St. Clair saw the future.

  The helicopter swooped over a trio of lonely boats. It was the three he had rented to transport the seeds from Macapa to the C. dioxa valley. The boats were on course and on time. He could see the heavy burlap sacks baking on the decks.

  He could not fail. Not now.

  The sweating men aboard the boats had removed their corduroy jackets. They waved them like triumphant flags over their heads as the helicopter soared overhead.

  Another boat like these a mere ten hours behind.

  St. Clair made a sudden decision.

  “Screw you, Frenchie,” he grumbled to himself. “You and the twenty-first century had your chance. It’s high time we had some pre-industrial Age killing around here.”

  Digging back in his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone once more.

  Chapter 19

  The botanist from the Smithsonian Institution had been brought in at the last minute as a consultant by an assistant director at the CIA. Although he was a little overwhelmed at first by the Pentagon’s War Room, the scientist quickly returned his attention to the matter at hand. Namely, the end of the world. These were the dire words he spoke to those assembled when describing the almost certain damage the genetically engineered trees would cause.

  The President, Vice President, joint chiefs and a few cabinet members, as well as the heads of the CIA, FBI and NSC, looked on. Some seemed concerned. A few looked skeptical.

  “I hope you can do better than that,” the White House chief of staff said. His Massachusetts accent was as thick as a bowl of Boston baked beans. “Scientists have been claiming the planet is doomed for thirty years.”

  The Smithsonian scientist shook his head seriously.

  “This isn’t doomsaying for political purposes,” he insisted. “This is the real thing. Sir?”

  Taking the cue, the CIA director pointed to an Army officer at a control console.

  A series of panel maps hung high across one big wall. The panels were backlit in bright shades of blue, green and yellow. The colors represented ocean, land and deserts around the globe. The poles were white.

  The officer typed in a command at a keyboard. On the wall one portion of the map changed color.

  “This is an early projection of species dominance,” the Smithsonian botanist explained.

  “Why is South America underwater?” the President of the United States asked. His nasal Texas twang was tart.

  The scientist shook his head. “That isn’t water, Mr. President,” he explained. “That is the first five years of C. dioxa breeding.”

  “They’ll take over South America in five years?” the President asked doubtfully. “Can a plant do that?”

  The scientist nodded. “Alien species introduced into an ecosystem not designed for them are capable of wreaking havoc on an enormous scale. Insects, reptiles, even other trees have all caused ecological problems in parts of the United States in the past century alone. But those were either due to accidents or ignorance. This is far worse. This is a deliberate attempt to alter the environment by introducing a genetically altered species into the wild.”

  The scientist desperately wanted to impress on these men the seriousness of the threat. In his very marrow he knew the world was heading for a showdown that might be unwinnable. He recognized the danger the moment he had been given the C. dioxa information by the CIA. It was made all the more real when he saw the classified satellite photographs of an incongruous patch of land in the Amazonian rain forest. Land the CIA said was owned by Hubert St. Clair’s Congress of Concerned Scientists.

  “Five years is a long time,” the President said. “Maybe we can find something to stop it by then. Some sort of weed killer.”

  “Five years is nothing,” the scientist insisted. “This is the projected course the C. dioxa will take. Slow projection, please,” he said to the soldier at the keyboard.

  As the President and the others watched the big overhead maps, the blue blob slid up from South America into Central America like a spreading ink stain. In a matter of seconds, it had engulfed the narrow strip of land from Panama to Guatemala, along with much of Mexico.

  “This is eight years from now,” the scientist intoned gravely.

  Eyes wide, the President sat forward in his chair. “My God, man, that’s practically in Texas,” he gasped.

  He almost jumped out of his seat when the blue blob oozed across the Texas-Mexico border.

  “Twelve years away,” the scientist continued..

  By now blue dots had appeared in Africa and Australia. They began spreading like cancer across those continents. A pair of blue blips popped up in Portugal and France. The original stain had seeped up across the plains states. California was nearly awash in blue.

  “Wyoming is gone,” the Vice President said, his voice soft and even. The blue of the map reflected in his glasses. His jaw clenched as he watched the C. dioxa tree line advance on Canada.

  “This is only sixteen years from now, gentlemen,” the Smithsonian botanist said. “As you can see, the contiguous United States is gone.”

  The trees had swept up like a tidal wave, rolling through southern Canada. The only part of the U.S. not covered was the high northeast. In a matter of seconds Maine, Vermont and New Hampshire had been gobbled up.

  “All that is left of the United States by this point is Alaska and Hawaii. Not that it will matter. The atmosphere will be well on its way to being completely poisoned by the time we get this far. The dominant species will die out first. Of course, in the primary affected areas they’ll already be gone. In the rest of the world, it will be a slower process, but inevitable. The higher vertebrates—man included—will go first But it will race down the food chain until nothing, not even a single microbe, is left.”

  “This can’t be,” the President said, more to himself than to the others in the room.

  “I’m afraid, sir, it is,” the botanist said. “If the information I have been given is accurate, the C. dioxas grow quickly and spread rapidly. They do not have single seeds, but hundreds of seedlets in a single shell. They break open and are spread on the wind.”

  Africa, Australia and nearly all of Europe and Asia were gone, awash in the same sky blue. The assembled men watched as the last of Russia was swallowed up.

  “The entire land surface of the world will be consumed by this plant within the next twenty-five years. Outside projection.” The botanist turned away from the maps. Behind him it was as if the oceans had risen and flooded every continent.

  “Antarctica is still white,” the chief of staff pointed out.

  “Not for long,” the botanist said. “The greenhouse gases released by the C. dioxa will trap radiant heat. The polar ice caps will melt, flooding landmasses. Eventually, Antarctica will be like everywhere else. Covered with these trees. However, none of us will be alive to see it.”

  “Can’t we fight them somehow?” the secretary of defense asked. “The President’s herbicide idea could work. We could blanket our southern border with spray.”

  The Smithsonian botanist smiled sadly. “Did you ever try obliterating every last dandelion in your yard, Mr. Secretary?”

  “Poison miles of land, then. Make it a dead zone where nothing grows or can take root.”

  “It simply can’t be done,” the botanist said. “These things are rapid growing. Nature itself will work against us. Once loose, the C. dioxa will spread like a disease. Even with our best efforts, the seeds will find purchase in isolated areas. Forests, taiga, mountainous regions. Even overgrown backyards and vacant lots. What I’ve shown you is the slow projection. I’m already assuming we’ll do everything we can to stop them. If we don’t try, the process will be even faster. Eventually, mankind will come to see what I already have. In the end we simply will be helpless to do anything to stop them.”

  “There must be something we can do,” the President said. “We can’t just let those things overrun Texas like that.”

  Lips pursed, he was looking up at the map. He didn’t even notice that the Smithsonian botanist was being escorted quietly from the room. The door clicked shut.

  “Map, please,” the CIA director said.

  The Army officer at the keyboard obliged. The blue receded from the world. It drained down from North America through Central America until it was once more an inconsequential dot. The upper section of South America was enlarged. The blue dot grew proportionate to the enlargement. It was in the jungles of Brazil, halfway down the Amazon.

  “There is a possibility, Mr. President,” the CIA director said seriously. “We can destroy the existing forest of C. dioxas.”

  “How?” the President asked.

  The CIA head and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff exchanged a tight glance.

  “Bomb Brazil,” the general said.

  The President’s head snapped up.

  “I can’t authorize a military strike against Brazil,” the chief executive said.

  The Vice President was still looking at the map. “We should consider it, sir,” he said somberly.

  The President exhaled, sinking back in his chair. “How is this even possible?” he muttered to himself. He looked up at the other men in the room. “What kind of strikes are you talking about?”

  He hoped for a limited number. He had no strong desire to pummel the Brazilian jungle as his predecessor had Yugoslavia, or his father—who had been President ten years before—had punished Iraq during the Gulf War.

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff cleared his throat. “Actually, according to the information I have been given, there is only one type of bomb that would be certain to destroy all the plants. Assuming this is their only location.”

  All eyes turned slowly to him.

  There was a sick look on the old soldier’s face. He had never imagined in his entire military career that there would ever come a time when he would advocate such a thing. But if the civilians were right, to not do so would mean the end of the world.

  “You want me to drop a nuclear bomb on Brazil?” the President asked. Shock swallowed up his Southern twang.

  “We discussed our options before your arrival, sir,” the CIA head said. “We would tell you to do this only as a last resort but, Mr. President, this is our last resort.” He pointed up at the tiny blue dot on the map. “If those plants are not obliterated completely, the entire planet is doomed. Anything smaller than an atomic strike at the heart of that forest runs the risk of scattering those seeds, something we cannot afford to do. This can’t be overstated. It’s either that dot, or the world.”

  The room fell silent as the President looked up at the map.

  Just a harmless little blue dot. It looked like nothing at all. But he had been partially briefed on the seriousness of the crisis that morning. He had seen all of the intelligence reports. The threat was real.

  His options were severely limited. He could either leave the trees alone and let them swallow up the entire planet, or he could become the first President since Harry Truman to drop a nuclear bomb on another country.

  Those were the options as outlined by his advisers. But maybe there was a third way.

  The President stood.

  All eyes were on him as he stared up at the map. He finally turned away.

  “I have to make a phone call,” the President said.

  Waving away protests, he left the War Room, hurrying out to his waiting limousine. The presidential motorcade sped back to the White House.

  The President’s generally cordial attitude wasn’t visible as he hurried through the mansion. Those who greeted him were brushed aside without so much as a glance.

  He raced to the family quarters, then hustled to his private bedroom. He closed the door tightly behind him.

  From the bottom drawer of his nightstand he pulled out a red phone.

  In the first month of his new administration, he had used that special phone for two separate emergencies. But in nearly a year since those trying times, he had done his best to put the phone and what it represented from his mind. He had hoped that he could survive the rest of his time in the White House without ever having to use it again.

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, the President of the United States brought the phone to his ear. As he did, he said a silent prayer that the men on the other end of that line would be able to put an end to this lunatic scheme. Not just for the sake of his beloved Texas, but for the entire world.

  Thanks to the car-rental information Remo had supplied, Harold Smith completed his search for Remo and Chiun’s mysterious stalker. He was reading an Interpol report on Olivier Hahn when he heard the muted ring of the special White House line.

  Smith collected the red phone from the bottom right drawer of his desk, picking it up before it had a chance to ring a second time.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” he said crisply.

  “We have a problem. Smith,” the President said. “I’m not inclined to believe the Henny-Pennies out there, but it sounds like civilization is actually in danger.”

  Smith blinked away surprise. “Are you by any chance referring to the work of the CCS?” he asked.

  The President exhaled relief. “Then you’re already on it? Thank goodness. What’s the situation?”

  “My men are in South America right now,” Smith said. “They are on the trail of Dr. St. Clair and his seeds.”

  “Seeds?” the President asked. “What seeds?” Smith adjusted his spotless glasses. “The C. dioxa seeds that were taken from the CCS greenhouse in Geneva. Isn’t that what you are referring to?”

  “There are more seeds?” the President said. The words came out in a pained groan.

  “I assumed that was what you were calling about,” Smith said. “Hubert St. Clair, the director of the CCS, apparently is planning to distribute C. dioxa seeds harvested from his European greenhouse somewhere in Brazil.”

  “He’s past the planning stage, Smith. According to the CIA, there’s already a whole bunch of those trees growing in an isolated part of the rain forest somewhere.”

  Smith’s chair creaked as he leaned forward. “Are you certain of that, sir?” he asked, his voice steady.

  “I saw the satellite photos myself. I’m surprised you haven’t. I thought you people were always on top of things like this.”