Plague Ship

by Clive Cussler

  He burst out onto an intersection. Cars screeched all around him, as Eddie guided the bus toward a narrow lane that was more of a trench cut between buildings than a road. There were cars going into the alley but not emerging from it.

  Kovac’s men fired at the bus again, having replaced spent magazines. The gas pedal suddenly felt mushy under Eddie’s foot, and in the undamaged left-side mirror he could see smoke erupting from the back of the bus.

  “Come on, baby, fifty more yards.”

  The engine coughed and caught again and again, sputtering and surging in its death throes. Eddie reached for the microphone, as the gap between the buildings grew closer but not larger.

  “Everybody, brace yourselves.”

  Eddie sensed the engine about to let go, so he slipped the transmission into neutral and coasted the last thirty feet. Behind him, he heard the motor seize, in a tearing of metal that would have lanced Max’s engineer heart.

  The bus entered the dim alley with barely five inches of clearance on either side. The remaining left mirror was sheared off. Eddie saw that the road constricted even further just ahead, because one apartment building was slightly larger than its neighbors. He hit the brakes an instant before the bus struck the building, bounced back, and smeared against the opposite apartments, before becoming completely jammed. The impact caused a fresh wave of frightened screams from above, but Eddie could tell by how quickly the sound faded that no one had been hurt.

  A large red fire extinguisher was clipped just below his legs. He popped it free and smashed it into the windshield. The glass starred but didn’t break. He hit the windshield again and again until he’d opened a man-size hole. He jumped though it, setting a hand on the warm asphalt when he landed to steady himself before taking off at a run. When he looked back, he could see dense smoke boiling from behind the bus. Kovac’s men couldn’t climb over the vehicle, so they would have to backtrack around the apartment block, provided they weren’t boxed in by other cars who’d followed them into the alley.

  He rounded the corner and slowed to a normal pedestrian gait, blending in with the flow of people headed home from their offices or out to dinner with their families. A minute later, he heard car tires screeching as he ducked into a taxi. The cab pulled away as the Fiat Bravo braked in front of the alley. He’d lost them.

  A few minutes later, he threw some Euros at the driver and jumped out of the vehicle while it was stalled in traffic. He bought a prepaid disposable cell phone from a tobacco stand. Eddie walked into a crowded bar, ordered a beer from the girl behind the counter, and dialed the hotel. The staff was still buzzing about the man who’d climbed down the balconies, so it took him a few minutes to explain that gunmen had broken into his room. The reception-desk staffer promised to call the polizia. Eddie gave him his cell number.

  Fifteen minutes later, Eddie’s beer gone, his phone chirped.

  “Mr. Kwan?” That was the alias they’d used to book the suite.

  “Yes.”

  “Our desk manager entered your room with the police. There was a man in your suite named Jenner with a cut to the head,” the clerk said apologetically. “They would like you to return here to get your information, a statement, I think you call it. They have many questions about what took place and about an incident that happened nearby.”

  “Of course, I’ll be happy to cooperate with the authorities. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kwan.”

  “Thank you.” Eddie dialed another number. When it was answered, he said, without preamble, “Tiny, file a flight plan out of the country. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

  He didn’t wait for the pilot’s reply before cutting the connection and dialing again. As he listened to the ringing over the line, he knew that there was no way Kovac would remain in the city—or in Italy, for that matter—so there was no reason for him to wait around for the police to pick him up.

  “Hello.”

  “Chairman, it’s Eddie. Kovac has kidnapped Max.”

  A heartbeat passed before Juan responded. “What about his son, Kyle?”

  “I think the little punk was in on it.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “HOLD ON ONE SECOND,” CABRILLO SAID, GETTING his mind around the situation.

  He was alone in his cabin. His desk was strewn with paperwork that had gone ignored too long. He hit the intercom button for the communications station in the Op Center.

  “Yes, Chairman,” the night-duty supervisor answered at once.

  “What’s the status of Max Hanley’s radio ID chip?”

  Each member of the Corporation had a locator microchip surgically embedded in the leg that beamed a faint signal to the constellation of communications satellites circling the globe. Powered by the nervous system, with an occasional transdermal boost of electricity like with a pacemaker, the devices allowed Juan to know where any member of his team was at all times.

  “I’m not getting a signal. Hold on. Here we go. The computer says his transponder stopped working eleven minutes ago, about two miles from the hotel where he was staying with his son. Eddie’s is working fine. I show him in central Rome, about a quarter mile from the Colosseum.”

  “Thank you.” Juan released the intercom and spoke into his desk telephone, a modern instrument disguised to look like a Bakelite phone from the 1930s. “Max’s transponder’s out.”

  “I already figured it would be,” Eddie replied.

  “That’s how they tracked you to Rome, isn’t it? Kyle Hanley was chipped when he was in Greece. And they took the precaution of sweeping Max in case we did the same thing.”

  “They probably carved it out of his thigh, in whatever vehicle they used to make their getaway.”

  “But even the best chips can only give you a rough approximation, they aren’t as powerful as GPS,” Juan said.

  “That’s why I think Kyle helped them. When they ambushed us in the hotel’s elevator they brought Max and me back to the suite. Kyle didn’t look all that drugged to me. I think he came to during our flight from Crete and was faking it for the last part of our trip. He was left alone for a few minutes in one of the bedrooms while we spoke with Dr. Jenner. Supposedly, he was unconscious, but if he was awake he could have called Kovac, or someone else in the movement, and given them the name of the hotel and the room number.”

  “So Kovac tracked him to Rome using a radio tag and Kyle guided him to the exact location.”

  “That’s the only way it makes any sense.”

  “Just spitballing here, but what about Jenner? He could have blown our location to the Responsivists.”

  “He could have,” Eddie agreed, “but I could tell he hates them the way a drug counselor hates crack. Also, you didn’t see the way Kovac pistol-whipped him. No, Jenner’s definitely on our side on this.”

  “Like I said, just throwing it out there.”

  “You know, Juan, they took a hell of a risk to get the kid back. Doesn’t make any sense if Kyle’s just some low-level believer.”

  “Then he’s somehow involved in whatever they’re planning.”

  “Or at least exposed to the information at the retreat,” Eddie said.

  “They snatched him back to keep operational security absolutely airtight.”

  “If they’re at this level of paranoia, there’s no way they will let Linda into that compound.”

  “I already scrubbed her mission. We learned that Kovac was aboard the Golden Dawn and was most likely responsible for those murders. She’s going to babysit Kevin Nixon until he can make contact with Donna Sky.”

  Eddie thought about this for a moment before saying, “I was with Kovac for only a minute before I escaped, but I could see that. The guy looks like Boris Karloff, with crazier eyes. I just thought of something. Kovac said that Severance gave him explicit orders not to kill Jenner. I don’t understand the reasoning behind that, but why would they leave Jenner behind and snatch Max?”

  “They don’t know if
Kyle talked to him during the time he was with us.”

  “No. What I mean is, why not simply kill them both? They had the opportunity, and it would have been a lot easier.”

  “Same reason. They need to know if Kyle talked.”

  “Max is in for a rough time, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” Juan said softly. “Yeah, he is.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Eddie said after a lengthy pause, as both men thought about the implications of Cabrillo’s answer.

  “Meet the Oregon in Monaco. I’m putting you in charge of the eavesdropping job.”

  “You’re still going to the Philippines?” Eddie was surprised.

  “I have to,” Juan replied, resignation in his voice. “We need some sort of leverage over Severance if we’re going to get Max back.”

  “It’s going to take the better part of a day just to get you there. God knows how long to find something, even if it exists. Do you really think Max can hold out that long?”

  Juan’s next words were as much for his benefit as they were Eddie’s. “You don’t know this because Max never talks about it, but he spent six months as a POW during his second tour in Vietnam. The stuff they did to him during his confinement defies belief. He’ll hold out. Of that, I am certain.”

  “Juan, that was forty years ago. Max isn’t a young man anymore.”

  “Surviving torture isn’t about your physical strength. It’s about how tough you are mentally. Do you think Max has lost any of that? If anything, he’s tougher now than he was then. And he knows that we will do whatever it takes to get him back.”

  “How did he get out of it? Was he rescued?”

  “No. During a forced march to a new location, he and two buddies jumped their guards. They killed four VC with their bare hands and vanished into the jungle. Only Max found his way to an American firebase. The other two are still considered MIA.”

  JUAN WAS ON THE WING BRIDGE of the pilothouse just after dawn the next morning to watch the sun reveal the principality of Monaco and the city of Monte Carlo perched on rocky cliffs over the warm Mediterranean. One of the last functioning monarchies in the world, the tiny state had been ruled by the Grimaldi family for more than seven centuries. Only Japan’s Chrysanthemum Throne was longer lived.

  Monaco was long a playground for the world’s elite and its harbor was carpeted with gleaming luxury yachts, many over a hundred feet in length, several approaching three hundred. Juan spotted the Matryoshka, the target of the eavesdropping job on Russian arms merchant Ivan Kerikov. High-rise apartment blocks rose all around the harbor, and luxury villas clung to the hillsides. He knew that real estate here was some of the most expensive in the world. From his vantage, he couldn’t see the fabled Monte Carlo casino, but he had a few fond memories of the place.

  From within the inner harbor, he saw a sleek speedboat rocketing toward the ship, where it lay at anchor a mile from the coast. Harbor authorities had already been informed that the ship’s engine was disabled and the crew were awaiting parts from Germany. Although the vessel was inside Monaco’s three-mile territorial limit, the harbormaster had declined to come aboard, after observing the Oregon through binoculars fifteen minutes earlier.

  The speedboat ate the distance to the ship at nearly sixty knots, cutting across the light chop like an offshore racer. Juan descended to the main deck near the ship’s boarding ladder. Linc was waiting for him with their overnight bags, his eyes hidden behind stylish sunglasses.

  “I don’t like leaving right now,” the big former SEAL said, and not for the first time.

  “This is the best way we’re going to get Max back. I’ve called Thom Severance’s office in California a dozen times, all but telling them who I am and what I know, and the bastard won’t call back. We’ve got to force his hand and to do that we need leverage.”

  “Langston Overholt won’t help?”

  “Not without evidence. I talked to him for an hour last night. The bottom line is, the Responsivists have a lot of money, which means they have a lot of clout in Washington. Lang won’t act on anything other than solid proof that Severance is up to something.”

  “This sucks.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Why don’t we bypass the Philippines, go straight to the source, and take on Severance for ourselves?”

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. Lang warned me specifically about not going after Severance. And you and I both know if we get caught operating in the United States, we will never see the outside of a prison again.”

  “So we don’t get caught.”

  Juan looked at his friend. Linc was dead serious. “If it comes down to that, I’ll put it to the crew.” He knew every member of the Corporation would risk everything to get Hanley back, even if they knew they would never get another contract from Overholt again, which the cagey CIA veteran had threatened if Thomas Severance or his wife so much as suggested they were under surveillance.

  The executive water taxi pulled up alongside the ship. As sleek and beautiful as the boat was, it was nothing compared to its driver, a young blonde wearing a blouse that couldn’t be cut any lower and a skirt that couldn’t be raised any higher. With their chopper still in pieces down in the hangar, the harbor taxi was the fastest way to shore without calling undue attention to the Oregon.

  “Capitaine Cabrillo, je suis Donatella,” she called over the burble of the boat’s idling engine. Her accent sent a wolfish grin flashing across Linc’s face.

  “Only in Monaco,” Juan whispered to Linc.

  “You think some rich guy wants an ugly driver taking him out to his yacht after a night at the casino?”

  The young woman kept her craft steady by holding the boarding ladder as the two men made their way down with leather duffels over their shoulders. At the end of the twenty-foot climb, Juan tossed his bag onto the rear bench seat and stepped over the gunwale.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  When Linc jumped into the boat, it bobbed as if it had been hit by a wave. Donatella gave them both a big smile, her eyes lingering on Linc much longer than Cabrillo, as she reached for the chrome throttle controls.

  “Chairman! Hold up!” Eric Stone leaned far over the railing overhead to get his attention.

  “What is it?”

  “I found something.”

  “Can it wait? They’re holding a chopper for us to take us to the airport in Nice.”

  “Hold on a sec.” Eric climbed over the rail and awkwardly descended the ladder while clutching a laptop computer. He noticed Donatella for the first time when he reached the boat but barely gave her a first, let alone a second, glance. Obviously, he was distracted by whatever news he had.

  Juan nodded to her and she eased forward on the throttles. He went aft to let Linc chat her up while he pushed aside their luggage so he and Eric could sit. They had to raise their voices over the rush of the wind and the throb of the powerful motor.

  “What do you have?” Juan asked.

  Eric opened his computer. “I’ve been checking for any unusual incidents that may have occurred on ships where the Responsivists were holding their Sea Retreats.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Did I? Oh yeah. Do you remember recently how there have been reports of viral outbreaks on cruise ships, usually a gastrointestinal norovirus?”

  “Seems there have been a lot more in the past couple of years,” Juan remarked.

  “It’s not a coincidence. At first, I was checking passenger manifests from the cruise companies.” Juan didn’t need to ask how Eric obtained such confidential information. “I cross-referenced those to Responsivist membership lists. When I started seeing a pattern, I switched my focus to cruise liners struck by unusual illnesses. That’s when I hit pay dirt. Of the seventeen outbreaks I’ve looked into in the past two years, sixteen of them occurred when Responsivists were on board. The seventeenth wasn’t a norovirus and was traced back to E. coli found on lettuce grown on one specific far
m in California. That strain also hit people in Florida, Georgia, and Alabama.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “It gets worse. Mind you, there’s no pattern to cruise lines or ports of call. But there is one definite pattern we could see. During the first incident, only a handful of passengers were sickened, and most of them were elderly. The second one saw forty people showing symptoms. But by the time we get to the seventeenth, which happened two months ago aboard a ship called Destiny, nearly every passenger and crewman was infected. The cruise line had to chopper in a medical team and a healthy group of officers to get the ship back to port.”

  Juan leaned back in the soft leather seat, feeling the engine’s vibration trying to loosen the knotted muscles in his back. In the cockpit, Linc towered over their driver, and he could tell she was delighting in his company. Her laughter carried through the air. He suddenly leaned forward again. “They’re perfecting disbursal methods.”

  “That’s what Mark and I think, too. They got better every time until they achieved a near one hundred percent infection rate.”

  “How does the Golden Dawn fit into the pattern?”

  “Once they worked out how to infect an entire shipful of people, they needed to test the lethality of their toxin.”

  “On their own people?” Cabrillo was shocked.

  “They could be the ones who developed the agent in the first place. Why take the risk of one of them having a change of heart?”

  “Good God! Why?” The pieces of the puzzle were there before him, he just didn’t know how they fit together. What could the Responsivists possibly gain by killing people aboard cruise ships? And the answer that kept coming back to him was, absolutely nothing.

  He could see other terrorist organizations jumping at such a chance, and he considered one of them had paid for such a weapon-and-delivery system, but the Responsivists were flush with money from their Hollywood believers.

  They espoused population control. Did they think killing fifteen or twenty thousand retirees who were blowing the children’s inheritance on Caribbean cruises would make a difference to the world’s overcrowding? If they were that insane, they would go for something much bigger.