She couldn’t be alive.
Was it possible that Adams had somehow researched and learned about the girl, decided to use that information to try to get some help? The file on Andrews’s brother’s death was open. Anyone could get it. Was Adams using that information, hoping to leverage Andrews with guilt?
Andrews thumbed through the phone pages and found the name of a taxi company. He called and ordered a cab to pick him up and take him to the airport.
He paced back and forth across the worn carpet. It was true that he could help Adams. At this point, Andrews was almost sure that Ferenzi had the girl and probably was keeping her at the warehouse he’d been using as a headquarters since he’d abandoned the downtown office. Nor would it take much to learn what else was happening. The agency was paying one of Ferenzi’s men, also a former agent. The man worked for the highest bidder. Andrews could find out for sure.
Andrews stopped pacing and sat down on the chair again. For him to get involved now would be to back out on the agreement he’d made with the agency. The deal had been struck. If he broke it, he was outlaw.
Kara-Lee Andrews was dead.
Maybe he’d heard Adams wrong. Maybe it had been “Marie Andrews”? Andrews was a common name.
There must be five hundred Andrews in Atlanta. He stood up and paced back and forth again. He then went to the table by the bed, got out the residential telephone book, and sat down.
He paged through the pages and stared at hundreds of Andrews. None of them were Ree.
He stood, paced over to the window, and opened the curtains. The streets were busy. This time he left the curtains open. He went back over and sat on the bed. Minutes later, he looked out at the sound of a horn blaring. The taxi had arrived. Andrews picked up his bag and rushed out the door, slamming it behind him.
The taxi driver had a swarthy complexion, dark hair, and a prominent hooked nose.
“You going to airport?” the man asked with a strong Arabic accent.
Twenty-One
Rendon looked around the meeting room. It hadn’t changed much from the night before. At the far end of the table, Cougher sat, huddled in his chair. The man’s complexion was pasty. Dark bags saddled his eyes, and his hands shook when he picked up the coffee. For once, his shirt looked wrinkled. It was Cougher’s third cup of coffee since the meeting began. Rendon had watched the repeated trips to the urn, the careless dousing of the steaming liquid with sugar and fake cream. The air in the room was hot and stuffy.
Though all those present were dressed in coats and ties—appearances had to be maintained; this was the CDC after all—most of the group looked bone-tired and looked it in ways that could not be hidden. Rendon certainly felt exhausted and knew he must look it.
Time was running out.
The man responsible for the lab analysis of the sample of cocaine stood in front of his chair, speaking softly. “We’ve only had the sample for a few days, and there has been little progress identifying a virus. If it’s there at all, we know it cannot be similar to any virus previously characterized. No other such virus could survive in a medium that was dry with large temperature ranges. No luck there. We’ve tried known antibodies, and none of them are reactive. We have taken a sample and are trying to culture it in a human heart muscle cell medium. This is probably our best long-range strategy.”
He sighed and, taking off his glasses, rubbed at his eyes before speaking again. “However, reverse transcriptase—as some of you know, an enzyme retroviruses need to propagate themselves—has been found in the heart muscle cells of one of the cases. This would lend credence to the theory that we are dealing with a virus—and a retrovirus at that.” The man placed his papers on the table and looked at Cougher.
Cougher nodded encouragingly. The smile was wan. “OK, that’s a start. We’ve been thinking retrovirus, and this points in that direction. Anything else?” he said.
The lab man shook his head and sat down. Cougher, keeping the smile planted firmly if rigidly on his face, stared at Rendon. “Anything new from you?”
“Yes,” Rendon said. Every head in the room turned.
“I have a theory that may explain the spread of the disease. Piecing together information I received from Harry Adams and information from other sources, I now believe the drug came from South America and was brought here by a drug runner who lives in Savannah and knew the index case. As you know, the index case knew the ad executive woman whose list we’ve used to identify individuals at risk. The runner’s name is Tony or Joey, depending on who you ask. There might be and probably is a tie-in with the case at Grady. Unfortunately, this Tony has disappeared somewhere in Jamaica, so there is no way to verify that this is a valid assumption or to learn who else might have been sold the drug in Atlanta or anywhere else.”
Cougher, whose face had momentarily lightened, frowned. “Well, what about the woman over at Grady? Have you been able to get anything more out of her?”
“No, sir. She plans to sue the hospital. All communications to her are now routed through some lawyer who won’t say anything, apparently for fear of jeopardizing what seems to me to be a nonexistent case. From what she said at first, I believe it likely that her husband and an unidentified Joey used drugs together. Given the circumstances, I believe this is likely the same Joey.”
Rendon got up and went to the far wall, where he had a piece of flip-chart paper taped. He pointed at the names and lines drawn between them. “We presume this Joey is the first source. He shares some with the case at Grady and then sells some to the ad exec. She then shares it with her friends at various parties. We know the names of the ones she shared it with at the parties. At least two questions remain: Did this Joey sell any to anyone else? Did the ad exec distribute to anyone outside of her parties?”
He pointed at the question marks on the chart. “Since the ad exec is dead and Joey has disappeared, we have no way to know who else may have been exposed or may soon be exposed. The publicity in the paper may keep people from using the drug if they have some. We have yet to see a case where someone definitely caught it without exposure to the drug. If it does not particularly spread between people and if people do not use the drug anymore, there should be no new cases. However, the drug-using culture is not one that responds well to authority, and there are many ifs in this conjecture.”
Cougher shook his head, his eyebrows drawn down in a scowl. “Thank you, Thomas. Is that everything?” He surveyed the room. Heads nodded in response.
Rendon went back to his chair and sat down.
“In that case,” Cougher said, “I need to give you an announcement that was handed to me this morning. Needless to say this is extremely confidential.”
He glanced around the room, his expression grave. “The president has decided that if by tomorrow morning we can’t guarantee that this virus can be contained from spreading, then he will begin tomorrow afternoon to take the steps necessary through international diplomatic channels…to cancel the games.”
The room grew so silent that the sound of someone sneezing in an office down the hallway drew a noticeable start from several of the men. “Does anyone feel they can guarantee containment or have any ideas how that could be done given our current state of information?”
He didn’t bother to look. No one spoke.
“In that case, I suggest each of you individually and in groups spend the next twenty-four hours thinking of something, checking and rechecking everything. Think outside the box.” He paused, took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. “For the games to be canceled will be a significant financial disaster and an enormous international embarrassment for the country. We must find some way to do this.” He stood and wearily shoved papers into his briefcase. “If you come up with anything, call me. You have the number. And please believe me: I know that we have done everything possible. So far, I’m afraid everything has not been enough. We must go beyon
d the usual if we are to succeed. Thank you.” Cougher, a career man with the federal government, walked slowly from the room.
The rest followed. Rendon was the last to leave.
The Woolworth’s restaurant had a flattened, U-shaped counter space. Around the ends of the U shape were positioned stools; on the sides were booths. More booths ran parallel against the walls and the windows to the outside. The booths were made of plastic and fake wood.
Harry sat in a booth, the one nearest to what had been the cash register the last time he had eaten at the restaurant. Now the register was deserted. Immediately in front of his table was one of those doors with a little red panel to push. “Emergency only,” the sign on the panel read. His table blocked the emergency exit.
Harry glared at the door. His blood still pounded in his ear. His anger had not dissipated from his conversation with the agency man. Crowding down the aisle beside him was a slow meander of older people, guided by younger attendants. The older ones were placed two or three to a booth and sat down without apparent complaint. Behind the stream of elderly came a tall, burly, dark-haired man. He wore a gray suit coat; his sleeves did not come far enough down his arms. The pants were equally short, revealing white socks and some kind of black loafer-type shoe.
The man eyed Harry. Harry waved. The guy just had to be an ex-fed with those white socks.
“You must be Mr. Adams.”
With a nod, Harry went through a perfunctory shaking of hands and greetings. The man’s grip was strong; his hands, big. His eyes looked hard, despite the smile that played across his face momentarily.
“Name’s Joseph Ferenzi. Now, what is this information you can give me?”
A man, his back noticeably arched out, walked by the window and stared at Ferenzi. Harry looked away before his gaze could be caught. “Why don’t we start with you,” Harry said, still not sure he could trust this ex-fed, or whatever he was.
Ferenzi’s glance darted to the window and, noticing the guy, rapidly returned to Harry. “The truth is that I’m a former agency man, and I’ve been recently hired by a man with a great deal of money. He wants me to ensure that the games are not sabotaged by terrorists. With the situation in the Middle East not progressing, bin Laden’s people still out there, and the numerous warring factions in the fragments of the former Soviet Union, this man felt there was a good chance someone would find it to their advantage to attempt to gain revenge on another party and embarrass the United States by some type of attack on the games. My job is to prevent this from happening.”
“And?” Harry said.
“And, we think we’ve found such a plot.”
Harry shook his head. “You have?”
“Yes. We have.”
“What?” Harry pursed his lips and stared at the other man. Why had Ferenzi told him of this plot, if such a plot even existed? Feds saw plots in every corner.
“First, I must be assured that you will maintain total secrecy until after this is over. Are you willing to agree to that as a condition of our speaking?”
“I can’t say that. I’m looking for a—”
“Yes, I know who you’re looking for.” Ferenzi said, interrupting. “You’re looking for a Lee Abu. We know that, and I believe if you work with us, we can help you find her, if she’s still alive.”
Harry lunged forward, his arms reaching across the table toward the other man. “Where?”
“Hold it,” Ferenzi said. “We don’t know for sure where she’s being kept right now, but I think by tomorrow morning, given our current progress, we should be able to get that information.”
Harry folded his arms and sat back in his chair, his distrust suddenly afire. “Why are you telling me?”
Ferenzi didn’t reply at first. Instead he studied Harry, as if searching for an answer. Finally, he put his hands out on the table, palms up. “Look, Mr. Adams, we’ve been able to follow you and Ms. Abu on some of your trip around the state. You lost our people a couple of times.” He smiled. “That was our man whose tire you flattened.”
“What the hell were you doing having us—”
“We were trying to trace the terrorist, and, no, we don’t believe this Andrews/Abu woman is involved. We never did. It’s just that the terrorists believe she knows more about it than she does. As I was saying, we’ve followed you. Done a thorough study of your background.”
Harry narrowed his eyes.
“We believe,” Ferenzi continued, “that your heart is basically in the right place. What we’ve discovered is that South American terrorists are trying to disrupt the games. We believe that the woman’s roommate and her boyfriend were involved tangentially with the South Americans in this plot, though it is not clear how much they knew of what was really planned. They were still involved.”
“How was that?”
“The roommate hid a data disk the South Americans were apparently hoping to sell for money to fund their operation. Personally,” Ferenzi said, leaning forward and continuing in a low voice, “I think they were using the theft as an operation to set up a network of dupes who would be used during their real plan to disrupt the games. The idea would be that the dupes would not know what they were doing or even know they were being used to destroy the games.”
Harry scratched at his head and then rubbed his chin. It made sense as far as what he knew. He might have doubted terrorist’s using the stolen data to gain money. There always seemed to be plenty of money to fund death. But to set up a network of people willing to do what they were told—that made sense and so did the South American connection. “I still don’t understand why you’re telling me this, and I haven’t agreed to keep anything confidential, yet.”
Ferenzi shrugged. “Then I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.” He slid toward the end of the seat.
“Son of a bitch,” Harry said. “If you know where Ree is, you’re going to tell me.”
One of the older women behind them tittered. Ferenzi raised his eyebrows. “We can use your help. By helping us, you may be able to help rescue her.”
Harry scowled. “Why don’t you go to the police or the agency?”
“It’s a very delicate operation. We can’t be sure the agency and the police have not been penetrated. If any word at all got out, the girl would be killed for certain, and that would just be the beginning of the deaths. They’d likely push up their timetables, and there’d be no way to stop them. A lot of innocent people would die. The terrorists do not have a large group here, according to our information. My own people can take care of them, but they have a deadly weapon if it gets loose.”
“The virus, I presume.”
The other man nodded. The two men sat in silence.
Harry scratched at the back of his head. The story sounded all too plausible, and if he didn’t agree, what would happen to Ree? Would they kill her? Could he trust this mercenary to care about her life?
The waitress, a slightly obese woman, came for their orders and brought them small plastic cups full of ice water. Harry ordered a Philly while Ferenzi just asked for coffee. The waitress wrote down the orders. Harry studied the other man. What was there to lose?
“OK, I’ll keep my mouth shut until you’ve finished whatever it is you’re doing. No guarantees after that. I am a reporter.”
“Were a reporter, as I understand it, but that’s all right. What we need for you to do is just what you want. Go in and pull the girl out while we’re taking care of the rest of them. I could hire someone else, but at this point, I’m afraid to bring anyone else in. The more people involved, the more chance there’s a leak.”
At first ready to jump at the chance, Harry stopped and rubbed at his chin. This was the last thing he would have expected. “Look, I’m no good with a gun. I don’t know how to shoot,” he said.
“I’m not giving you a gun. I don’t want any heroics. By tomorrow morning, we’ll
have confirmed their location and where they have her. When we go in, we’ll draw their fire power and seal off the area where she is being kept from the inside. We’ll let you know where she is. You go in and pull her out, get her and yourself out of our way, so we can focus on making sure that the virus is contained. That has to be our first priority.”
The waitress brought Ferenzi’s coffee. Harry waited until she was out of earshot before he responded. “OK. How will I know where to go?”
“Stay at your apartment. One of my men will call tomorrow early and tell you where to meet us. By then we’ll have the information and a plan drawn up. All you’ll have to do after that is follow instructions. But you’ll have to do that exactly. Can you do that?”
“Sure.”
“Good then. You pick up the tab for this coffee.” He shoved the full cup toward Harry. “I’ve got work to do if we’re to be able to pull this off successfully.”
The ex-agent left, going out the entrance on the other side of the store. Harry watched. The Philly arrived, and he chewed at the edges. Tension tied his stomach into knots. He’d lost his appetite.
The older people were led out of the store, in groups of twos and threes. They talked sparingly. One of the attendants leaned over an empty booth and proffered some paperwork to the cashier. The woman took it, and the two began to talk. It was another ten minutes before Harry gave up on his sandwich and paid for his meal and Ferenzi’s coffee. The restaurant was deserted by the time he left.
Was Ree still alive?
The sun had gone, and the only light came from several street lamps. The ones in front of the warehouse did not work, leaving the parking lot in shadows. One car, a large, dark Pontiac, sat beside the door. The engine was off, but a man sat in the driver’s seat.
A gun shoved into her side, her hands tied behind her back, and wearing a large raincoat with the hood drawn up over her head, Ree was shoved into the back of the Pontiac by two of her captors. She hit her head on the door. Her side hurt where she’d been kicked. Fear made the pain even worse and kept her pulse racing.
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