by Jeff Rovin
“Why?”
“The Communist Party wanted to use the disease to eliminate enemies, is the short answer. We needed a cure. The Exodus bug was to be it. Unfortunately, all the lieutenant colonel’s efforts succeeded in doing was making an even more potent disease, an airborne plague germ with the capacity to kill millions. To have destroyed it or stored it would have required additional personnel—the possibility of either an intelligence or physical leak was of great concern.”
“So you buried the samples deep in a place you thought would never be found,” Williams said. “A cleaner solution than trying to destroy the thing. The cold kept them inert?”
“Very good understanding,” Krummeck said.
“I can’t take credit,” Williams said. “A geologist suggested it.”
Krummeck continued. “Between the constantly frigid climate and the environmental protections put in place, it should never have been found. But it was—by whom, we do not yet know. And it has been again—by the Chinese.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“The Marion outpost has been silent for quite some time. We believe it may have been commandeered by personnel from the corvette at anchor off Prince Edward.”
“My team is—well, it’s an independent team, not really mine, and I will hear from them only when they feel the need to communicate,” Williams said.
“I see. They are good?”
“They are very good. But you have a more immediate concern than the Chinese. You have an active killer here in South Africa.”
“We believe that whoever made their way to Prince Edward returned with samples of the bug,” Krummeck agreed.
“You trust Raeburn? Might he have sold the information to anyone?”
“I don’t believe so, but that was the first thing I checked,” Krummeck replied. “As soon as he left I had his residence searched, his accounts examined, his phone records studied. Nothing surfaced.”
“But he is missing, now. He could have left to give himself an alibi.”
“A thought that is concerning, actions that are suspicious—but I have watched him since we worked on this for expressly that reason. I do not think he is responsible.”
“And no one else had access to his data, the burial location.”
“Two men went with him to Prince Edward. One was a pilot, killed subsequently in a plane crash. The other is the deputy minister of planning, monitoring, and evaluation, with an eye on the presidency. I vouch for all three men.”
“Do you have any leads?”
Krummeck smiled thinly. “If I did, you and I should not have met again. I can give you the precise location of the site where we put the toxins. I am hoping you have access to reconnaissance that might cover the hours before the passenger jet went down.”
“General, I have looked at two days’ worth of reconnaissance in that area from a variety of sources. There was nothing suspicious. What would someone have needed to reach the microbe, either by accident or design?”
“Apparently not much, if it was done this clandestinely.”
“That radio intercept from a vessel seemed to suggest that,” Williams said. “The men on the call were careful not to say very much, other than that the caller was terrified.”
“But they may not have been the precipitating cause,” Krummeck said. “Just in the wrong place.”
“Possibly,” Williams said. He thought back. The men had talked about a boat and a dinghy. There were boats in some of the surveillance photos. He might not have noticed a landing party in the dark.
“Would any environmentalists have had reason to take samples from the island?” Williams asked.
“Those are openly sanctioned by the Department of Environmental Affairs. No one with a legitimate research project need sneak ashore.”
“What would constitute an illegitimate research project?”
“Poaching. Poisoning.”
“Poisoning what?”
“Mice,” Krummeck said. “They came with early explorers and were adaptable enough to survive and multiply. There are tens of thousands of them and they eat albatross chicks—bird fanciers have been after the government to eradicate the pests. Perhaps someone was secretly testing bait. But that would not have required digging.”
“I assume you buried the bug deeper than mice could dig.”
“We actually considered that when we picked the site, so yes.”
Williams thought back to his research that morning. He held up his phone. “General, is there an office I can borrow?”
“Use mine,” Krummeck said, rising. “Ten minutes?”
“No more than that,” Williams said.
Obligingly, the general rose and left. If this were Washington, time would have been wasted summoning an aide and finding a place to relocate him. When the door clicked shut, he texted Berry.
With SANDF. Analysis of Prince Ed boat pics from yest?
Williams waited. The original call, the one the navy had intercepted, had come from a boat. They had a position, north of Prince Edward. General Krummeck had certainly heard the call too and hadn’t been able to piece anything together from it. He was not looking to shift blame. He was trying to solve the problem and at the same time build a relationship to prevent this sort of thing from happening again.
The phone pinged. Berry’s image grabs were returned with notations:
Filtered by proximity to PE and anchor/delay in region:
✓Australian meteorological vessel Wanderer
✓Philippine fishing ship, logged engine repair
✓Private cruise ship Cape Town—Antarctica
✕Private yacht, no ID
✓Indian bulk freighter Pooja Rana
✓New Zealand doc film crew vessel 1221-F
The checkmark meant that every ship had been verified with its port of origin, had returned, and there were no open questions about known crewmembers or the purpose of the passage.
Williams looked at the enhanced image of the yacht.
It reeks of up-to-no-good, he thought.
If there was a name at the stern, it was artfully covered with flapping canvas so it could not be seen by satellite. There was an autogyro without obvious markings. It had to be IDed in some fashion. As a flying craft, that meant underneath. It could be seen from the ground, or by bending and looking once it landed. Not from above.
There was also no indication about where it had originated or ended up.
Krummeck returned while Williams was examining the photograph. He stood and showed it to the general.
“Recognize this?”
The general withdrew reading glasses from inside his uniform jacket and bent low over the photograph.
“No. Where was this taken?”
“About two miles north of Prince Edward not quite two days before the jet went down.”
“Did it stay in those waters?”
“It did not, and—yes—other planes would have passed overhead between the time this photograph was taken and the Airbus crashed.”
“It’s not likely they deposited a party of some kind,” Krummeck said. “Difficult to hide there, and we patrol by air, low helicopter flights, twice daily.”
“That leads to the next possibility, that there may have been a corrosive process at work.” Williams shut the phone. “On the day of the accident there was a glow rising from the area. In previous images, it was not present. If not for the attack on the bridge, I would have said it might have been natural erosion that released the bug. But someone was there. Someone harvested it.”
“Which means finding out about that unidentified boat,” Krummeck said. “Of course, it may not have been one of ours. There’s Crozet and the other French islands to the east, Madagascar, Mauritius—”
“The bridge was here. The attacker wanted to get your attention.”
“He has more,” Krummeck said, resigned to a reality he had already deduced.
“We have to assume so.”
“You know he cal
led the East London police.”
Williams nodded. “But not since the attack?”
“No. And that location may have been a feint, a ruse. He used an untraceable phone.”
“Sophisticated, then,” Williams said. “Accustomed to covering tracks.”
“My conclusion, which suggests a human trafficker, drug- or gun-running, or clandestine surveillance for a foreign power.”
“But someone who had a reason to go to Prince Edward and dig,” Williams pointed out.
“Possibly to bury contraband for later recovery,” Krummeck said. “In which case the seawall would be a perfect location. Quickly accessible from the sea, not easily observed by the island patrol.”
“Who among the list you just gave me is also a sociopath willing to unleash a weapon of mass destruction?” Williams asked.
The leonine smile was long gone. “That’s just it. Our known enemies, those who dodge justice, are known, their whereabouts tracked. This one is either new or off the radar.”
“Or about some business you haven’t looked at,” Williams said. “That original radio call we intercepted. The man talked about other trips they had taken.
“Regardless, he has to be found, and in a backdoor fashion that won’t cause him to release it again.”
Williams’s admonition and clarity sent Krummeck moving quickly to his desk. “Commander, if I may have that photograph—I’d like to send it to someone.”
“Who?”
“The man who knows our coast and its shipping better than anyone,” he answered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
East London, South Africa
November 12, 8:08 A.M.
Katinka was afraid as she opened the door of the autogyro. Foster’s expression was untroubled. He seemed rested and had probably slept after his long vigil waiting for her—and attacking Batting Bridge.
“Get the container and press the green button,” he instructed as he unfolded his arms and opened the door of the van. There did not appear to be anyone inside, as far as she could penetrate the shadows.
She leaned into the small cargo area and, with trembling fingers, did as she was told. Katinka felt vulnerable, afraid even to be showing him her back. She looked out the window on the other side of the autogyro. A pair of parking lot employees were hurrying over, carrying a tarp. Even though they were in public, she did not know but that Foster intended to kill her anyway.
Katinka held the large canister to her bosom—her foul progeny, something she should have left behind in its rockbound cradle. She sat and Foster slammed the door, shrouding her in darkness behind the charcoal-black windows. He got in and drove on as the autogyro was covered.
He drove away, peering at her in the rearview mirror.
“What was your plan?” Foster asked.
“To get away,” she said.
“To run to obscurity or the authorities?” he asked.
“Away. Home.”
“How uncommonly familial, Katinka. So, to hide. From what? You know that if I am found out, you are not far behind.”
“I had no part in what you did,” she said. “I would never have.”
Foster chuckled as his eyes returned to the road, filled with much less traffic than usual. “A wounded bird. Again, uncharacteristic. Do you know what I’m doing right now, Katinka? How often were we afraid because of their stupid laws, their self-serving restrictions? How many times did our people run, or get shot on sight for trespassing? Just for being on someone else’s land? Attempting to work for just a little of what they already had in abundance?”
“You know how I feel about the diamond industry and the government,” she said. “That did not justify murdering innocents.”
“Many of whom were profiting by this old monopoly! We tossed off corrupt, racial bonds, but money—but money … ah, money stayed where it was. Out of reach except for widespread and dangerous efforts to collect scraps.”
“Not everyone you killed was guilty.”
“Should I have gone to a bank? A diamond mine, assuming I could have gotten near enough? Would no one innocent have died? Let me tell you, Katinka, do you know what I feel right now? For the first time in my life I feel like I’m free to walk in the sun, to operate without looking behind me, worrying about surveillance or hacking, just for engaging in a legal enterprise! I am savoring their fear!” His eyes snapped back to the mirror. “And you—this haughty indignation does not suit you. You brought this to me for a reason.”
“To threaten, not slaughter!”
He looked back out the windshield, smiling and shaking his head. “Did you not think that would become inevitable? That the authorities would simply hand over the combination to a bank vault and let us walk in? No, Katinka. Don’t be righteous on top of being naïve. And hypocritical, I might add. You realized this contagion, not I.”
“By accident,” she said, her voice contrite. She set the container on the seat, newly ashamed.
“Pandora did no less, unwittingly releasing the ills of the world. I’m sure the families of the airline passengers would be consoled by your clean hands.”
“I don’t accept that blame,” she said.
“So innocent,” he said. “You know nothing about the guards or law enforcement we sometimes—remove? Of course you do. Yet you persist. And did you check everyone on the boat before you blew it up?”
“That was to destroy a disease.”
“One that you yourself wanted to exploit! How did you plan to do that, without a demonstration?”
She had no answer for that.
“And what am I doing, Katinka? I’m destroying a disease. The world around us has been changed, an old regime overthrown. That hasn’t benefited you and me and a restricted financial class.”
“You’re an activist now?” she asked.
“I am damn well not, and you can stuff your sarcasm. I am sick of having to feel ashamed of the way we live our lives. Your core samples were not just a revelation, they were a gift. A means to break our own bonds. Back down? That I will not do, nor allow anyone else around me to do so.” He glanced at her again. “Tell me, Katinka. Are you for me or are you against me? There is no other choice.”
The woman looked at the canister. “Would this have really detonated?”
“It would.” He thought for a moment then looked back at the road. “Why do you fight me? We are on the same side. You have so much of life ahead—how do you want to live it?”
“With an unblemished conscience,” she responded. “I want to be able to sleep.”
His sneer was instant. “No one—not the men who established apartheid or those who overthrew it—can claim that! Nothing in this land is clean. You want to sleep? Open the goddamn container. I won’t stop you.”
Katinka sat very still. She was numb and her mind was empty of further arguments. Foster was right about this much. There were not very many paths for her to take.
And what had been done was done. She could not change that. But staying close to him, she might be able to affect what happened next. And also to survive.
“All right,” she said contritely. “I am with you.”
Foster did not smile. He simply nodded, as if she’d said “present” at a roll call.
“Discuss this with no one at the office,” he said.
“No. Of course not.”
As they rode in silence, she was overcome by a familiar—clutching was the word that came to mind. An insistent part of her wanted to be near Foster and let his confidence, his certainty steady her as she moved through unknown territory.
But for the first time there was something else—a growing sense of loathing, not just for what Foster had done but with herself for having depended on him for so long. She thought this discovery would let her get away from him, a windfall and she was free.
Instead, you’re bound to him more than ever, she told herself.
And not in the way she had wished.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
; Marion Island, South Africa
November 12, 8:15 A.M.
The Chinese seamen were lying facedown on the floor of the outpost, bound hand and leg with heavy manila rope used to tie down the helicopter, the composting canopy, and other outdoor items during strong winds. They had covered them with a quilt to keep them from freezing as cold air blew through the broken window.
The men had defied Grace’s efforts to question them, and she did not have time to “pain” it out of them, as she called it. For that she would employ a series of manual wrist and elbow locks that worked joint against joint to cause unbearable agony. The locks left no scars, caused no permanent damage, and Grace never understood why interrogators did not employ them as a matter of course.
Ensign Sisula and the helicopter pilot, Ryan Bruwer, had pulled on their cold-weather outer garments. Sisula was seated at the radio, Bruwer and Grace behind him.
“We gotta think this through,” Rivette cautioned as he stood over their four prisoners. “We do this, the enemy will know.”
“If we don’t do this, the enemy wins,” Grace said.
“They’ve got big guns,” Rivette pointed out. “We would have none.”
“They won’t use them,” Grace said. “It would trigger retaliation, bring in other warships in the region.”
The lance corporal shook his head. “People got guns, they usually fire them.”
“There is no one else around,” the small, wiry Bruwer remarked. “Nothing else was allowed to fly to the island, of course.”
“Can you call in the military?” Grace asked.
“I can request aid but that will take time. Our mission was very low-profile.”
“Yeah, we know something about that tune,” Rivette said.
“I believe we should call my commander,” Sisula suggested. “This is, after all, his outpost.”
Grace shook her head. “Both of those options, SAN and the commander, give the Chinese a heads-up and window to finish what they’re doing. We’re wasting time now. Ensign, your commander may be ill, like your pilot. Put in a call to the civilians, please.”
“The Civil Aviation—”