Robert Ludlum’s The Ares Decision

by Mills, Kyle

  He’d lost friends on ops before—in fact, Jon Smith was one of his last comrades in arms still aboveground. But the circumstances of the others’ deaths had been very different.

  Now that the fog of vengeance had lifted, he could see clearly what he’d done. He’d jeopardized a mission that he’d given his word to carry out, he’d turned his back on the millions of people who could be victimized by the parasite, and, worst of all, he’d abandoned a man who wouldn’t have done the same to him.

  Howell pulled back and searched for tracks, finally finding footprints in the dust at the edge of the road. He followed them for a few feet, seeing the stride lengthen. Smith was not only alive but in good enough condition to run. No thanks to him.

  He jumped back into the idling jeep and floored it up the road. Its top speed wasn’t much more than forty—something he couldn’t confirm with any precision because there were only loose wires where the speedometer had once been. Fortunately, the one piece of electronics the vehicle’s late owner hadn’t pawned was the temperature gauge, and Howell managed his speed to keep it just below redline.

  Almost a half an hour passed without a breakdown but also with no sign of Smith. Frequent stops confirmed that the footprints were still there but also that the stride was beginning to wander. Despite the darkness, the temperature was still hovering around one hundred degrees. Even Jon Smith couldn’t run for long in that kind of heat. No one could.

  The jeep’s headlight continued to dim, and he concentrated on the tiny swath of illumination it provided, covering the brake with his left foot in case of a sudden obstacle.

  It was a strategy that worked well for keeping him from snapping an axle but one that made it impossible to see the man aiming an AK-47 at him until it was almost too late.

  Howell slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel, sending him into an uncontrolled fishtail as the figure dove back into the jungle to avoid being hit. When the jeep finally skidded to a stop, the Brit jumped out, not bothering to reach for one of the weapons in the back. “Janani’s not going to be happy about what you did to his car.”

  Smith didn’t acknowledge his attempt at a joke, instead dusting himself off and shouldering his rifle. His clothes were soaked through with sweat and his face still carried sooty streaks from the fires started by Sembutu’s air force.

  “Jon, I—”

  When he got within range, Smith slammed a fist into Howell’s midsection hard enough to lift him off the ground. The Brit sank to his knees and then rolled onto his side in the dirt, trying desperately not to throw up.

  “Okay,” he said when he could breathe again. “I had that coming. But it worked out, eh, mate? It’d be a long walk to Kampala.”

  “And that’s the only reason I didn’t shoot your ass,” Smith said, holding out a hand and helping him to his feet.

  “Water in the jeep,” Howell said, and Smith limped over to it, reaching greedily for one of the bottles before jerking his hand back and retreating a step.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Howell came alongside and picked up Caleb Bahame’s severed head, looking into the half-closed eyes while Smith used his sleeve to clean the blood off a liter container.

  “Just a little souvenir.”

  “I think it could make keeping a low profile a little hard,” Smith said, pouring the water over his face and into his open mouth.

  Howell frowned. “I suppose you’re right. But you have to admit it would have made a handsome ashtray.”

  57

  Near Entebbe, Uganda

  November 28—0806 Hours GMT+3

  THE SUN HAD ESCAPED the horizon and was now pounding down on the chaotic morning traffic outside of Entebbe. Mehrak Omidi swerved to prevent someone in a seventies-era pickup from passing him on the shoulder but then mentally reprimanded himself. Now wasn’t the time to let his frustration get the better of him.

  A quick glance through the broken back window confirmed that the situation was still under control. Van Keuren and De Vries were bound and gagged in the truck’s canvas-covered bed, and Dahab was at the back flap watching for anyone following. Much of the power and grace the Sudanese had demonstrated in Bahame’s camp was gone, though. He was struggling to keep his balance in the swaying truck, and his immaculate robe was damp with sweat.

  It was to be expected. Soon his usefulness as a host for the parasite would be over and he would have to die—a fate known to him since the beginning. He would be delivered into the hands of God a martyr.

  “I see them!” Dahab shouted suddenly.

  “What are you talking about?” Omidi responded, looking into one of the side-view mirrors at the traffic behind them.

  The African’s English was limited and he jabbed a finger at the now closed canvas flap. “I see the white men!”

  Omidi kept his eyes on the mirror but put a hand on the pistol next to him. There had been no outward signs of confusion. Had he simply not noticed their onset? Was the Sudanese becoming delusional?

  Then he saw it: an open army jeep ten cars back swerving dangerously into oncoming traffic in an attempt to pass. Omidi wiped the dust from the mirror and concentrated on the image of the two men. It was impossible to make out individual features, but he felt a dull jolt of adrenaline when he cataloged their general builds, clothing, and hair color. It couldn’t be, but it was. Jon Smith and Peter Howell.

  They tried to pass again, this time on the left, and were forced to veer back into the line of traffic by a gap in the shoulder that fell away into a ditch.

  Omidi took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to quell the panic building inside him. He couldn’t fail now. Not when he was this close.

  Ahead, he could see a plane rising into the air and arcing out over Lake Victoria. Entebbe was no more than twenty kilometers away, but his ultimate destination—a private airstrip where a jet was waiting for him—was well beyond that. Eventually, the men chasing him would leapfrog the cars in front of them—a maneuver he wouldn’t be able to match in the lumbering truck.

  Omidi took his hand off the pistol and picked up a phone, dialing Charles Sembutu’s personal number. It was picked up almost immediately.

  “Mr. President. I’m on the Entebbe road nearing Kisubi. Smith and Howell are behind me. I—”

  “How is this my problem, Mehrak?”

  Omidi tried to keep his voice calm and respectful. “I need you to intervene. They are driving dangerously in an open jeep. Have your police pull them over. Fifteen minutes is all I need.”

  “I arrested and questioned Smith and Howell for you. But that wasn’t enough. I delivered them into your hands in the north country. But still this wasn’t enough. The fact that you failed to deal with them is—”

  “And I delivered Bahame and his people, which allowed you to put an end to an insurgency that would have destroyed you.”

  “Then we have both honorably lived up to our agreements. I wish you good fortune.”

  The phone went dead, and Omidi slammed it down on the seat. Coward.

  A quick check of his mirror confirmed that the ailing jeep still hadn’t managed to pass and now there was steam rolling from under the hood. They were still moving, though, and the military truck would be easy to track.

  “Dahab!”

  The African lurched through the back of the truck and came to the window.

  “There’s been a change of plans,” Omidi said, enunciating carefully so the African would understand. “Do it now.”

  Dahab grabbed De Vries and rolled him onto his stomach, ignoring his muffled screams as he carved a deep gash in his back. Van Keuren tried to kick out as the African put a similar cut in his own thumb and then ground it into the aging physician’s wound.

  It didn’t take De Vries long to comprehend what had happened—that there was nothing left to fight against. His body convulsed gently as he began to sob through his gag.

  Satisfied, Omidi turned his full attention back to the road. “Dahab, you’re getting o
ut at the Entebbe airport. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. What are my instructions?”

  58

  Entebbe, Uganda

  November 28—0828 Hours GMT+3

  STOP HERE,” SMITH SAID, standing so that he could see over the steam coming from the jeep’s radiator. The truck Omidi was driving had turned off for the airport, but then they’d lost sight of him while they were stuck crawling along the congested road.

  “Is he up there?” Howell said as he let the vehicle coast to a halt close enough to see the terminal and parking area but not so close as to draw the attention of security. Two beat-up white men driving around in an old army jeep coated in dried blood was bound to generate unwanted attention.

  “No,” Smith said, falling back into his seat.

  “Then what’s the plan, boss?”

  He thought about it for a few moments, but no brilliant ideas presented themselves. Just desperate ones.

  “We go into the airport,” he said, using water from their last bottle to try to clean the dirt, soot, and blood from his face and hands.

  “You think Omidi’s going to try to get Sarie on a commercial flight?”

  Smith passed the bottle. “No, but they may handle private planes here. And even if they don’t, you should be able to find someone who’s familiar with the private airstrips in the area.”

  “And what will you be doing while I’m playing detective?”

  “Making a phone call.”

  Howell frowned at the cryptic answer. “Might I suggest the cavalry?”

  * * *

  They strolled into the airport wearing matching T-shirts silk-screened with the Ugandan flag—the only thing the souvenir vender outside stocked in their size. Smith immediately split off toward a bank of pay phones, smiling casually and smoothing his wet hair as he passed a mildly curious, but extremely well-armed guard. When he reached the phones, he immediately picked one up and pressed it to his ear. No dial tone. Same with the second one he tried. And the third.

  “They don’t work.”

  The woman was wearing a neatly pressed airport uniform and spoke with a light African accent. “I’m sorry. We had a fire recently and they haven’t been fixed. Apparently, it’s not a priority because so many people carry their own phones now.”

  He managed a polite smile. “I really need to contact my family. Are there any phones that do work?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Do you have a phone I could use? I’d be happy to pay you.”

  “I do, but it isn’t capable of making international calls. I think your only option would be to buy a cell phone and—”

  “Buy a phone,” he interjected. “There’s somewhere I can do that here?”

  “Of course. Just follow this corridor to the end and turn left. You can’t miss it.”

  The store was right where she said it was, but there was only one person working and five customers in line. Based on the impatient tone of the man in front of the counter and the bored expression of the woman behind it, progress could be stalled for hours.

  “Jon?”

  He spun and saw Howell at the entrance to the shop, waving him over. They retreated to the terminal’s far wall, out of earshot of the people flowing back and forth.

  “We’ve got a problem, mate.”

  “What? Are there other airstrips?”

  “No. But I found that tall bloke from the cave.”

  “The one who infected himself ?”

  Howell nodded.

  “Where?”

  “Going through security. He’s getting on a direct flight to Brussels and he doesn’t look like he’s feeling all that well.”

  Smith blinked hard, calculating how long the man had been infected and adding the time it would take to fly to Belgium.

  “Even using De Vries’s most optimistic estimate, he’s going to go fully symptomatic on that plane,” Smith said. “When he starts attacking the other passengers, they’ll most likely think he’s a terrorist. There’s no telling how many people he’ll infect before they get control of him.”

  “Boarding has already started,” Howell prompted. “We don’t have much time. Can you get in touch with someone who can bring that plane down somewhere safe?”

  “He’s a decoy, Peter. Omidi infected someone else and left Dahab here as a diversion.”

  “No question. But you have to admit, it’s one hell of a good diversion.”

  He was right. Omidi could be anywhere—waiting for his jet to arrive in a private lounge a hundred yards away, on his way to a remote airstrip in a hired helicopter, or heading for the border in an unmarked car full of Iranian security personnel. Their chances of finding him at this point were hovering around zero.

  Smith looked at the man still arguing about his phone and the mild interest they were getting from yet another machine-gun-toting guard. Trying to cut in line would be pointless—it wouldn’t get him the phone any faster and would certainly bring airport security down on them. Explaining to the guard that the Sudanese had to be prevented from getting on that flight would likely accomplish nothing but involving an ever-increasing number of supervisors and setting into motion the glacial African bureaucracy.

  “Boss?” Howell prompted.

  “I’m entertaining suggestions.”

  “If we can get into the boarding area fast enough, we may be able to find a way to take him.”

  Smith shook his head. “Too much possibility of blood getting thrown around. We’d be killed or arrested, and someone infected could get on that plane or out into Kampala. Are there seats left on the flight?”

  “Probably, but I seem to have misplaced my travel documents.”

  Smith pulled his, Howell’s, and Sarie’s passports from his pocket. “They were still in the glove box. The one thing a child soldier living in the jungle would have no use for.”

  “So we’re going to let him get on a plane to Europe?”

  “You see a plane; I see an airtight quarantine with a good international communication system and only a couple hundred people at risk.”

  Howell shrugged, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “It’s your party. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Me too,” Smith said, starting for the Brussels Airlines counter.

  59

  Outside Washington, DC, USA

  November 28—0257 GMT–5

  PADSHAH GOHLAM LOOKED DOWN at his watch, but the hands had ceased glowing. The movement of the stars suggested that it was past two a.m. and the aches beginning in his young body supported that estimate.

  His training for this mission had begun almost the day he was born in a remote part of central Afghanistan. The mountains of the Hindu Kush were more barren but had the same penetrating cold, the same overwhelming solitude. His father, a great and pious man, had taught him to move silently and invisibly through the desolation, avoiding the Americans’ technology and ambushing their special forces as they tried to claim his country for Christendom.

  When his father died, the Americans, who still believed the fiction that he was a supporter of the infidel invasion, had given the young Padshah a visa to study in Maryland. And he had suffered through it—the arrogant professors, the women sitting unashamed next to him in his classes, the curriculum devoid of God. In truth, though, he’d only been waiting to be called upon. Waiting for this night.

  He reached up and gently folded back a branch of the tree he was sitting in, examining the tiny farmhouse a hundred meters away. Much of it was obscured by foliage, but there was a natural hole that revealed the driveway and part of the icy path to the front door. Once again, God had provided.

  The snow started again, and he had to admit to himself that the Western hunting clothing he’d purchased was far superior to what he grew up with. So many of his enemies were still alive because of a slight cold-induced tremor in his hands. But not tonight.

  He saw headlights for the first time in hours and lifted his rifle, sigh
ting through the scope at the vehicle turning into the driveway. The door was thrown open and a shock of blond hair gleamed in the dome light as the woman pulled herself unsteadily from the car.

  Probably drunk, he thought. Without the supervision of a father or husband, who knew what she might have been doing? This was what the Americans wanted to do to his people—strip them of their identity and turn their daughters into whores. How could a country that was unable to control its women ever hope to control Afghanistan?

  She moved awkwardly along the slick ground, turning up the collar of her long coat as she picked her way toward the door. This was the great Randi Russell? The woman who had killed so many of his Taliban brothers? It was almost impossible to believe the stories now that he saw her in person.

  She was initially in profile, and he waited until she turned toward the door, unwittingly squaring her back in his crosshairs. Gohlam took a breath and held it, quelling his excitement and concentrating on not subconsciously anticipating the rifle’s recoil.

  The crack of it seemed impossibly loud amid the falling snow, echoing through the forest for a moment before fading into the ringing in his ears. Russell pitched forward, bouncing off the door before collapsing into the snow piled at the edge of the walkway.

  Gohlam chambered another round before sweeping the scope across her blood-spattered back, finally letting the crosshairs stop on the back of her head. A silent prayer for the men who had fallen to her was on his lips as his finger began to tense again on the trigger.

  The sound of the shot was all wrong, and instead of the satisfying impact of the butt against his shoulder, he felt the hot sting of wood shards penetrating his cheek.

  It took him only a moment to understand what was happening, and he threw himself to the right, narrowly avoiding a second bullet that exploded against the tree trunk he’d been leaning against. Branches buffeted him as he fell, slowing his descent enough that when he hit the ground, he was able to immediately roll to his feet and start running. Another shot sounded and he waited for it to carry him to God, but instead it hissed harmlessly past.