Never Say Die / Whistleblower

by Tess Gerritsen

  As if I could.

  He stared up at one of the courtyard’s Romanesque arches and reminded himself, once again, of the wisdom of his actions. Still, the uneasiness remained. Where was she? Was she safe? She’d been gone only an hour and he missed her already.

  He gave a shrug, as though by that gesture he could somehow cast off the fears. Still they remained, constant and gnawing. He found a place under the eaves and huddled on the steps to wait for Ollie’s return.

  At dusk he was still waiting. By the last feeble light of day, he paced the stone courtyard. He counted and recounted the number of hours it should’ve taken Ollie to drive to San José Airport and return. He added in traffic time, red lights, ticket-counter delays. Surely three hours was enough. Cathy had to be on a plane by now, jetting for warmer climes.

  Where was Ollie?

  At the sound of the first footstep, he spun around. For a moment he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, couldn’t understand how she could be standing there, silhouetted beneath the sandstone archway. “Cathy?” he said in amazement.

  She stepped out, into the courtyard. “Victor,” she said softly. She started toward him, slowly at first, and then, in a jubilant burst of flight, ran toward his waiting arms. He swept her up, swung her around, kissed her hair, her face. He didn’t understand why she was here but he rejoiced that she was.

  “I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing,” she murmured. “I hope to God I have.”

  “Why did you come back?”

  “I wasn’t sure—I’m still not sure—”

  “Cathy, what are you doing here?”

  “You can’t fight this alone! And he can help you—”

  “Who can?”

  From out of the twilight came another voice, gruff and startling. “I can.”

  At once Victor stiffened. His gaze shifted back to the arch behind Cathy. A man emerged and walked slowly toward him. Not a tall man, he had the sort of body that, in a weight-loss ad, would’ve been labeled Before. He came up to Victor and planted himself squarely on the courtyard stones.

  “Hello, Holland,” he said. “I’m glad we’ve finally met. The name is Sam Polowski.”

  Victor turned and looked in disbelief at Cathy. “Why?” he asked in quiet fury. “Just tell me that. Why?”

  She reacted as though he’d delivered a physical blow. Tentatively she reached for his arm; he pulled away from her at once.

  “He wants to help,” she said, her voice wretched with pain. “Listen to him!”

  “I’m not sure there’s any point to listening. Not now.” He felt his whole body go slack in defeat. He didn’t understand it, would never understand it. It was over, the running, the scraping along on fear and hope. All because Cathy had betrayed him. He turned matter-of-factly to Polowski. “I take it I’m under arrest,” he said.

  “Hardly,” said Polowski, nodding toward the archway. “Seeing as he’s got my gun.”

  “What?”

  “Hey, Gersh! Over here!” Ollie yelled. “See, I got him covered!”

  Polowski winced. “Geez, do ya have to wave the damn thing?”

  “Sorry,” said Ollie.

  “Now, does that convince you, Holland?” asked Polowski. “You think I’d hand my piece over to an idiot like him if I didn’t want to talk to you?”

  “He’s telling the truth,” insisted Cathy. “He gave the gun to Ollie. He was willing to take the risk, just to meet you face-to-face.”

  “Bad move, Polowski,” said Victor bitterly. “I’m wanted for murder, remember? Industrial espionage? How do you know I won’t just blow you away?”

  “’Cause I know you’re innocent.”

  “That makes a difference, does it?”

  “It does to me.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re caught up in something big, Holland. Something that’s going to eat you up alive. Something that’s got my supervisor doing backflips to keep me off the case. I don’t like being pulled off a case. It hurts my delicate ego.”

  The two men gazed at each other through the gathering darkness, each sizing up the other.

  At last Victor nodded. He looked at Cathy, a quiet plea for forgiveness, for not believing in her. When at last she came into his arms, he felt the world had suddenly gone right again.

  He heard a deliberate clearing of a throat. Turning, he saw Polowski hold out his hand. Victor took it in a handshake that could very well be his doom—or his salvation.

  “You’ve led me on a long, hard chase,” said Polowski. “I think it’s time we worked together.”

  “Basically,” said Ollie, “what we have here is just your simple, everyday mission impossible.”

  They were assembled in Polowski’s hotel room, a five-member team that Milo had just dubbed the “Older, Crazier Out of Tuners,” or Old COOTS for short. On the table in the center of the room lay potato chips, beer and the photos detailing Viratek’s security system. There was also a map of the Viratek compound, forty acres of buildings and wooded grounds, all of it surrounded by an electrified fence. They had been studying the photos for an hour now, and the job that lay before them looked hopeless.

  “No easy way in,” said Ollie, shaking his head. “Even if those keypad codes are still valid, you’re faced with the human element of recognition. Two guards, two positions. No way they’re gonna let you pass.”

  “There has to be a way,” said Polowski. “Come on, Holland. You’re the egghead. Use that creative brain of yours.”

  Cathy looked at Victor. While the others had tossed ideas back and forth, he had said very little. And he’s the one with the most at stake—his life, she thought. It took incredible courage—or foolhardiness—even to consider such a desperate move. Yet here he was, calmly scanning the map as though he were planning nothing more dangerous than a Sunday drive.

  He must have felt her gaze, for he slung his arm around her and tugged her close. Now that they were reunited, she savored every moment they shared, committed to memory every look, every caress. Soon he could be wrenched away from her. Even now he was making plans to enter what looked like a death trap.

  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then, reluctantly, he turned his attention back to the map.

  “The electronics I’m not worried about,” he said. “It’s the human element. The guards.”

  Milo cocked his head toward Polowski. “I still say ol’ J. Edgar here should get a warrant and raid the place.”

  “Right,” snorted Polowski. “By the time that order gets through the judge and Dafoe and your aunt Minnie’s cousin, Viratek’ll have that lab turned into a baby-milk factory. No, we need to get in on our own. Without anyone getting word of it.” He looked at Ollie. “And you’re sure this is the only evidence we’ll need?”

  Ollie nodded. “One vial should do it. Then we take it to a reputable lab, have them confirm it’s smallpox, and your case is airtight.”

  “They’ll have no way around it?”

  “None. The virus is officially extinct. Any company caught playing with a live sample is, ipso facto, dead meat.”

  “I like that,” said Polowski. “That ipso facto stuff. No fancy Viratek attorney can argue that one away.”

  “But first you gotta get hold of a vial,” said Ollie. “And from where I’m standing, it looks impossible. Unless we’re willing to try armed robbery.”

  For one frightening moment, Polowski actually seemed to give that thought serious consideration. “Naw,” he conceded. “Wouldn’t go over well in court.”

  “Besides which,” said Ollie, “I refuse to shoot another human being. It’s against my principles.”

  “Mine, too,” said Milo.

  “But theft,” said Ollie, “that’s acceptable.”

  Polowski looked at Victor. “A group with high moral standards.”

  Victor grinned. “Holdovers from the sixties.”

  “Sounds like we’re back to the first option,” said Cathy. “We have to steal the virus.” Sh
e focused on the map of the compound, noting the electrified fence that circled the entire complex. The main road led straight to the front gate. Except for an unpaved fire road, labeled not maintained, no other approaches were apparent.

  “All right,” she said. “Assume you do get through the front gate. You still have to get past two locked doors, two separate guards and a laser grid. Come on.”

  “The doors are no problem,” said Victor. “It’s the two guards.”

  “Maybe a diversion?” suggested Milo. “How about we set a fire?”

  “And bring in the town fire department?” said Victor. “Not a good idea. Besides, I’ve dealt with this night guard at the front gate. I know him. And he goes strictly by the book. Never leaves the booth. At the first hint of anything suspicious, he’ll hit the alarm button.”

  “Maybe Milo could whip up a fake security pass,” said Ollie. “You know, the way he used to fix us up with those fake drivers’ licenses.”

  “He falsified IDs?” said Polowski.

  “Hey, I just changed the age to twenty-one!” protested Milo.

  “Made great passports, too,” said Ollie. “I had one from the kingdom of Booga Booga. It got me right past the customs official in Athens.”

  “Yeah?” Polowski looked impressed. “So what about it, Holland? Would it work?”

  “Not a chance. The guard has a master list of top-security employees. If he doesn’t know the face, he’ll do a double check.”

  “But he does let some people through automatically?”

  “Sure. The bigwigs. The ones he recognizes on—” Victor suddenly paused and turned to stare at Cathy “—on sight. Lord. It just might work.”

  Cathy took one look at his face and immediately read his mind. “No,” she said. “It’s not that easy! I need to see the subject! I need molds of his face. Detailed photos from every angle—”

  “But you could do it. You do it all the time.”

  “On film it works! But this is face-to-face!”

  “It’s at night, through a car window. Or through a video camera. If you could just make me pass for one of the execs—”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Polowski.

  “Cathy’s a makeup artist. You know, horror films, special effects.”

  “This is different!” Cathy said. The difference being it was Victor’s life on the line. No, he couldn’t ask her to do this. If anything went wrong, she would be responsible. Having his death on her conscience would be more than she could live with.

  She shook her head, praying he’d read the deadly earnestness in her gaze. “There’s too much at stake,” she insisted. “It’s not as simple as—as filming Slimelords!”

  “You did Slimelords?” asked Milo. “Terrific flick!”

  “Besides,” said Cathy, “it’s not that easy, copying a face. I have to cast a mold, to get the features just right. For that I need a model.”

  “You mean the real guy?” asked Polowski.

  “Right. The real guy. And I hardly think you’re going to get some Viratek executive to sit down and let me slap plaster all over his face.”

  There was a long silence.

  “That does present a problem,” said Milo.

  “Not necessarily.”

  They all turned and looked at Ollie.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Victor.

  “About this guy who works with me once in a while. Down in the lab…” Ollie looked up, and the grin on his face was distinctly smug. “He’s a veterinarian.”

  The events of the past few weeks had weighed heavily on Archibald Black, so heavily, in fact, that he found it difficult to carry on with those everyday tasks of life. Just driving to and from his office at Viratek was an ordeal. And then, to sit down at his desk and face his secretary and pretend that nothing, absolutely nothing, was wrong—that was almost more than he could manage. He was a scientist, not an actor.

  Not a criminal.

  But that’s what they would call him, if the experiments in C wing ever came to light. His instinct was to shut the lab down, to destroy the contents of those incubators. But Matthew Tyrone insisted the work continue. They were so close to completion. After all, Defense had underwritten the project, and Defense expected a product. This matter of Victor Holland was only a minor glitch, soon to be solved. The thing to do was carry on.

  Easy for Tyrone to say, thought Black. Tyrone had no conscience to bother him.

  These thoughts had plagued him all day. Now, as Black packed up his briefcase, he felt desperate to flee forever this teak-and-leather office, to take refuge in some safe and anonymous job. It was with a sigh of relief that he walked out the door.

  It was dark when he pulled into his gravel driveway. The house, a saltbox of cedar and glass tucked among the trees, looked cold and empty and in need of a woman. Perhaps he should call his neighbor Muriel. She always seemed to appreciate an impromptu dinner together. Her snappy wit and green Jell-O salad almost made up for the fact she was 75. What a shame his generation didn’t produce many Muriels.

  He stepped out of his car and started up the path to the front door. Halfway there, he heard a soft whht! and almost simultaneously, a sharp pain stung his neck. Reflexively he slapped at it; something came away in his hands. In wonderment, he stared down at the dart, trying to understand where it had come from and how such a thing had managed to lodge in his neck. But he found he couldn’t think straight. And then he found he was having trouble seeing, that the night had suddenly darkened to a dense blackness, that his legs were being sucked into some sort of quagmire. His briefcase slipped from his grasp and thudded to the ground.

  I’m dying, he thought. And then, Will anyone find me here?

  It was his last conscious thought before he collapsed onto the leaf-strewn path.

  “Is he dead?”

  Ollie bent forward and listened for Archibald Black’s breathing. “He’s definitely alive. But out cold.” He looked up at Polowski and Victor. “Okay, let’s move it. He’ll be out for only an hour or so.”

  Victor grabbed the legs, Ollie and Polowski, the arms. Together they carried the unconscious man a few dozen yards through the woods, toward the clearing where the van was parked.

  “You—you sure we got an hour?” gasped Polowski.

  “Plus or minus,” said Ollie. “The tranquilizer’s designed for large animals, so the dose was only an estimate. And this guy’s heavier than I expected.” Ollie was panting now. “Hey, Polowski, he’s slipping. Pull your weight, will ya?”

  “I am! I think his right arm’s heavier than his left.”

  The van’s side door was already open for them. They rolled Black inside and slid the door closed. A bright light suddenly glared, but the unconscious man didn’t even twitch.

  Cathy knelt down at his side and critically examined the man’s face.

  “Can you do it?” asked Victor.

  “Oh, I can do it,” she said. “The question is, will you pass for him?” She glanced up and down the man’s length, then back at Victor. “Looks about your size and build. We’ll have to darken your hair, give you a widow’s peak. I think you’ll pass.” She turned and glanced at Milo, who was already poised with his camera. “Take your photos. A few shots from every angle. I need lots of hair detail.”

  As Milo’s strobe flashed again and again, Cathy donned gloves and an apron. She pointed to a sheet. “Drape him for me,” she directed. “Everything but his face. I don’t want him to wake up with plaster all over his clothes.”

  “Assuming he wakes up at all,” said Milo, frowning down at Black’s inert form.

  “Oh, he’ll wake up,” said Ollie. “Right where we found him. And if we do the job right, Mr. Archibald Black will never know what hit him.”

  It was the rain that awakened him. The cold droplets pelted his face and dribbled into his open mouth. Groaning, Black turned over and felt gravel bite into his shoulder. Even in his groggy state it occurred to him that this did not make sense.
Slowly he took stock of all the things that were not as they should be: the rain falling from the ceiling, the gravel in his bed, the fact he was still wearing his shoes…

  At last he managed to shake himself fully awake. He found to his puzzlement that he was sitting in his driveway, and that his briefcase was lying right beside him. By now the rain had swelled to a downpour—he had to get out of the storm. Half crawling, half walking, Black managed to make it up the porch steps and into the house.

  An hour later, huddled in his kitchen, a cup of coffee in hand, he tried to piece together what had happened. He remembered parking his car. He’d taken out his briefcase and apparently had managed to make it halfway up the path. And then…what?

  A vague ache worried its way into his awareness. He rubbed his neck. That’s when he remembered something strange had happened, just before he blacked out. Something associated with that ache in his neck.

  He went to a mirror and looked. There it was, a small puncture in the skin. An absurd thought popped into his head: Vampires. Right. Damn it, Archibald. You are a scientist. Come up with a rational explanation.

  He went to the laundry hamper and fished out his damp shirt. To his alarm he spotted a droplet of blood on the lapel. Then he saw what had caused it: a common, everyday tailor’s pin. It was still lodged in the collar, no doubt left there by the dry cleaners. There was his rational explanation. He’d been pricked by a collar pin and the pain had sent him into a faint.

  In disgust, he threw the shirt down. First thing in the morning, he was going to complain to the Tidy Girl cleaners and demand they do his suit for free.

  Vampires, indeed.

  “Even with bad lighting, you’ll be lucky if you pass,” said Cathy.

  She stood back and gave Victor a long, critical look. Slowly she walked around him, eyeing the newly darkened hair, the resculpted face, the new eye color. It was as close as she could make it, but it wasn’t good enough. It would never be good enough, not when Victor’s life was at stake.

  “I think he’s the spitting image,” said Polowski. “What’s the problem now?”