13 Days to Die

by Matt Miksa

  The director found her car, one of the last remaining vehicles in the expansive parking lot. She’d purchased the used Ford Focus three years ago after returning from Saudi Arabia. She’d never appreciated the simple act of driving until she spent a summer in a country that prohibited women from such an unremarkable activity.

  Typically, Allyson would switch on NPR and cruise down I-270 to her one-bedroom condo in McLean, but tonight she still had work to do. After nightfall. Just like old times.

  About an hour later, the veteran spook pulled into a public parking lot along K Street in Washington’s posh Georgetown neighborhood. She pulled up her collar to block the wind whipping off the Potomac and made her way to M Street, passing the Thai embassy, blending in with the evening shoppers. Her hand automatically reached for the pack of Marlboros nestled in her coat pocket, but she resisted. Cigarette smoke would provoke the ire of Georgetown’s ubiquitous hipsters, who preferred vegan cookies and green juice to clouds of toxic nicotine. Allyson didn’t give a fig about their sanctimonious judgment, but she wanted to avoid the attention.

  A perky blonde emerged from a store advertising overpriced pants with empowering names like Curator and Executive Producer. Pants for women fed up with the patriarchy. Allyson paused and pretended to inspect the headless mannequins arranged in unnatural poses in the shop’s window. Feminist pants on broken women with no heads, Allyson thought. Brilliant marketing. It was too dark outside to use the reflection in the glass to check for shadows (and that old ploy was for amateurs anyway), but sometimes just waiting a beat did the trick. Two minutes passed. She turned back toward the street and casually scanned the faces. No repeats. So far, so good. Still, she entered the shop to be on the safe side.

  She purchased a handbag and scarf, which cost more than she’d have liked, so she paid with her Visa card and was careful to get a receipt. The cashier placed the items inside a shopping bag. The director exited the store, continued to the end of the block, and turned back toward the river. Minutes later she arrived at the AMC movie theater tucked neatly at the end of Wisconsin Avenue across from Washington Harbour. The lobby bustled with people standing in line to see thick-necked superheroes battle in 3D. Allyson purchased a ticket for a romantic comedy that had already started. The kid running the box office looked concerned.

  “You’re gonna miss the first ten minutes, ma’am. Don’t you want to wait for the nine o’clock?” he asked.

  “I’m sure I’ll figure it out,” Allyson assured him.

  The theater was nearly full—mostly gal pals and lovebirds—so she climbed into an empty seat in the back row and watched the door for latecomers. Two seats over, a teenager with greasy hair had his tongue down some poor girl’s throat. Allyson groaned when the young lady grabbed his crotch.

  No one else had entered the theater. Allyson removed her coat, folded it inside her new purse, and wrapped the scarf around her neck. Onscreen, a tear-soaked misunderstanding involving a handsome man with impossibly perfect hair gripped the audience, allowing Allyson to slip out the emergency exit, leaving her empty shopping bag behind.

  The door dumped her out onto Wisconsin Avenue, only a block from the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. She walked briskly. It was just cold enough to be uncomfortable without her coat. She’d put it back on as soon as she was out of sight. A string of taxis had lined up in front of the hotel. Allyson jumped into the first one.

  * * *

  The ride to the Kennedy Center took less than fifteen minutes. The opera’s first act had already begun, so Allyson easily glided along the back of the dimly lit hall without attracting any serious notice. Onstage, the mezzo-soprano’s throaty vibrato commanded most everyone’s full attention. Allyson found the staircase leading up to the box tier. She casually slipped her hands into her coat pockets and began climbing.

  The spy chief quietly entered box 2D without knocking. A petite man, sitting alone in the velveteen room, heard Allyson enter but didn’t turn around. He perched on the edge of his seat, craning his neck over the brass railing, peering through bejeweled opera glasses.

  “You’re late, Cam. You’ve missed the entire prelude,” the man fussed. He removed a green-checked pocket square and delicately wiped the lenses of the glasses.

  “I wasn’t aware this was a date,” Allyson countered.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” The man turned. His beady eyes surveyed Allyson from head to toe. “Really, Cam? An actual trench coat. At bit on the nose, don’t you think? You could’ve at least worn something black.”

  “Why am I here, Roland?” Allyson sighed. The little British diplomat annoyed her, but he wouldn’t have contacted her without good reason. She’d known Roland Birch for more than a decade and had tolerated his subtle ridicule for nearly as long.

  “I have information you might find of interest.”

  Allyson crossed her arms and shrugged, unwilling to be lured into some kind of spy-movie repartee.

  Roland huffed. “Very well. Have a look.” The man produced an envelope from his left breast pocket and handed it to Allyson.

  The director tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and pulled a small photo from the envelope. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Your language!” Roland scolded. “This is Puccini, not some rowdy sport tournament.”

  “Where did you get this? Is this from Legoland?” Allyson asked, referring to the postmodern ziggurat that housed British intelligence on the bank of the River Thames.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m just an ordinary cultural attaché for Her Majesty’s foreign office.” Roland batted his eyes.

  “Right. And you weren’t ogling the tenor’s bulge through those binoculars either,” Allyson retorted sarcastically. “I know all your secrets, dear Rolly.”

  The Brit gasped playfully. “Well, I won’t tell you where I got it, but I thought you’d want to know what we saw.”

  “When was it taken?” Allyson had already slipped the photograph into her handbag.

  “Yesterday.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Singapore,” Roland answered. “It’s a zoo, or something equally dreadful. Surveillance picked him up by mere happenstance. We were following the woman.”

  “Who is she?” Allyson asked, remembering the elegantly dressed woman in the photo.

  “You don’t recognize her? We assumed she was one of yours.” Roland turned his gaze toward the stage.

  “Since when do the British shadow American spies in Southeast Asia?” Allyson didn’t mask the irritation in her voice.

  “Let’s not revive that old row, Cam. I’ve given you a golden egg. Do what you wish with it. I certainly hope you’ll thank—”

  Before Roland could finish his thought, Allyson was gone, racing out of the performance hall. She’d have no way to confirm the photograph’s authenticity without raising great alarm. If it was real, MI6 had just dropped a bombshell.

  She had many questions, and none of them had good answers. One thing Director Cameron knew for certain: no one must ever see this photograph. Especially not President Barlow.

  Allyson sneaked back into the Georgetown cinema in the same way she’d left. Thanks to a strip of tape she’d placed over the door’s latching mechanism—the classic “Watergate” maneuver—she quietly reentered the theater long before the film ended. Handsome Man with Great Hair had evidently patched things up with his lady friend—oh, thank heaven—and moved into a spacious Manhattan apartment he could never realistically afford.

  Allyson ambled out of the building with the herd of moviegoers. A short walk later, the director hopped back into her Ford and headed toward the GW Parkway.

  * * *

  The doughy man slouching behind the wheel of a black Audi waited until Director Cameron’s car crossed the Key Bridge. He popped a sunflower seed into his mouth—a regrettable habit he’d developed after too many hours sitting in parking lots. When he was younger, he’d actually fought for surveillance shifts. He’d fantasized about chasing drug lords aroun
d the Beltway, weaving in and out of traffic at top speed. More often he’d ended up spending an evening outside a roach motel, staring through binoculars and peeing into Gatorade bottles. Nevertheless, this target was a high priority. Some top dogs in Washington were watching Director Cameron’s movements very carefully.

  The man tugged on the rearview mirror to check his teeth for seeds. He was in no hurry to begin his pursuit of the silver Ford Focus. The GPS transmitter he’d attached to Director Cameron’s undercarriage meant he didn’t have to follow too closely. In any case, it looked as if she planned to head home. That was a good idea.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Dzongsar Village, Tibetan Autonomous Region, People’s Republic of China

  THE ACRID SMELL of burning corpse flesh clung to everything, despite the incessant rain. Puddles dotted the courtyards like land mines. They were difficult to see until you were ankle deep in cool water. The monastery’s ancient tile roof leaked in a few places, including above Jo’s dormitory. Amy had arranged private rooms for her and the reporter. There was plenty of room in the inn when the lodgers kept croaking, she’d explained.

  Within days of the initial outbreak, the monastery, once the cultural anchor of the community, had transformed into a house of death. The tight living arrangements had created an ideal incubator for BRV45, and the monks had provided plenty of fresh DNA. The pathogen had likely mutated two or three times within that building alone.

  Jo had never stepped foot inside a Buddhist monastery before visiting Dzongsar. She was a woman of science. Ideas like reincarnation and supernatural phenomenon were foolish. Now she must eat, sleep, and do science inside a temple. It was just a building, after all.

  Her bedroom, furnished with a rock-hard cot, small writing desk, and wobbly stool, had the ambience of a prison cell. Jo removed her damp leather boots and socks and placed them on the windowsill to dry out. Her toes were stone-cold, but at least they weren’t wet. She attempted sleep, but her mind wouldn’t settle. The doctor lay still, staring unblinkingly at the droop in the waterlogged ceiling directly over the bed. She thought of Ru’s brother, of Sumati, of the dead monks. And she thought of Kipton.

  She didn’t need the American journalist around. He served no purpose. She should sequester him in his dorm, keep him away from the investigation, away from her.

  But she didn’t want that. Kipton was a pain in the ass, a dumb American, yet impossibly magnetic, even charming. She felt drawn to his roughness. Jo typically spent her days (and occasionally her nights) with nerdy science boys; Kipton was the opposite. She’d never been with an American man. What would it feel like? Urgent, fevered, sweaty? Treasonous.

  Jo dismissed the ridiculous fantasy. She knew where her loyalties lay, and they certainly weren’t underneath Kipton Stone. Still, Jo regretted their argument on the soccer field. Tibet was a complicated matter for everyone. At least Kipton was making an effort to understand.

  She sat up, pushed her arms through the sleeves of her jacket, and slipped into her still-moist boots. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well head back to the lab.

  When Jo stepped into the hallway, she noticed that the door to the adjacent room stood ajar. She peeked inside. A gas lantern sat on a writing desk, its wick still glowing. Thousands of leather-bound books lined the walls, creating variegated rows of ruby, olive, and charcoal. The library held a vast collection of texts on topics ranging from history and politics to religion and society. Jo even spotted a tattered copy of the Kama Sutra. The timeworn volumes beckoned the virologist with murmurs of lost knowledge and untold secrets.

  A small notebook rested next to the lantern on the table. The distinctive curls of classical Tibetan script danced across the unlined pages. Jo couldn’t read the handwriting, but when she leaned in, she noticed that the black ink still glistened.

  “Friend, are you lost?” The voice startled Jo. She whirled around to see an old man standing in the doorway. He wore blood-red robes streaked by a goldenrod sash over his left shoulder—the traditional garb of a Buddhist bhikkhu. His close-cropped hair did nothing to conceal the deep wrinkles running across his weathered forehead.

  “I’m sorry for intruding,” Jo answered with embarrassment. “I didn’t realize—”

  “Take a chill pill, Doctor,” the man squawked gleefully. He toddled toward her and plopped onto the stool, which was much too short. Still grinning, he rested one hand on each knee and smacked his lips. “I’m glad to see someone take the time to visit our collection. This is the only room you doctors haven’t ravaged, and yet it’s probably the most important.” The old man snorted to dislodge the phlegm clinging to his windpipe. When satisfied, he resumed speaking. “So, what were you snooping for?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “I know, I know. Just busting your chops, Doc.”

  Jo smiled. The old man’s waggish charm began to infect her. “You’re a monk. I thought they were all …”

  “Kaput?”

  “But you didn’t get sick.”

  “Pretty spry for an old guy,” the monk said. “Your doctor friends aren’t the only ones who avoid libraries. Usually it’s just me and the books. Well, and a few suspiciously erudite spiders.”

  Jo admired the towering bookshelves. “It is an impressive collection.”

  “It’s a wonder it survived the fire.”

  “What fire?” Jo asked.

  “Most of this monastery burned to the ground when I was a child.” The bhikkhu’s voice cracked. “Luckily, the books were saved. We can rebuild temples, but we could never replace these texts. Some are from the eighth century.”

  Jo ran her fingertips along a row of faded leather spines.

  “They don’t bite, Doctor.”

  Accustomed to her digital world, Jo found the ancient library irresistibly mysterious. It was a portal to a forgotten history—a time before gene sequencing and artificial intelligence and cloning. “Does the name Gdon mean anything to you?” she asked.

  The monk squinted. His playful demeanor turned wary. “Where did you hear that?”

  “I met a woman in the village. A survivor. The only one, in fact. She also happens to be the only person who witnessed the sick stranger enter the village. We’ve been trying to determine which direction he came from so we can retrace his steps. The forest is just so thick, we’ve already wasted days combing through roots and branches, collecting insects, checking nests. Most likely the man contracted the virus somewhere out there, and we need to determine the source. It will take weeks to survey the entire region.”

  “And the woman you met offered no clues?” the monk asked.

  “She kept shouting the name Gdon. She was obviously very disturbed.”

  The old man stood slowly. His legs wobbled, yet he refused Jo’s help. He hobbled across the library, mumbling something so low-pitched it sounded like humming. The Buddhist scholar waved a bony hand over the wall of books as if to summon a specific volume. “Su-ma-ti,” he finally said, pronouncing each syllable much too loudly, like a wizard casting a spell. He pulled a large, green tome from the stockpile.

  Jo nodded.

  The bhikkhu cleared a space on the writing desk and briskly thumbed through the book. “I am not surprised.”

  “Why is that?” Jo asked.

  “Sumati is a member of the Black Sect, more formally known as the Bon. It’s an ancient religion of Central Asia.”

  “Is that like Buddhism?” Jo asked.

  “Hmm. You aren’t the first to ask that. Scholars disagree on whether Bon or Buddhism spread to Tibet first. Rumor and politics have clouded the facts. In any case, the two schools of thought battled for supremacy for two centuries. Did you know this very monastery was originally founded as a Bon temple?”

  The doctor shrugged.

  “Gah! Of course, you didn’t,” the old man scoffed. “In the early days, Buddhist priests attempted to suppress the Bon-po—followers of the Black Sect—to wipe out their beliefs. They did not prevail
. Bon’s core tenets endured. Tibetan Buddhism simply absorbed much of the Bon faith, along with its worshipers. But a handful of Bon-po clans have kept the original religion alive. They desire to restore the purity of the faith.”

  “Sumati thinks the sick man was possessed,” Jo said.

  “And what do you think?” the monk asked.

  Jo didn’t answer.

  “Sumati, like all Bon-po, believe all elements found in nature possess a spirit,” the bhikkhu explained. “Some spirits are benevolent and bring good fortune. Others are malicious creatures. The worst of the bunch live in rocks and trees. That’s where you’d find Gdon.”

  Jo perked up. “The forest?”

  “In the old times, Bon-po shaman would head off into the wilderness, alone, and spend days wandering the forest without food or water in search of a spiritual experience. They sought peace and joy in nature’s benevolent spirits, but most importantly, they hoped to confront the evil ones,” he said.

  “Why would they go looking for evil?” Jo asked.

  “They wished to defeat the malicious spirits so they themselves could remain pure and virtuous. These quests were grueling, and they often ended with violent visions of evil forces brutally attacking the shaman. If he won the battle, his mind received the gift of mystic knowledge.

  “Of course, not all emerged triumphantly. These journeys were physically and psychologically punishing. Some shamans lacked the spiritual fortitude to conquer nature’s demons. They sank into the dark bowels of the forest, swallowed whole.”

  Jo flipped the book’s dusty pages. The images were graphic, disturbing. She stopped on a sketch of terrifying creatures with long faces and sharp fangs cowering in the light of a brilliant rising sun. The horrific beings hunched over, their spindly limbs raised to shield themselves from the penetrating beams.

  “Are these the demons?” she asked.