"The pages are over a hundred years old, so they're written in hand script, but I'll do my best. Let's see now, Roubaix's early life is sketchy. No date of birth. Listed as an orphan who drifted from family to family. First official record is age twelve. He was up before a local constable for killing chickens."
"You did say chickens?"
"Snipped off their heads with wire cutters in wholesale lots. He worked off damages to the farmer whose stock he had decimated. Then he moved to the next town and graduated to horses. Cut the throats of half a herd before he was apprehended."
"A juvenile psychopath with a bloodlust.
"People simply wrote him off as the village idiot in those days," said McComb. "Psychotic motivation was not in their dictionaries. They failed to understand that a boy who slaughtered animals for the hell of it was only one step away from doing the same to humans. Roubaix was sentenced to two years in jail for the horse blood bath, but because of his age, fourteen, he was allowed to live with the constable, working off his time as a gardener and houseboy, Not long after his release, people in the surrounding countryside began to find bodies of tramps and drunks who had been strangled."
"Where did all this take place?"
"A radius of fifty miles around the present city of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan."
"Surely Roubaix was arrested as a prime suspect?"
"The mounties didn't work as fast in the nineteenth century as we do now," McComb admitted. "By the time Roubaix was tied to the crimes, he had fled into the virgin forests of the Northwest Territory and didn't turn up again until Riel's rebellion in eighteen eighty-five."
"The revolt by the descendants of French traders and Indians," said Villon, recalling his history.
"Metis, they were called. Louis Riel was their leader. Roubaix oined Riel's forces and enshrined himself in Canadian legend as our most prolific killer.
"What about the time he was missing?"
"Six years," McComb replied. "Nothing recorded. There was a rash of unsolved killings attributed to him, but no solid evidence or eyewitness accounts. only a pattern that hinted of the Roubaix touch.
"A pattern?"
"Yes, all the victims were done in by injuries inflicted to the throat," said McComb. "Mostly from strangulation. Roubaix had turned away from the messy use of a knife. No great fuss was made at the time. People had a different set of moral codes then. They looked upon a scourge who eliminated undesirables as a community benefactor."
"I seem to remember he became a legend by killing a number of Mounties during Riel's rebellion."
"Thirteen, to be exact."
"Roubaix must have been a very strong man."
"Not really," replied McComb. "Actually he was described as frail of build and rather sickly. A doctor who attended him before his execution testified that Roubaix was tackled by consumption-what we now call tuberculosis."
"How was it possible for such a weakling to overpower men who were trained for physical combat?"
asked Villon.
"Roubaix used a garrote made from rawhide not much thicker than a wire. A nasty weapon that cut halfway into his victim's throat. Caught them unaware, usually when they were asleep. Your reputation is well known in body-building circles, Mr. Villon, but I daresay your own wife could choke you away if she slipped Roubaix's garrote around your neck some night in bed."
"You talk as if the garrote still exists."
"It does," said McComb. "We have it on display in the criminal section of the Mountie museum, if you care to view it. Like some other mass killers who cherished a favorite murder weapon, Roubaix lavished loving care on his garrote. The wooden hand grips that attach to the thong are intricately carved in the shape of timber wolvesl It's really quite a piece of craftsmanship."
"Perhaps I'll have a look at it when my schedule permits," said Villon without enthusiasm. He pondered a moment, trying to make sense out of Sarveux's instructions to Danielle in the hospital. It didn't add up. A riddle of ciphers. Villon took a flyer on another tack. "If you had to describe Roubaix's case, how would you sum it up in a single sentence?"
"I'm not sure I know what you're after," said McComb.
"Let me put it another way. What was Max Roubaix?"
There was silence for a few moments. Villon could almost hear the gears turn in McComb's head. Finally the Mountie said, "I guess you could call him a homicidal maniac with a fetish for the stranglehold."
Villon tensed and then relaxed again. "Thank you, superintendent."
"If there is anything else. . ."
"No, you've done me a service, and I'm grateful."
Villon slowly replaced the receiver. He looked into space, focusing on the impression of a sickly man twisting a garrote. The stunned expression of incomprehension on the face of the prey. A final glimpse before the bulging eyes turned sightless.
Sarveux's delirious ravings to Danielle suddenly began to make a shred of sense.
Sarveux lay in the hospital bed and nodded as Deputy Prime Minister Malcolm Hunt was ushered into his hospital room. He smiled. "It was good of you to come, Malcolm. I'm well aware of the hell you're going through with the House of Commons."
Out of habit, Hunt held out his hand, but quickly withdrew it on seeing the salve-coated arms of the Prime Minister.
"Pull up a chair and get comfortable," Sarveux said graciously. "Smoke if you care to."
"The effects of my pipe might lose me the medical vote come next election," Hunt smiled. "Thank you, but I'd better pass."
Sarveux came straight to the point. "I have talked with the director of air safety. He assures me that the tragedy at James Bay was no accident."
Hunt's face whitened suddenly. "How can he be positive?"
"A piece of engine cowling was found a half mile beyond the runway," Sarveux explained. "Analysis showed fragments embedded in it that matched a type of rocket used by the army's Argo ground-to-air launcher. An inventory at the Val Jalbert Arsenal discovered two were missing, along with several warheads."
"Good lord." Hunt's voice trembled. "That means all those people on your aircraft were murdered."
"The evidence points in that direction," Sarveux said placidly.
"The Free Quebec Society," said Hunt, turning angry. "I can think of no one else who could be responsible."
"I agree, but their guilt may never be proved."
"Why not?" asked Hunt. "The FQS are either out of touch with reality or complete idiots to think they could get away with it. The Mounties will never permit the terrorists behind a crime of such magnitude to escape unpunished. As a radical movement they are finished."
"Do not be too optimistic, old friend. My attempted assassination does not fall into the same category as the bombings, kidnappings and slayings of the last forty years. Those were carried out by political amateurs, belonging to FQS cells, who were apprehended and convicted. The slaughter at James Bay was conceived and directed by professionals. That much is known by the fact they left no trace of their existence. The best guess by the chief commissioner of the Mounties is that they were hired from outside the country."
Hunt's eyes were steady. "The FQS terrorists might yet push us into a state of civil war."
"That must not come to pass," Sarveux said quietly. "I will not allow it."
"It was you who threatened the use of troops to keep the separatists in line."
Sarveux smiled a dry smile. "A bluff. You are the first to know. I never intended a military occupation of Quebec. Repression of a hostile people would solve nothing."
Hunt reached in his pocket. "I believe I'll have that pipe now."
"Please do."
The two men sat silent while the deputy prime minister puffed his briar bowl to life. Finally he blew a blue cloud toward the ceiling.
"So what happens now?" asked Hunt.
"The Canada we know will disintegrate while we stand helpless to prevent it," answered Sarveux sadly.
"A totally independent Quebec was inevitable from the st
art. Sovereignty association was merely a half-assed measure. Now Alberta wants to go it alone. Ontario and British Columbia are making rumblings about nationhood."
"You fought a good fight to keep us together, Charles. No one can deny you that."
"A mistake," said Sarveux. "Instead of a delaying action, you and I, the party, the nation, should have, planned for it. Too late; we are faced with a Canada divided forever."
"I can't accept your ominous forecast," Hunt said, but the life had gone out of his voice.
"The gap between your English-speaking provinces and my French Quebec is too great to span with patriotic words," said Sarveux, staring Hunt in the eyes. "You are of British descent, a graduate of Oxford. You belong to the elite who have always dominated the political and economic structure of this land. You are the establishment. Your children study in classrooms under a photograph of the Queen.
French Quebec children, on the other hand, are stared down upon by Charles de Gaulle. And, as you know, they have little opportunity for financial success or a prominent position in society."
"But we are all Canadians," Hunt protested.
"No, not all. There is one among us who has sold out to Moscow."
Hunt was startled. He jerked the pipe from between his teeth. "Who?" he asked incredulously. "Who are you talking about?"
"The leader of the FQS," answered Sarveux. "I learned before my trip to James Bay that he has made deals with the Soviet Union that will take effect after Quebec leaves the confederation. What's worse, he has the ear of Jules Guerrier."
Hunt appeared lost. "The premier of Quebec? I can't believe that. Jules is French-Canadian to the core.
He has little love for communism and makes no secret of his hate for the FQS."
"But Jules, like ourselves, has always assumed we were dealing with a terrorist from the gutter. A mistake. The man is no simple misguided radical. I'm told he holds a high position in our government."
"Who is he? How did you come by this information?"
Sarveux shook his head. "Except to say that it comes from outside the country, I cannot reveal my source, even to you. As to the traitor's name, I can't be certain. The Russians refer to him by various code names. His true identity is a well-kept secret."
"My God, what if something should happen to Jules?"
"Then the Parti QudbA-cois would crumble and the FQS could step into the vacuum."
"What you're suggesting is that Russia will have a toehold in the middle of North America."
"Yes," Sarveux said ominously. "Exactly."
Henri Villon stared through the windows of the James Bay control booth, the grim smile of satisfaction on his face reflected in the spotless glass.
The riddle of Roubaix's garrote lay on the great generator floor below.
Behind him, Percival Stuckey stood in apprehensive confusion. "I must protest this act," he said. "It is beyond decency."
Villon turned and stared at Stuckey, his eyes cold. "As a member of Parliament and Mr. Sarveux's minister of internal affairs, I can assure you this test is of utmost concern to the country, and decency has nothing to do with it."
"It's highly irregular," Stuckey muttered stubbornly.
"Spoken like a true official," Villon said in a cynical tone. "Now then, can you do what your government asks of you?"
Stuckey pondered a moment. "The diversion of millions of kilowatts is quite complex and involves intricate lead and frequency control with correct timing. Though most of the excess power surge will be grounded, we'll still be throwing a heavy overload on our own systems."
"Can you do it?" Villon persisted.
"Yes." Stuckey shrugged in defeat. "But I fail to see the purpose in cutting power to every city between Minneapolis and New York."
"Five seconds," Villon said, ignoring Stuckey's probing remark. "You have only to shut off electrical energy to the United States for five seconds."
Stuckey gave a final glare of defiance and leaned between the engineers seated at the console and twisted several knobs. The overhead television monitors brightened and focused on varied panoramic views of city skylines.
"The contrast seems to lighten as you scan from left to right," noted Villon.
"The darker cities are Boston, New York and Philadelphia." Stuckey looked at his watch. "It's dusk in Chicago and the sun is still setting in Minneapolis."
"How will we know if full blackout is achieved with one city under daylight?"
Stuckey made a slight adjustment and the Minneapolis monitor zoomed to a busy intersection. The image was so clear that Villon could identify the street signs on the corner of Third Street and Hennepin Avenue. "The traffic signals. We can tell when their lights go dark."
"Will Canadian power go off as well?"
"Only in towns near the border below our interconnect terminals."
The engineers made a series of movements over the console and paused. Stuckey turned and fixed Villon with a steady stare. "I will not be held responsible for the consequences."
"Your objections are duly noted," Villon replied.
He gazed at the monitors as a cold finger of indecision tugged his mind, followed by a torrent of last-second doubts. The strain of what he was about to do settled heavily about his shoulders. Five seconds. A warning that could not be dismissed. Finally he cast off all fears and nodded.
"You may proceed." Then he watched as one-quarter of the United States blinked out.
Part II
THE DOODLEBUG
MARCH 1989
WASHINGTON, D.C.
There was a feeling of helplessness, almost fear in Alan Mercier's mind as he worked late into the night, sifting through a stack of military recommendations relating to national security. He couldn't help wondering if the new president was capable of grasping realities. Declaring national bankruptcy was asking for impeachment, no matter how desperately the nation required the act.
Mercier sat back and rubbed his tired eyes. No longer were these simply typewritten proposals and predictions on eight-by ten bond paper. Now they became decisions affecting millions of flesh-and-blood human beings.
Suddenly he felt impotent. Matters of vast consequences stretched beyond his view, his comprehension.
The world, the government had grown too complex for a mere handful of men to control adequately. He saw himself being swept along on a tidal wave that was racing toward the rocks.
His depression was interrupted by an aide who entered his office and motioned toward the telephone.
"You have a call, Sir, from Dr. Klein."
"Hello, Ron, I take it you don't have enough hours in the day either."
"Right you are," Klein came back. "I thought you might like to know I have a lead on your expensive gizmo."
"What is it exactly?"
"I can't say. No one around here has the vaguest idea."
"You'll have to explain."
"The funding came to the Department of Energy all right. But then it was immediately siphoned off to another government agency."
"Which one?"
"The National Underwater and Marine Agency." Mercier did not respond. He went silent, thinking.
"You there, Alan?"
"Yes, I'm sorry."
"Seems we were only the middleman," Klein went on. "Wish I could give you more information, but that's all I found."
"Sounds devious," mused Mercier. "Why would Energy quietly switch such a large sum of money to an agency concerned with marine science?"
"Can't say. Shall I have my staff pursue it further?" Mercier thought a moment. "No, better let me handle it. A probe from a neutral source might encounter less hassle."
"I don't envy you, tangling with Sandecker."
"Ah, yes, the director of NUMA. I've never met him, but I hear he's a testy bastard."
"I know him," Klein said. "That description is an understatement. You nail his hide on the barn door and I guarantee half of Washington will present you with a medal."
"Talk has it h
e's a good man."
"The guy is no idiot. He skirts politics but keeps the right company. He won't hesitate to step on feet,
'damn the torpedoes' and all that, to get a job done. No one who ever picked a fight with him came out a winner. If you have evil thoughts in his direction, I suggest you have a strong case."
"Innocent until proved guilty," said Mercier.
"He's also a tough man to catch. Almost never returns his phone calls or sits around his office."
"I'll think of a way to pin him down," Mercier said confidently. "Thanks for your help."
"Not at all," said Klein. "Good luck. I have a feeling you'll need it."
Every afternoon at exactly five minutes to four, Admiral James Sandecker, the chief director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, left his office and took the elevator down to the tenth-floor communications department.
He was a bantam-size man, a few inches over five feet with a neatly trimmed red beard matching a thick head of hair that showed little indication of white. At age sixty-one, he was a confirmed health nut. He nurtured a trim body by downing daily doses of vitamins and garlic pills supplemented by a six-mile morning run from his apartment to the tall, glassed headquarters of NUMA.
He entered the immense, equipment-laden communications room, which covered fifteen thousand square feet and was manned by a staff of forty-five engineers and technicians. Six satellites, dispersed in hovering orbits above the earth, interconnected the agency with weather stations, oceanographic research expeditions, and a hundred other ongoing marine projects around the world.
The communications director looked up at Sandecker's entry. He was quite familiar with the admiral's routine.