Smith woke to find Russell and Ohnara leaning over him. Russell looked dreadful as opposed to near death, which was actually a gain. Ohnara looked pensive and frightened. Smith shifted his head to gaze around the room. It appeared that he was flat on his back on the floor of a lab. Something soft was bunched under his head as a makeshift pillow, but it wasn’t even close to comfortable.
“Where am I?” Smith said.
“In the Medicon Corporation’s laboratory,” Ohnara said. “Ms. Russell brought you here. How are you feeling?”
Smith rose to a sitting position and groaned. His head pounded, and the world went dark for a moment as the blood failed to rush upward.
“Aspirin,” he managed to croak. Sixty seconds later, a hand holding a cup of coffee was thrust in front of his nose.
“That’s not aspirin.” He inhaled deeply, taking in the heady smell of roasted coffee, and then breathed out. “But I’ll take it. What time is it?”
Russell consulted her watch. “Midnight.”
He sipped the coffee, thought about Nolan, and felt a welling sadness, but he shoved the feeling away. He wouldn’t assume that she was dead. She had her trump card to use against Dattar, and he hoped she’d play it well enough to stay alive until he could find her.
“Thanks for showing up when you did,” he said to Russell, who sat on a stool facing him. “How did you know where I was?”
“Marty called me, as did Klein.”
Smith raised an eyebrow. “Klein?”
“I asked him to keep me informed about any actions taken by the FBI or DHS. He said that Harcourt had asked the CIA to pick you up on suspicion of terrorist activity, and his monitors heard that they had located you and were sending a SWAT team. Marty told me where you were.”
“And Howell and Beckmann?”
“Beckmann is in FBI custody. Howell managed to escape. We don’t know where he is.”
Smith eyed a stool to his right that he would have loved to sit on, but he wasn’t entirely sure that his legs would work yet.
“Need help getting up?” Ohnara said.
Smith nodded. “Yes.” Ohnara lent an arm while Smith struggled upward. When he was on the stool, he leveled a look at Ohnara. “Talk to me.”
Ohnara sighed. “I can’t determine if the avian flu that Ms. Russell contracted was the same that attached to the Shewanella in the swab. It’s extremely difficult to get bird flu without close contact with an infected animal. Ms. Russell’s distance from the refrigerator swab seems to rule that out as a factor. Also, the cholera died, and Shewanella MR-1 does not cause illness.”
Smith looked back at Russell. “Despite all that, you have a hunch that the swab was involved in some way, don’t you?” She nodded. Smith kept sipping the coffee, thinking. “Let’s approach this thing from another angle.” He addressed Ohnara. “Tell me again about the Shewanella. Gram negative, lives underwater in an anaerobic environment, and conducts electricity.”
Ohnara nodded. “It not only conducts electricity but it actually feeds off it. We’re not sure how, but its nanowires attach and communicate with metal or an electric source. And I can’t emphasize this enough, but it doesn’t, as far as we know, cause any disease or illness of any kind.”
“What if it were weaponized?” Russell asked.
Ohnara shook his head. “I don’t see how it could be. Most weaponized substances have, at their core, a toxic capability. Since it doesn’t, it’s a poor candidate for such a use. In fact, it is actually the opposite. It can create energy and because it feeds off metals, it’s used in rivers in a beneficial manner.”
“DMRB bacteria,” Smith said.
“English, please, for the one who’s not a microbiologist in the room.” Russell swung her stool to face Smith. He gave her a small smile and she smiled back.
“It stands for dissimilatory metal-reducing bacteria,” he said.
“Oh, well, that clarifies things,” she said.
“It can be used to reduce heavy metals in water. Iron, things like that,” Ohnara said.
Smith’s head was clearing. He looked around the lab and saw a series of flasks and petri dishes along a counter.
“What’s that?” he said.
“I asked for some more testing,” Russell said.
“It’s the bacteria. I’m growing it both aerobically and anaerobically.”
Smith slid off the stool and stood. He was pleased that his legs felt normal again. He walked to the bottles and stared at them.
“When it’s communicating through the nanowires, what is it doing?”
“Colonizing. It forms a biofilm. We think it breathes without the need for oxygen by using the wires to communicate, one to the other, until finally the portion of the biofilm that is in contact with the air transmits the oxygen down to the lower levels. The nanowire electricity is the conduit that the O2 travels along.”
Smith took another sip and stared at the flasks. What was he missing? The sound of a ringing phone filled the room. Russell checked the screen.
“It’s Klein. I’ll put him on speaker.”
“Ms. Russell?”
“And Ohnara and Smith,” Russell said.
“Smith? You’re awake?”
Smith shrugged more out of reflex, since Klein couldn’t see him.
“Russell gave me some coffee. It’s helping.”
“I’ve been monitoring both the FBI transmissions as well as the New York City police band and I’ve learned something interesting. The NYPD considers both you and Russell to be criminals: Russell a CIA agent gone rogue who is acting as a mole within the agency, and you a killer of the woman at Landon Investments. A warning has gone out that you are both armed and dangerous. Needless to say, I found this surprising.”
“I have a pretty good idea who started that rumor in motion: Harcourt.”
Russell’s head snapped up and she looked at Smith. “You’ve got to be joking.”
Smith shook his head. “Didn’t Marty tell you? I was staring down Harcourt’s gun minutes before you showed up.”
“All Marty said was that the FBI was mistakenly trying to arrest you.”
“No mistake about it. Harcourt pointed them to us both. He discovered that Marty was using your passwords to access the CIA system. He says the agency assumes that you’re a mole. I think he’s utilizing his close contacts with the NYPD to encourage them to see us as persons of interest; me in the shooting incident at Landon, and you for allowing the CIA system to be hacked.”
“Please ask Mr. Ohnara to step out of the room. I’d like to speak with you both on matters that require clearance,” Klein said.
Ohnara nodded. “I’ll get some more coffee.” He left, closing the door behind him.
“Has he left?” Klein said.
“Yes.” Smith took a sip of his drink.
“This is a sticky situation. I can’t very well explain to the CIA your status with Covert-One, and while I can warn off the FBI with some vague argument about international security and ‘need to know’ claims, I expect that the CIA will quickly countermand that order.”
“So we’re on our own,” Smith said. “Not the first time.”
“And not entirely. Two can play this game. I’ll do my best to suggest that it’s Harcourt that’s the mole and request that he be detained.”
“Anything in those transmissions give us a clue as to where Nolan and Dattar may have gone?”
“Nothing. Only real news is that a subway station on the Upper West Side and now another near Inwood have been shut due to flooding. Apparently some brand-new sump pumps stopped working.”
“Is that so unusual? The New York subway often floods. Old infrastructure,” Russell said.
“It’s dry outside,” Smith said.
“Which doesn’t mean much,” Klein said. “Water is always an issue for the subway. On a daily basis those pumps remove thirteen to fifteen million gallons of water. Now that they’re down, water is accumulating fast. And the sump pumps were brand new
. Perhaps it’s nothing, but I thought you should know. Both the electric grid and subway stations are considered prime targets for terrorist activity. I usually keep a close eye on both.”
“Did they close the station?”
“Not only that, but they shut down the third rail. The electricity is off.”
An idea fell into place. Smith put the coffee cup down so fast that liquid sloshed out of it onto the white Formica counter. Russell gave him a piercing look.
“My God, I think I’ve figured it out.”
There was a knock and Ohnara returned, holding a cup of coffee. “May I come in?” he said.
“Absolutely. I have a theory.”
Ohnara stepped closer. “What?”
“The Shewanella isn’t the weapon, it’s simply the conduit. Whoever stole the coolers figured out how to make it pass not only oxygen but a virus through its nanowires. That’s why the avian flu strain is attached. The Shewanella is feeding it upward.”
Russell stood as well. “We just learned that the third rail of a subway line was shut down.”
“What if the bacteria was added to the metal rail? What then?” Smith said. He looked at Ohnara. “How fast can it colonize and how quickly will it travel?” Ohnara turned so pale that Smith thought he would faint.
“On a third rail? In a subway line?” Ohnara swallowed. “I can’t be sure, but under ideal conditions it could double every forty minutes. With a live electrical source as powerful and limitless as a train line, who knows?”
“Where does the line terminate?” Klein’s voice on the phone sounded strained.
“That’s just it,” Smith said. “The bacteria feeds on both metal and electricity. The subway train rail terminates, yes, but the electricity feeding to it continues out to the grid.”
“Where it then continues to every house and building that’s connected to it,” Klein said.
“And the nanowires push the virus up to the air,” Ohnara said. “The mutated version, so that it can be easily transmitted by humans.”
“You have any weapons?” Smith said.
Russell grabbed a set of car keys. “An Uzi, a knife, and a Beretta.”
“That’ll work. Let’s go.”
43
Manhar crawled down from the platform to the third rail, sloshing through the brackish, stinking water as he did. He plunged the thermometer into the stream for the second time. He waited, heard the beep, and pulled the stick out.
“Forty-two.” He called the words to Rajiid, who swore in Urdu at the number.
“More water!” Rajiid yelled into the handset of a pay phone on the wall. The hose resumed pouring the fresh water into the stream. Manhar stayed where he was and watched as a dead rat floated by. He wanted out of this despicable country, away from Rajiid, Dattar, and all of the others the moment he could flee. He glanced at the Nolan woman. She bled continuously, but seemed oblivious to her wounds. Manhar hated women who controlled their emotions; it was unnatural. To be stoic was a characteristic of men, not women. At that moment, Dattar erupted in anger, yelling at Rajiid and waving his arms around to emphasize his piercing shrieks.
Well, maybe not that man, Manhar thought. Dattar was ten times more volatile than most. He excelled at instilling fear. Manhar had heard that Dattar had once skinned a European alive in retaliation for some affront or another. Manhar had no wish to be next. For the moment he was stuck cooperating.
“Check again,” Rajiid said. He yelled over the cascading water. Manhar reset the thermometer and shoved it back into the stream. Sixty seconds, a beep and a reading.
“Thirty-eight.”
“Almost there,” Rajiid said.
Manhar slogged to the platform and hoisted himself back onto it. As he did, he heard the sound of steps running down the stairs. A man wearing a hard hat and a reflective vest stepped into the room. He held a walkie-talkie and stopped when he saw Rajiid, Dattar, Manhar, and Nolan.
“What the hell is going on here?” he said. “This station is gonna be closed for the next three hours. You all have to leave.”
Khalil stepped into view behind the man, raised a gun with a silencer attached and shot the man in the back. Manhar watched the body drop. Nolan made a small, moaning sound.
Rajiid looked annoyed. “I would have talked my way out of that. Told him that we were with MTA. Now when he doesn’t respond to their calls they’ll send someone to check on him.”
Khalil shrugged. “And how long do you think that will take? They’ll call, he won’t answer, they’ll assume he’s busy, and by the time they send another, the water will be cool, the bacteria placed, and we’ll be long gone.” He waved at Manhar. “Toss his body into the tunnel. Far enough in so that he can’t be seen from the platform.”
“And out of the way of any trains. I want the subway operating at full speed during the rush hour, not closed while they remove a dead body,” Dattar said.
Manhar rose and headed to the construction worker’s corpse. The man was at least six feet and had a stomach the size of a basketball. No way was Manhar going to be able to move the body alone.
“I need some help. This guy’s too big.”
“Get up and help him,” Dattar said to Nolan. She hadn’t made any noise other than the moan and Manhar noted that her face once again held the closed expression that she commonly wore. She rose and joined him. He hooked his hands under the man’s armpits and she grabbed his feet by the ankles. Together they hauled him to the platform’s edge and left him there while they jumped down onto the tracks. They grabbed the corpse and started down the tunnel past the water flow. As they walked, it became increasingly dark, and when they left the lighted platform area and entered the tunnel, the only illumination came from the sporadic lamps attached at the ceiling and the signal stands. About fifty feet in, a recessed area allowed for someone to step inside. Manhar nodded at it, and they arranged the body there in a sitting position, being sure to keep the arms folded so that the train conductor wouldn’t see anything on approach. Manhar reached into the man’s pants pocket and removed a wallet. He flipped it open, took the money, and tossed the wallet on the ground next to the man’s feet.
“Come on,” he said. Nolan glanced down the tunnel. It wasn’t difficult for Manhar to read her thoughts, despite her expressionless face. “Forget it. They’ll catch you.”
Nolan turned and followed him, keeping to her usual silence. At the station opening Rajiid shoved the thermometer back at Manhar.
“Check,” he said.
Manhar snatched the device from Rajiid and bit his tongue to avoid snapping “check your own damn water” at him. He dipped it into the stream and pulled it out at the beep.
“Thirty-five,” he said.
Rajiid smiled. “Showtime. You,” he said to Nolan. “Carry the flasks to the edge. Then get on the rails and start applying the gel. I want it applied directly to the third rail, not the cover, so you’ll need to find each slide, where the rail is left exposed, and work the gel through it.”
“Will the water wash it away?” Dattar said.
Rajiid shook his head. “The gel will allow it to be placed despite the water. The bacteria thrives underwater, so it’s not a problem.”
“Should we be here?” Dattar said.
Rajiid waved him off. “It won’t get to you unless you’re standing over it. Now, after the rail goes back on you’ll want to be on your way out of New York City.”
Nolan shuffled over to the cooler and grabbed the metal basket that held four flasks. As she did a drop of blood plopped onto one of the flasks.
“And don’t contaminate the flasks with your blood!” She stood up straighter. Manhar sloshed over to meet her and grabbed a flask.
Manhar smeared the substance in the flask over the third rail, moving into the tunnel to search for the next slide as he did. Nolan worked next to him, keeping her head down and her eyes averted from the area where they’d hidden the body. Manhar worked as fast as he could. The cooling water would allow
the third rail to be electrified again, and he didn’t want to be standing in the stream and touching it when it resumed. When the signal lights blinked, Manhar started to sweat.
Nolan worked as feverishly as he did. They both wore rubber gloves and scooped out the gelatinous substance with their fingers. Then they smeared it on the rail. The worst part of the job was moving into the tunnel. Every so often Manhar would hear a splash as a rat jumped in the water and all manner of dead bugs and bits of garbage floated by. Plunging his hand into the water was also disgusting. Once he pulled out some twisted mass of hair and blackened grease on his fingers. He shook his hand, but it clung stubbornly to the rubber glove. Nolan made a surprised sound as a small rat jumped up onto the third rail and hustled away, running along the narrow metal track with precision.
Manhar kept smearing the gel and trying to work a plan that would get him as far away from New York as soon as possible. Dattar hovered at the platform, watching. Manhar had long figured out that Nolan had stolen some money from the man and that he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight until he retrieved it. They finished and kicked through the stream to the platform and scrambled back up. As they did the water near the third rail shivered.
“Electricity’s back on,” Rajiid said. He consulted his watch.
Khalil came into view. “Three of your men just dropped dead.”
Rajiid shrugged. “The suicide pills are kicking in. They’re time release.”
“Will they all die at once?”
“No. It’ll be staggered,” Rajiid said.
Manhar felt a chill. All this time they thought he would die with the others. He’d lied for them, killed for them, and now they wanted him to die for them. Well, he wouldn’t. He’d never signed on for a suicide mission. He was a soldier, not an idealist. Let the other young men with fire in their eyes and nationalist fever in their blood die for a cause. He didn’t die for freedom. He killed for money. He would take matters into his own hands.
Rajiid glanced at his watch.
“Let’s get out of here,” Dattar said. “I don’t want to stay while those bacteria grow. The helicopter waiting?”
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