“Not quite that simple. First they had to locate someone who looked like this Dr. Alex Corbett. Then they had to record and code his voice onto a card. But they clearly knew quite a bit about Corbett—we’ve put out an all-points for a woman named Elizabeth Johnson, a graduate student at MIT who was close to Corbett and has disappeared. The DS also knew that a Sunday was the best day to attempt the operation. There would have been many more people around on any other day”
“They used Borikowski as Corbett,” Stone stated, but Daniels knew it was also a question.
“Yes, despite the fact that this is not a typical assignment for Borikowski. They were lucky, sir. There’s no question about that. Luck. That’s all it was.”
“Their good luck. Our bad luck.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any field reports on Dragonfly?”
“None.”
Stone said gravely, “I keep coming back to the possibility that Borikowski may try Using this stuff. I don’t know where the Pentagon thinks leaving him alone will get us. I told Tom Fenton that we were attempting to make contact and he nearly hit the roof. Everyone over there is scared silly.”
“It’s their project. If this blows up in their faces—if it becomes a health hazard—some people will have some serious explaining to do.”
“Yes, indeed. Well! As far as I’m concerned, we treat this like a combination of a security theft and a kidnapping. I want the Canadians informed, in case he makes a run through Canada.”
“Yes, sir.” Daniels pushed his glasses up his nose and looked back into some more paperwork.
Stone said, “I don’t like hostage situations.”
Daniels eyed Stone.
“They have a habit of going bad.”
“Perhaps it’s time to call in Central, sir?”
“No. We’ve been over that. Besides, now the Pentagon would never approve it. They’re determined to leave Borikowski alone. They even want me to call off Andy.”
“And you, sir?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What do you think? Wouldn’t you advise pulling Clayton given the present circumstances?”
“No. You know where I stand, Chris. You don’t have to toy with me. All I can do is get mad. But no, to answer your question. I believe it would be a bigger danger to allow Borikowski a free rein than to keep one agent out there looking for him. After all, if we can locate Borikowski and stay with him, we might be able to stop him somehow. Putting Naval Intelligence on this was a bright idea.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t believe in quitting until it’s time.”
Daniels read the statistics from the CDC once again, silently, and wondered what it might be like to die from hemophilia. Bleeding to death. He wanted to say, “It’s time.” Instead, he said a prayer, hoping that Andy Clayton would never find the man.
Stone’s phone rang and he answered it. His brow knit-, ted and the skin of his face seemed to hang more heavily from his bones. “Thanks.” He hung up and quickly switched on his television set. Then he turned the knob to Channel 9 and sat back.
On the bottom of the screen, red letters flashed LIVE.
On screen, Karen Kwang sat a desk. “This just in: Responsibility for the attack has been claimed by the Arabs for a New World. To repeat our Cable Watch Special Report: Royal Canadian Mounted Police confirmed just moments ago that there’s been a staged terrorist assault on Canadian communications.” She read from a slip of paper: “Two-thirds of Canada is presently without phone service, and apparently will be for several days. The entire province of Manitoba is without electricity. Three people are known dead as a direct result of the staged assault. In all, at least seventeen microwave towers have been destroyed by synchronized explosions across a two-thousand-mile area: what law officials are describing as the largest single terrorist effort in Canada since the natural gas catastrophe three months ago, in which eighty-six people were killed.
“Five major switching stations were also destroyed in this afternoon’s attack, leaving Montreal the only major city in the entire country with phone service. The group claiming responsibility, again, the Arabs for a New World. The Canadian government has had no immediate comment, partially, I might add, because all the phone lines into the province of Quebec… are busy.” She grinned. “We will have more on the terrorist—”
Stone shut off the set.
Daniels was already pulling the large atlas from Stone’s library of reference material. He found the page he was looking for and said over his shoulder, “Where did she say?”
“Didn’t she say everything west of Montreal?”
“No. She said Montreal was the only city with service.”
“Same thing. Damn press can’t ever get a single detail straight! Where are they when you need them?”
Stone’s intercom buzzed and his secretary said, “General Gustav Molière. Canadian Security Service. Line Four. Scrambled.”
Stone picked up the phone, waving for Daniels to remain in the room, for the gaunt man was moving toward the door. He obliged the agency chief by taking his seat again.
Stone said, “Hello?” He paused as he listened, nodding in agreement. “Yes, we just heard”—nodding—“yes”—looking to the ceiling—“I see. I hardly think that’s—” He stopped and wrote something down, concern sweeping his face. “Yes.” He listened. “No, General. That’s certainly not—” He stopped talking and placed the receiver back down.
“You look distraught.”
“He hung up on me.” He tipped his coffee cup to check inside and, seeing it was empty, said, “He confirmed the terrorist attack. He also had two other tidbits for us.”
Daniels allowed the older man time to collect his thoughts, well aware that Terry Stone, rarely, if ever, had been hung up on.
“He informed me that he has issued an arrest order for George Baker. He was briefed earlier by our Secretary of Defense, Collier Nast. Their mutual decision was to leave Borikowski alone and allow him clear passage.”
“What does that mean? What if he intends to use the bacteria? Did they mention that?”
“Now you’re beginning to think like me, Chris.”
“Heaven help me.” Daniels smiled, and was rewarded by a contagious grin from the Old Man, who had not smiled in days.
Stone re-thought the chain of events that had led to this, and shared it with Daniels, who sat listening intently. “Molière spoke with Collier, who would have informed him of the biological risks the bacteria presented, along with, I presume, a detailed account of Borikowski’s warning and those whatever-you-call-’ems on his wrists. Perhaps then Collier mentioned Andy’s cover name, since I doubt Collier Nast has been briefed of his real name and refers to him as a ‘thorn in everyone’s side’”—he said, using his fingers in the air to indicate the quotes—“and explains to Molière that Baker is after Dragonfly, possibly to kill him.
“He then mentions my old age and my reluctance to pull Baker… Andy… from the case, and generally discredits me.”
“I would certainly doubt—”
“—Molière knew that Baker entered Canada at International Bridge early this morning,” Stone continued.
Daniels said, “That’s not possible. Canadian Immigration does not operate that quickly—”
“Possible?” Stone asked incredulously. “Don’t you see, Chris? We gave him that information; probably Collier Nast. Only U.S. intelligence has the information on Andy. We’ve been compromised by our own people!
“No,” Stone continued to ramble, “this is not coincidence that Collier should be privy to such information. Quite the contrary, someone supplied it to him. We’re victims of an intentional conspiracy. Defense is afraid of the repercussions, that’s all. This is just another attempt to hide a screw-up. Who can blame them? When they remove Andy, they free Borikowski. It’s that simple. They play it safely and hope to hell that Borikowski will slip quietly away. Foolishly, they ignore his previous record and the ch
ance he might intend to use the chemicals to do harm. Foolishly, they ignore the incredible political ramifications of losing an important step toward energy independence. And since the White House is directly connected to Stuhlberg via the president’s friendship, and Stuhlberg is connected to GH4 via funding… add to that that this is an election year!”
“Why should they risk having to explain anything at all.”
“Precisely.” Stone looked at his sailboat sailing across the wall, at the books stacked neatly in rows above the small bar; he smelled the leather of the furniture and the aroma from a hundred cups of coffee. “With the phones out, Andy’s on his own. He won’t be able to check in, so we’ll have to go to the Crossword Code.” Disappointment pursing his lips, Stone lamented, “We won’t be able to warn him in time. Molière will have him by dinner.” Stone looked up. “He also read me a section of a transcript they’re wiring down here. What it boils down to is that Borikowski is ill.”
“Ill?”
“You’re not going to like this, Chris. I suggest you take that pen out of your mouth, or you’re likely to bite it in half.”
Daniels fumbled the pen and dropped it onto the carpet. He brushed some lint hairs from it as Stone continued.
“She mentioned headaches… and nosebleeds.”
Daniels’ eyes widened and he dropped the pen again. “He’s contaminated?”
“If he is, what does it mean?”
“Oh my God! Do you think he’s contaminated?”
“Chris! What does it mean?”
“It means that for the next two days every Kleenex he discards, every fork he uses, may carry the bacteria. It means that come hell or high water, we absolutely must know exactly where he’s been. And it means that he has somewhere around seventy-two hours before he dies and those devices explode, releasing it into the air and contaminating God only knows how many people. And then those people contaminate others, and those others—”
“Chris!” Stone had never witnessed his assistant this out of control. The young man’s face blanched, and his hands were shaking. Stone thought, I’m glad I don’t understand all this crap, or I’d be as scared as he is.
“You have to reach Molière,” Daniels instructed, which was completely out of character. “And you have to convince him of the severity of the situation. Borikowski must be kept track of at all costs. It’s possible to reduce the chance of contamination, but it will require professionals and a great deal of attention to detail. It’s no easy task to clean up after a contaminated person who is on the move.”
“I can try Molière, but I can tell you right now, that’s a losing proposition. He doesn’t trust us. He’ll be convinced we’re making the whole thing up in order to save Andy’s assignment.”
“But this could be epidemic in a matter of days if it’s not controlled!” Daniels was shouting and leaning toward Stone, shaking a fist. “Epidemic!” His face was bright red.
5:14 P.M.
Wawa, Ontario, Canada
Andy knocked his boots against the tree, sticky gloves balled into a fist, back pressed against the bark of the trunk, binoculars around his neck. He had emptied the thermos an hour ago. His buttocks were numb, and he worried his nose might be frostbitten.
During the past hour he had occasionally lifted the binoculars and focused on the yellow rectangle of light that filled the second-story window. Perhaps Borikowski had yet to arrive? Did her earlier phone call mean something had gone wrong, or was it perhaps the signal that she had arrived?
If you stay here through the night, I’ll have to change plans, he thought, still banging his feet. I can’t endure this cold forever. I wish Lyell had arranged a backup.
However, his patience paid off moments later when one of the guards walked to the parking lot, returned in what looked like a new Porsche, and left it running. With another agent’s help, the two strapped skis and poles to the trunk’s rack, their movements caught in the harsh light of overhead streetlamps, which moved in the wind and aggravated their motion like the strobed antics of actors on the silent screen. Then the almond-eyed woman emerged from the chalet alongside a man, each carrying a suitcase, and she her purse as well.
Andy reacted immediately by quickly descending the tree, despite his uncooperative muscles. Branch by branch he lowered himself, finally dropping awkwardly to the ground.
Through a thickly woven maze of trees, he raced toward his car.
He heard the Porsche’s doors bump shut and its engine rev.
He sprinted, dodging his way through the thicket, chin tucked into his chest, arms pumping, knees high. Slowly, blood returned to his extremities, bringing with it the imagined sensation that he had dived into a swimming pool full of thumbtacks. Overhead branches caught the sweep of the headlights as the Porsche pulled away from the motel. Gears changed down.
Andy reached the parked car, slammed the door shut, started the engine, and shifted into reverse. The machine slalomed backwards through the copse, out onto the pavement, and then sped away, lights off. The moon played hide-and-seek behind a checkerboard sky, and the first hints of an impending snowstorm did battle with the windshield.
Following the Porsche with his headlights off reminded Andy of Duncan, of summer evenings when they had played this same game on bicycles: chasing a tiny red light and reading the bumps and turns in the road by its movement.
He kept up the game for several miles, the whole time convinced that this had to be Borikowski, that he had finally caught up to the man; that now, after years of dreaming about his chance, it was his. And all reason left him, his imagination running wild with a hundred different ways of killing the man. Memories of Duncan flooded him: running in the surf; sliding down a mountain in Colorado; his face; his monstrous laugh; his smile. He felt as if Duncan were right here, next to him perhaps, coaxing him along.
But Duncan, in typical twin brother fashion, was insisting Andy call Terry Stone. And Andy agreed.
As they reached the outskirts of Wawa, waiting until he was hidden by a curve, Andy switched the headlights back on.
The Porsche hummed past the statue of the giant goose and entered the westbound entrance ramp of the Trans Canadian Highway.
Andy turned right, into a jammed truck stop. He pulled up to a pump and hurried out, thermos in hand. An attendant was already waiting to help, dirty rag clutched in his hands, acne from ear to ear. “How much?”
“Fill it!” Andy shouted over his shoulder, heading for the building.
The restaurant, an open room filled with dozens of booths and smelling like coffee and cigarettes, had a counter that serpentined along the far wall. Andy stepped into line behind a trucker who was paying for his meal. When the trucker had taken a toothpick and left, Andy looked into the thickly painted eyes of the woman there and handed her the thermos. Without so much as a word, the woman turned and handed it to another waitress. “Black?” Ms. Mascara asked.
“Cream please,” Andy replied.
“We don’t use cream,” she told him, apparently disgusted by him. “Half-and-half or non-dairy creamer?”
“Half-and-half,” he replied amiably.
“Half-and-half,” she passed along, though the waitress who was filling the thermos at the industrial-size coffee maker had heard perfectly clearly.
“How about a pay phone?”
“Geez, where you been? Phones are out. More terrorists! They blew up the phone company this time! No phones for a few days.”
“What?” Incredulous, he dashed off to the pay phones by the bathrooms. He lifted every receiver and listened.
A man came out from the men’s room and, seeing Andy frantically going from phone to phone, said, “The phones are out of order.” He started the message again in French, but Andy nodded and the man stopped.
When he returned to the cash register, Ms. Mascara asked rhetorically, “They didn’t work, did they?”
“What’s the closest town with phone service?”
She laughed. “Montrea
l. Back that way.” She pointed.
“Perfect,” he gibed sarcastically. “How much American?”
“One dollar and eighty-six cents, please.”
He fished out two bills and some change, leaving a tip, and hurried back to the car.
When he paid the gas jockey, he noticed a twinkle to the boy’s eyes, a cunning to the smile. He thought nothing of it, consumed instead by the frustration of not being able to alert Stone.
Fifteen minutes out of Wawa, the engine began missing badly. A dash light proclaimed: ENGINE. No fooling, he thought. He shouted, “Fuck off!” But as he coasted into the breakdown lane he understood. This was not coincidence. This was sabotage!
If his guess proved wrong, all was not lost. It would be difficult, but not impossible, to make up lost time, especially given the thousands of miles that he anticipated Borikowski had yet to travel.
Better safe than sorry. If it was sabotage then someone would be arriving any moment.
He knew KGB agents, even the Kolyma, would not attempt abducting him in a crowded truck stop. But they did have a reputation for using clever tricks—cagey bees—like rigging an engine to die fifteen minutes from nowhere. Caught up in the chase, Andy had paid little attention to his rearview mirror while following the Porsche.
He had heard too many stories of captivity.
He hopped out as the car rolled to a stop. In the trunk, below the spare, he found three flares and stuffed them into one of the many pockets of his new parka. Swiftly, he ran out into the snow field, headed toward a stand of fir forty feet away. He then quickly retraced his steps, taking great care to make it appear someone had headed for the trees. In the dull night light the illusion worked perfectly. Now back at the car, he checked his watch: two minutes had passed since the breakdown. As yet, no cars. Improvising, he unfastened the gas cap. Removing the scratch-top from the flare’s tip and tossing it into the snow, he carefully inserted the dull-orange tube into the opening. He toyed with it until it rested inside, only its tip protruding. With his ears attuned to the silence, he heard the distant whir of tires long before he saw any headlights. A small rise in the highway did not yet allow a view. He hurried to the median, planting himself down into the snowbank. Headlights cracked over the rim. He withdrew his gun—hating the weapon for some reason—and made sure he had a clear shot at the flare, though in the darkness it was difficult to see.
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