by G. M. Ford
“Governor Doss has wisely called out the National Guard. They’ll be sealing off this section of the city in just a minute here,” Pauls said. “We’re going to need some volunteers from among your ranks, Chief.”
“Volunteers for what?”
“We’ll need to get the terrorists off the ship before we make any decisions regarding the disposition of the people on board.”
Harry waved a hand at the FBI contingent. “What about these guys? Half the Bureau’s in town. Send them on board.”
“The Bureau doesn’t have the necessary equipment on hand,” Pauls said in an even voice. “The time lines for getting bioequipment from Quantico aren’t workable at this point. I’m sure you understand. It’s a law enforcement issue.”
“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” Harry said.
A collective gasp. “Chief,” chided the mayor.
“First you tell me you don’t need my help. You turn my whole damn department into traffic cops while you run around chasing every Arab in town. Then, after a couple of my men break the case, and we’re suddenly faced with the possibility of a plague, you want my men to go on board a death ship for you. You want them to risk their lives to clean up your mess so’s nobody will notice how you botched the investigation.”
“I’d hoped our mutual professionalism could rise above—” Pauls began.
“Professionalism my ass,” the chief spat. “We’re talking about people’s lives here, Mr. Pauls.” He pointed across the deck at a pair of CDC staff in space suits. “There’s people inside those suits, Mr. Pauls. People with wives and kids and gutters to clean and car payments to make, and every one of them is taking his life in his hands as we speak. As far as I’m concerned, the basic FBI ‘cover your ass’ drill doesn’t work around here.”
“I’ve consulted with Deputy Chief Gardener,” Pauls said.
“You can’t send firemen after these guys, for pity’s sake.”
“Harry,” the mayor interjected.
“You gonna volunteer?” Harry snapped. He waited a beat and then said, “If not, maybe you ought to keep out of this.”
Gary Dean’s fleshy neck visibly reddened but he kept quiet. A shout broke the silence. Then another and another until it started to sound like a ball game was about to break out. Corso looked in the direction of the commotion. Two of the upper decks of the Arctic Flower were lined with green uniforms, waving their hands and shouting at the people down below. “Lunchtime,” Corso said. “They want to get off for lunch.”
“We’ve sealed the staircases and are holding the elevators at ground level,” Pauls said. “The ship’s crew has locked themselves into the employee areas. The cleaning crews are stuck on their respective decks. Lunch is going to have to wait.”
Harry turned his back in disgust. He opened his coat and pulled a cell phone from his belt as he walked away. The group watched in silence as he spoke into the mouthpiece for several minutes, pocketed the phone and walked back their way.
“I’ll have six men ready to go in fifteen minutes,” Harry said.
“Do we have a confirmed ID on the suspects?”
“Just a pair of names. Roderick Holmes and…”
“Robert Darling,” Corso filled.
“Pictures?”
“No, the Canadians claim they can’t come up with those until Monday, but these guys are East Indian. How many East Indians can there be on board?”
“Seven,” said the guy from the cleaning company.
“You’re kidding.”
The guy shrugged. “Immigration makes us keep track. We got a big turnover. We get a lot of transients, lotta Mexican workers…they come, they go.” He lifted his hands in resignation. “Ain’t exactly workin’ for Microsoft, if you know what I mean.”
“We have a number of East Indian crew members as well,” said the captain. “I’m not sure exactly how many, but certainly not more than five or so, at this time of night.”
Harry was disgusted. “There are over three hundred people on board that ship. How are we supposed to…”
“I’ve seen one of them,” Corso said.
“I’ve seen both of them,” came another voice. Jim Sexton freed his elbows from the pair of cops and stepped forward. “As close as I am to you now,” he added. “I’d for sure know if I saw them again.”
Pauls wasted no time. “Perhaps if these gentlemen were willing…”
Harry shook him off. “They’re civilians. There’s no possible way we can allow them on board.”
Pauls looked at his watch again. “The terrorists have been on board for nearly four hours now. Presuming that message about the shelf life of the virus was anywhere near correct, we’ve only got another three hours to get this resolved before it becomes airborne, which, if our scientific friends here are to be believed, will result in a catastrophe.”
Harry looked over at Corso. “You understand what he’s asking you to do?”
“I understand,” said Corso.
“Me too,” said Jim Sexton.
Harry thought it over. Looked up at the governor. “Let’s have the Guard bring them lunch on board. We’ll say we’ve got a toxic spill down at dock level. That way everybody will have his mask off and we’ll have support people on board in case we get any resistance. Once they’re eating, we’ll send my men on board.”
48
At first, Bobby Darling, like all the others, wondered why they were not being allowed to get off the ship for lunch. Then came the announcement that there’d been a toxic spill of some sort down below. Unlike all the others, however, Bobby knew better. The sight of the Bradley armored vehicles parked nose to nose across the gate, of the horde of soldiers and policemen swarming like maggots, wiped any trace of hunger from his innards, replacing the urge to eat with a shaft of cold remorse that somehow they had been found out and had thus failed in their mission. He cursed and got to his feet.
His knees were unsteady as he abandoned his position on the rail and went looking for Holmes. People were sitting everywhere, pulling open the box lunches the soldiers had brought. He smiled his way to the center of the ship, where the same soldiers who delivered lunch now guarded the elevators. He kept moving, all the way around the front of the ship and back down the far side.
He hadn’t seen Holmes since they’d started working. A finger of panic traced his spine as it occurred to him that he and Holmes might not be on the same deck. Took him ten minutes to get all the way around, back to where he’d left his unopened lunch. No Holmes. The realization that he was alone made him nauseous and slightly dizzy. Bobby took a moment to compose himself and then leaned far out over the rail. A trace of talk and laughter rose to his ears. The deck below was likewise filled with people sitting and eating their lunches. He walked to the stern and tried the door marked STAIRS. Locked. Then around the deserted side of the ship, trying all the doors, every locked entry pushing the sense of panic deeper into the pit of his stomach until finally he yanked on a handle and found himself looking at the inside of a safety locker.
The oxygen had a sweet taste, as if the air had been dusted with powdered sugar. Corso and the cops were working their way down the landward side of deck three. Thus far, they’d encountered two East Indian men. Neither was the guy with the snake eyes. Mostly it was college kids, deadbeats and green card refugees. The free food, combined with the announcement that lunch today was going to be an hour seemed to have assuaged any prior hostilities and suspicions. Mostly they wanted to know what got spilled and how it was going to interfere with getting off shift later. Corso was within two hundred feet of the stern and a big open area he thought maybe they called the fantail. Maybe a dozen diners sat with their backs to the rail, chatting and sipping at Cokes.
“Hey, cabrón,” a dark little fellow called. “What kinda chit dey speel down dere?”
Corso smiled at him through the plastic faceplate. “No sé,” he said into the microphone.
The guy waved a disgusted hand Corso’s way. “Pinc
he Bebosa,” he said.
Corso was fumbling for a reply when the last guy in line got to his feet and headed for the stern. Something about the thickness of his neck and the blocky, almost square head caught Corso’s attention. He moved that way. “Hey,” he called. The guy kept walking.
At that moment, a barrage of shouts and laughter went off behind him. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder. A piece of white rope, with an orange and white life preserver on the end, was hanging down from above. From the way the rope was shaking, it was safe to assume somebody was trying to climb down from the deck above. The three cops swam people out of their path on their way to the rail. Corso turned his attention back the other way just in time to see the heavyset guy disappear around the corner, to the right. Corso stretched his long legs to the max, moving as fast as he could without running.
Holmes took the apple out of his mouth as soon as he saw the rope…had to be Bobby. “Parag, Parag,” he chided silently. “Oh no, Parag.” And then he watched the three guys in the white suits fan out and move that way with a practiced assurance that could only mean cops and the fourth one…the tall one…was nearly on him now. He got to his feet, and moved quickly in the other direction. An amplified voice called, “Hey.” He kept walking. Didn’t break into a run until he was sure he was out of sight and then gave it all he had across the width of the vessel.
He had, for the past half hour, been ruminating on their present situation. Where things had gone wrong. Whether or not the whole team had been compromised…a great likelihood as far as he was concerned. And what he might do to both maximize the damage and effect his escape, neither of which, at this point, seemed in the least bit likely.
Once he saw the rope and then the cops, all bets were off. He was only sorry that he’d run out of virus. He’d have loved to have gone down spraying. As it was, they’d made their statement. Before it was over the name Bhopal would be on the world’s lips once again and they would remember. At least he hoped they would. The only thing he was sure of at the moment was that he had no intention of being taken alive. Instead of sprinting down the deserted side of the ship in an attempt to elude his pursuer, he stopped just around the corner, pulled down the zipper on his coveralls and fished his knife from his pants pocket. He took his time zipping up and opening the blade. American policemen were quick with their weapons. Everyone knew that. He didn’t imagine he would have any difficulty getting them to help him finish the game.
He counted three and stepped back around the corner. Only the tall one was in view. The others must have stopped to deal with poor Parag. The tall cop stood fifteen feet in front of him, feet spread, his long arms hanging loosely from his sides. And then the cop spoke. “It’s over, man,” came from a tiny speaker at the top of the helmet.
And then he saw the face behind the plastic and knew he had seen it before, at the house with the cop who had asked him about Brian Bohannon.
“It will never be over,” he said. “Not so long as I’m alive.”
“So…don’t be alive.”
“You’re not a policeman.” It was a statement. “Policemen don’t say things like that.”
“No. They don’t.”
49
Having climbed over the rail without being noticed, Bobby Darling swallowed hard and swung out into space. The rope was thinner and less easy to grasp than he’d imagined. He tried to get another loop around his ankle and failed, leaving his entire weight suspended from his hands and arms. Ten seconds in and his muscles were already screaming for relief.
As he mustered the courage to loosen his grip and slide down the line, the breeze blew him around in a slow circle and then another, before slackening and allowing the rope to twist him back the other way. He tightened his grip and mouthed a silent prayer that when he stopped twisting in the wind, he would end up facing the ship. Unlike so many other nights, the gods were listening. He took heart. Once stabilized, he began to loosen his fingers, one by one, until he started to slide downward. The friction burned his hands right through the gloves. He squeezed with all his might and came to a halt about halfway down.
He took a deep breath and for the first time looked past his feet, causing a muffled shout to jump from his throat and the blood to run backward in his veins. The dock was barely visible through the fog. The people looked like insects. He pressed his eyes closed and rested his forehead against the quivering rope. “Just a little farther, Parag,” he said to himself. “Just a little farther.”
They were nearly at the back of the ship. Jim first. The three cops trailing along behind, just like they’d worked it out. Didn’t want to look too threatening as they moseyed along. He’d encountered a lot of good-natured ribbing about the moon suit and passed three East Indians, two men and a toothless woman, but neither of the pair he’d seen at the parking garage.
The suit was air-conditioned, but Jim was sweating bullets. He moved slowly, forcing himself to concentrate on the faces, hoping for all he was worth that this foolish act of bravado would somehow make up for whatever reprisals would be in store over the wrecked van and the purloined radio. He’d risked his life, hadn’t he? For the common good and all. Howya gonna come down hard on a guy like that? Yeah, that was it. No way they could forget what he was doing here today.
The last group of diners rose in stages as he approached, picking up their garbage as they went forward, moving over against the bulkhead so he could pass.
His mind was so full, he nearly walked right on by. If the white rope hadn’t squeaked from the dangling weight, he probably would never have noticed it looped around the white railing.
Jim wandered over and looked down. At first glance, his brain failed to process exactly what it was he was looking at. “Hair,” he thought. “Something with hair.” About the time he figured out it was the top of somebody’s head, the guy looked up and Jim needed wonder no more. He was sure. This was the smaller of the pair from the garage. A high-pitched keening noise rose from the kid’s chest to Jim’s ears as he turned and motioned for the cops to hurry.
They covered the distance with practiced ease. Jim pushed the speaker button on his throat. “That’s one of them,” he said pointing down the rope. All three officers leaned out over the rail and looked down.
“You sure?” the nearest cop wanted to know.
“Positive,” Jim said.
The cop pushed his radio button and began to talk.
Jim watched as the cop talked back and forth with whoever he had on the other end.
The cop pushed the speaker button. “They won’t send anybody else on board,” he announced. “They say we should pull him up, get him secured and wait for instructions.”
At that moment, the other three officers appeared on the rail one deck down, like reflections of one another. “We got him surrounded,” Jim thought. A mad chuckle escaped his throat, forcing him to turn away.
Holmes held the knife down along his side. On his left, an ornate modern bar ran half the width of the ship. In the cold gray light, the jungle of neon tubes looked like untended vines. Four leather-topped stools at each end, twelve running the long way. Down to the dance floor and the individual tables at the far end. On his right, the deck arched out from under the roof, flowed under the painted white rails until your eyes took off for the horizon like a plane on a carrier.
“What now?” Corso asked.
Holmes shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.
“You’re the last one. The others didn’t make it.”
Holmes nodded. Shouts could be heard in the distance.
“I’m going to kill you,” Holmes said.
“Why?” Corso asked.
Holmes could feel the fear in himself. The natural revulsion for the unknown that each man carries in his heart. Fear of the pain. Fear of how he might react in that final moment. How one might taint a lifetime with an instant. But there was no panic in this one. No tears. No remorse. Not this one.
“Because it’s what men do in mome
nts like this,” Holmes said.
Four powerful strides and Holmes was on him. Corso was ready, legs braced, hands ready to defend himself, but the sheer force of Holmes’s impact threw them both to the deck before either man could gain an advantage. The moment Holmes wrapped an arm around him, Corso knew he was in trouble. His moon suit was far too cumbersome for self-defense. It left him pawing at his attacker like a schoolgirl as they rolled about the floor, swinging wildly, seeking leverage on one another.
Not only that, but this Holmes, whoever he might be, was ungodly strong. He had one arm clamped diagonally across Corso’s ribs, squeezing Corso’s bulk like he was a doll. Corso slammed an elbow back at his attacker, but the padding from the suit robbed the blow of any significant force. He rolled once, twice, but the man had his legs around him now and was beginning to squeeze the breath out of him. Corso used both hands to wrench the man’s ankles apart. He filled his lungs with a bolt of fresh air and rolled over, teetering with his knees in the middle of Holmes’s chest, for the first time feeling he might have gained a slight advantage.
And then, in an instant, Corso felt the air rush from his suit and a burning pain in his chest that refused to allow him to breathe. He heard the hiss of oxygen and the sound of something cracking as he struggled. He clutched at his side, when another blow bowled him over backward, banging his head hard on the deck, swimming his vision.
As he sought to regain his senses, Corso could feel hands around his helmet. He opened his mouth to speak just as Holmes tore the helmet from his head and pressed his face to Corso’s. For an awful moment, Corso thought the other man might be going to bite him in the face. He turned away just as the shouts began in earnest. Next thing he knew, he was being jerked to his feet and dragged backward like a puppet. Corso gasped for breath, trying to breathe around the arm pressing his throat, trying to ignore the excruciating pain in his side. And suddenly there they were, in the mirror behind the bar. Corso red-faced, flailing with one arm, Holmes with a burly arm around Corso’s neck, holding him upright, dragging him around at will, and in the other hand a black Commando knife pressed hard to Corso’s throat. “Get back…get back…I’ll kill him…I’ll kill him,” Holmes shouted at the pair of cops who had suddenly appeared, guns in hand.