37<? /v/ £ /d V3^5" THE AGOLMIRTH CONSPIRACY DISSERTATION Presented to the Graduate Council of the University of North Texas in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements For the Degree of DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY By James Cary Elston, B.A., B.B.A., M.A. Denton, Texas December, 1996 37<? /v/ £ /d V3^5" THE AGOLMIRTH CONSPIRACY DISSERTATION Presented to the Graduate Council of the University of North Texas in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements For the Degree of DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY By James Cary Elston, B.A., B.B.A., M.A. Denton, Texas December, 1996 Elston, James C. The Agolmirth Conspiracy. Doctor of Philosophy (English), December, 1996, 506 pages. Written in the tradition of the classic spy novels of Ian Fleming and the detective novels of Raymond Chandler, The Agolmirth Conspiracy represents the return to the thriller of its traditional elements of romanticism, humanism, fast-moving action, and taut suspense, and a move away from its cynicism and dehumanization as currently practiced by authors such as John Le Carre' and Tom Clancy. Stanford Torrance, an ex-cop raised on "old-fashioned" notions of uncompromising good and naked evil and largely ignorant of computer systems and high-tech ordinance, finds himself lost in a "modern" world of shadowy operatives, hidden agendas, and numerous double-crosses. He is nevertheless able to triumph over that world when he puts his own honor, his own dignity, and his very life on the line, proving to himself and to his adversaries that such things can still make things easier to see amid today's swirling moral fog. Copyright by James Cary Elston 1996 111 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I wish to acknowledge the herculean efforts of Dr. Thomas Preston as regards this project. Dr. Preston "took me on" when it seemed no one else would or could, and, for that, there can be no suitable recompense. I would also like to thank Clay Reynolds, Kurt Stallings, Grant Sisk, and Sallie Strange, among others, for their criticism, encouragement, and assistance. These, too, acted well above and beyond the call of duty. IV "It is not so easy to catch dogs when it is your business to catch dogs." --John Steinbeck "You know what a miracle is. Not what Bakunin said. But another world's intrusion into this one. Most of the time we coexist peacefully. But when we do touch there s cataclysm. --Thomas Pynchon PLEASE NOTE Page(s) missing in number only; text follows. Filmed as received. UMI PART ONE Chicago June, 1989 My phone rang. "You better get over here," Carlisle said. Usually when the phone rang at quarter to one on a Thursday morning it was Frieda, my ex-wife, calling to harass me. Usually I fell asleep again and let her rant and rave. But Carlisle's voice jarred me awake. "What's up?" "Gorodenko's dead. Drove his car into the Des Plaines River near the 1-55 bridge. Looks like he broke his neck." For a moment I didn't believe him. I'd dropped Gorodenko off at home, drunk but very much alive, barely three hours ago. As always, he'd promised he wouldn't go out and keep the night going by himself. Always before, he'd kept that promise. This time, evidently, he hadn't. "You there, Stan?" "Yeah. When did this happen?" "A little before midnight." "Okay. Should I meet you at the site or the facility?" "The facility," Carlisle said, almost laughing. "Leave the site to the cops." "Sure. See you in half an hour." I hung up, stumbled into the bathroom and autonomically 3 clothes and left. I didn't bother to be quiet; Mrs. Pereskopf downstairs could sleep through a nuclear detonation but she'd awaken screaming if she heard someone tiptoe around after midnight. I'd called Gorodenko "Vlad the Inhaler" because any time you set food or drink--especially alcoholic drink--in front of him it seemed to vanish almost immediately. He seemed capable of only two moods: thick gloom or rapturous joy; and booze turned one into the other pretty fast. But regardless of his emotional state, he was humble, a refreshing change from the other fifteen geneticists at the facility, who acted like their winning the next Nobel Prize was a done deal. I liked to think he was humble because he was a Soviet emigre' and was still so glad simply to be in America that he hadn't yet succumbed to the all-too-American avarice of his colleagues. He was probably the only friend I had out there--outside of Carlisle, who really wasn't a friend though he liked to think he was. I decided I needed a caffeine jolt to keep my head clear--of melancholy as much as anything--so I stopped at the Seven-Eleven down the street. They didn't have coffee ready, so I had to content myself with a Coke. It was too sweet, as most fountain soft drinks are, and I wound up throwing most of it out the window. Then I almost got sideswiped getting on the Stevenson Expressway. I got close enough to the bastard to get his plate number, then made a mental note to call the Berwyn State Police post and embellish the incident enough to make it worth their while. The rest of the drive out to Plainfield was uneventful. I'd been deputy chief of security at the agricultural research facility there since August of '86. Completed in '84 at an official cost of $217 million, the facility contributed upwards of $10 million annually to the Joliet/Plainfield/Aurora economy. Its primary purpose was to create, test, and develop practical applications for various genetic fungicides. In addition to the researchers, who numbered around fifty, the facility employed perhaps sixty administrative, custodial, and security staff. The security staff consisted entirely of former police officers, all with impeccable professional and personal records. Everyone on the staff was a college graduate. Denton Carlisle, my boss, was a professional bureaucrat who'd started out as a gofer in the more shadowy reaches of the Justice Department. This was his third research facility and, according to him, his last. I'd worked homicide for the Chicago Police Department for nine years and headed CPD's anti-terror squad for three prior to the little misunderstanding that had cost me my badge. After that I marked time for nearly a year at a local security firm while I watched my marriage fall apart. I owed my job at the facility to some heavy-duty string-pulling by Jim France, an old pal at the FBI. I did what little work the job required, then died of boredom while Carlisle did nothing and got all the perqs--six figures, company car, and more vacation in a year than I'd ever had in my life. And now I'd just been told one of the few friends I'd made since I'd left CPD was dead. I was beginning to wonder if it was time to change careers. Maybe I'd become a librarian. The worst thing I'd have to worry about then would be overdue books. * * * Jeff Price, the guard at the front gate, waved me through without checking my ID. At any other time I'd've written him up for it; he was a young, friendly, bright guy, but a little lazy. The main parking lot held half a dozen cop cars: Plainfield, Joliet, state highway patrol, Will County sheriff, even one of Uncle Sam's olive green Chryslers. I jogged through the front door of the admin building, fed my cardkey into the necessary slots, and headed for Carlisle's office. It was almost as big as my apartment. It contained a wooden desk as big as a pool table, a couch and coffee table, and several sumptuous chairs. Three of the four soft green walls contained obligatory impressionist and post- modern art; a bookcase covered the fourth. It contained all of half a dozen books, all on gourmet cooking, which was Carlisle's latest hobby. The rest of the bookcase was occupied with various nicknacks, mostly presents from women who, according to him, took a number and waited in line. And why shouldn't they? He was a bigger, darker version of Tom Cruise, and had neither dependents nor significant emotional mileage. I, on the other hand, looked like Richard Nixon after a spell on the rack, I had dependents, and I had more mileage, emotional or otherwise, than a dozen '75 Chevy Impalas, which is what I drove. Two cops stood at the bookcase, talking to a young, red-headed guy in a dark suit who took notes on a small spiral pad. All three glanced at me as I entered, and the suit followed me when I headed in Carlisle's direction. Carlisle was seated behind his desk, trying to look solicitous of the welfare of two older suits examining some papers, probably the preliminary accident report. Gorodenko's personnel file lay on a chair in the corner. It was closed. I knew one of the suits: Arthur Schenk, a dark-haired, box-headed man with a Hitler mustache. He was the regional Department of Agriculture potentate and nominal overseer of what went on at the facility. He'd taken over the job less than two weeks ago, so I hadn't had many dealings with him, but Carlisle had said a lot of dumb blondes were smarter. "Ah, Stan," Carlisle said behind a distracted smile. "Thanks for coming." He gestured towards the second suit and went on, "This is Mr.