The Judas Strain sf-4

by James Rollins

  Where had they gone into hiding?

  “I have work here, too,” Lisa said.

  “Is there anything you need?”

  “No…”

  He heard a hesitation in her voice. “Lisa? What is it?”

  “Nothing.” She snapped a bit. “I guess I’m just tired. You know how I get this time of the month.”

  His aide Brant wheeled into the office with a sheaf of faxes in hand. He noted the letterhead on the top. Washington PD. It was another of the progress reports of their canvass of the local hospitals. He spoke as he accepted the papers from Brant.

  “Then make sure you get some rest,” he said, already reading the first line on the report. “You just stay safe and don’t forget the sunblock. I can’t have you making me look like some ghost next to your island tan.”

  “Will do.” Lisa’s voice had faded to the barest whisper. The ship’s satellite connection was spotty. Still, he heard the disappointment in her voice. He missed her, too.

  “I’ll see you soon,” he finished. “Talk to you in another half day. Now go get some sleep.”

  The line died without further word. He removed the earpiece and settled to his desk. Prioritizing, he shifted the pile of reports in front of him. He would scan them, then pass on the all clear to Jennings.

  At least, one catastrophe had been put to bed.

  6:13 P.M.

  At sea

  Lisa lowered the telephone handset. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest. The line had been cut off at a signal from Devesh Patanjali. He stood in the doorway to the ship’s state-of-the-art communication shack, bracing both palms on his cane.

  He shook his head, displaying his disappointment.

  Lisa’s stomach churned uneasily. Did he know what she had attempted? She rose from her seat beside the radioman. One of the guards grabbed her elbow.

  “All you had to do was stick to the script, Dr. Cummings,” Devesh said, his voice thick with exasperation. “It was a simple request, and the consequences were duly explained to you.”

  Panic iced Lisa’s blood. “I…I followed your script. I didn’t say anything out of turn. Painter thinks everything is fine. Just like you ordered.”

  “Yes. Lucky for that. But don’t think your attempt at subtle communication, a hidden context, escaped me.”

  Oh God… She had taken a chance during the phone conversation. Surely he couldn’t know. “I don’t understand—”

  “‘You know how I get this time of the month,’” Devesh quoted her, cutting her off. He turned and headed out the door to the hallway. “In fact, you finished your cycle ten days ago, Dr. Cummings.”

  An icy numbness spread through her.

  “We have a full dossier on you, Dr. Cummings. Which I’ve read. And my memory is eidetic. Photographic. I encourage you not to underestimate my resources again.”

  The guard manhandled her out of the room. She stumbled along.

  She had been a fool to try to secretly communicate with Painter, no matter how subtly.

  What have I done?

  Out in the passageway, other key captives stood lined up in the hall: Dr. Lindholm, Ryder Blunt, and an Aussie captain in a bloody khaki uniform. All of them had called their respective agencies, reporting all was well and under control at the remote island, whitewashing the scenario, buying the hijackers time to add distance between ship and island before anyone grew wiser.

  But there were also others gathered in the hall. Four children cowered at the back of the passageway. Boys and girls. Ages six to ten. One for each of those sent into the radio room. Each child’s life was balanced upon their cooperation. Lisa had been assigned a little girl, eight years old, with large almond eyes, terrified, huddled on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. Her brother, a couple years older, kept an arm around her.

  The Maori leader stepped over to the child, pistol in hand.

  Devesh joined him and faced back to the group, a fist resting on his hip. “You were all warned if you strayed from the script in any significant regard, attempted any subterfuge, there would be consequences. But as this is Dr. Cummings’s first mistake, I’ll be lenient with her.”

  “Please,” Lisa begged. She could not bear the child’s blood on her hands. In the radio room, she had reacted instinctively. It had been a stupid ploy.

  Devesh’s gaze settled to her. “Instead of the little girl, Dr. Cummings, I’ll let you choose another child to die in her place.”

  Lisa’s breath caught in her chest.

  “I’m not a cruel man, only practical. This is a lesson all of you must take to heart.” He waved to Lisa. “Pick a child.”

  Lisa shook her head. “I can’t…”

  “Choose or I’ll have them all shot. Let this be a lesson to everyone. We have too much to accomplish to tolerate insubordination, no matter how slight.”

  The guard dragged her forward at a signal from his tattooed leader.

  “Choose a child, Dr. Cummings.”

  Lisa bit back a sob, staring at the four children’s faces. None spoke English, but they must have read something in her face, understood her agony, and it scared them. Fresh tears flowed. They all hunched tighter.

  Lisa caught Devesh’s eyes, pleading with him. “Please, Dr. Patanjali. It was my mistake. Punish me.”

  “I believe that is exactly what I’m doing.” He stared back at her, unmoved. “Now pick.”

  Lisa stared across the four faces. She could not pick the little girl, or her brother. She had no choice. She lifted a trembling arm and pointed a finger to another of the boys, the oldest of the group at ten years of age.

  May God forgive me.

  “Very good. Rakao, you know your duty.”

  The Maori gunman stepped over to the boy, whose frightened face lifted hopefully.

  A moan escaped Lisa. She took a step forward, trying to retract her decision. The guard tightened his grip on her elbow. Restrained, her legs trembled — then she was on her knees, boneless with terror and grief.

  The gunman lifted his pistol and pointed it at the boy’s head.

  “No…” Lisa gasped.

  He pulled the trigger — but there was no blast of fire. The gun’s hammer clicked sharply in the confined space, snapping on an empty cylinder.

  Rakao lowered his weapon.

  In the silence a gurgling cry erupted from the other side of the hall. Lisa turned in time to watch Dr. Lindholm sink to his knees, matching Lisa’s posture. He met her gaze, eyes wide with shock and pain. His hands clutched his throat. Blood poured between his fingers.

  Behind his shoulder, Devesh’s companion, the woman Surina, stepped back, her head bowed down as if she had just served tea and was now exiting. Her hands were empty, but Lisa had no doubt the woman had slashed the doctor’s throat, her dagger vanishing away as quickly as it had struck.

  Lindholm slumped and fell to his chest on the carpeted floor. Blood soaked into the plush weave and overspilled into a growing pool. One hand twitched on the carpet, then stopped.

  “Motherfucker…” Ryder growled, his face stony, turning away.

  Devesh stepped back to Lisa.

  “Wh-why?” she managed to force out, heartsick and cold.

  “Like I said, nothing escapes our notice, Dr. Cummings. Including Dr. Lindholm’s skill. Or rather lack thereof when it comes to research and fieldwork. He served his purpose in keeping the WHO off our backs with his call, but beyond that, he is more a liability than an asset. His death at least served one last function. A demonstration. Not only to show the cost of insubordination.” Devesh fixed her with a hard stare. “Can I assume you’ve learned that cost, Dr. Cummings?”

  She slowly nodded, staring at the pool of blood.

  “Very good.” He faced the others. “The death also demonstrates a lesson to everyone. Of the seriousness of our venture here. Your lives depend upon your usefulness. It is that simple. Perform or die. I encourage you to pass on this lesson to your other colleagues before further demonstrations
prove necessary.”

  Devesh clapped his hands together. “Now, with that little bit of unpleasantness over, we can begin our work.” He motioned to the Maori leader. “Rakao, please guide everyone to their respective posts. I’ll escort Dr. Cummings personally to her patient.”

  Holstering his pistol, Rakao dispersed his men. Devesh led Lisa down the hall, away from everyone else. She passed the line of children. Shell-shocked, they were being gathered for a return to the ship’s day care.

  Surina, trailing Lisa and Devesh, paused by the little brother and sister. She bent to the girl, still cowering under her brother’s arm. Surina held out an empty palm; then with a flicker of fingers, a small wrapped sweet appeared in her hand, as if out of the air. She offered it to the terrified girl, but the child only pulled tighter against her older sibling. Her brother, more practical, reached out and snatched the candy from Surina’s palm, as if grabbing it out of a baited mousetrap.

  Surina straightened in a smooth flow of embroidered silk, lightly brushing her fingers along the girl’s cheek as she rose. Her fingertips came away damp with the child’s tears. Lisa wondered if it was the same hand that had slashed Lindholm’s throat. The woman’s face remained perfectly still.

  Lisa turned away, following Devesh.

  He took her down to the very last cabin on this level and keyed his way inside. Another suite. A massive amount of equipment was being assembled in the outer room. Ignoring it all, Devesh crossed to the adjoining bedroom.

  Lisa kept near him.

  As Devesh passed inside, Lisa spotted a familiar figure sprawled atop the room’s bed, draped in an isolation tent: a woman, tangled amid monitoring equipment, her blond hair a match to Lisa’s own, but shaved to a close crop. Lisa had spotted the gurney used to transport the patient here out in the main room. It was the woman taken off the helicopter. Her features were still obscured behind an oxygen mask that covered her full face.

  Two men, the same orderlies who had transported the patient down here, were busy hooking and securing the final leads and lines that ran from the woman to a neighboring bank of monitoring equipment. Lisa took it all in with a glance: electroencephalogram, EKG, Doppler blood pressure monitor. A central lead was already established in the patient’s chest, tied to an intravenous drip. One of the men straightened the drape of a urinary catheter.

  Devesh lifted a hand toward the figure in the bed. “May I introduce you to Dr. Susan Tunis, a marine biologist out of Queensland. One of the first people to encounter the toxic bloom of cyanobacteria. I believe you have met another of her party already. The John Doe down in the isolation ward.”

  Lisa remained near the door, unsure why she was brought here, still numb from the casual slaughter of Dr. Lindholm. Even if this was one of the first victims, what did it have to do with her? She was not a virologist or a bacteriologist.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, voicing her confusion. “There are more qualified medical doctors aboard the ship.”

  Devesh waved away her statement. “We have technicians to meet her medical needs.”

  Lisa frowned. “Then why—?”

  “Dr. Cummings, you’re a proficient physiologist. With significant field research experience. But more importantly, you’ve proven yourself quite resourceful in your service to Sigma in the past. We’ll need that innovation and experience here. To assist me personally. With this one case.”

  “Why her? Why this case?”

  “Because this one patient holds the key to everything.” Devesh stared down at the woman. His eyes narrowed with worry for the first time. “She holds a riddle, one that extends deep into the historical past, back to Marco Polo and his trips through these waters…and into a larger mystery.”

  “Marco Polo? The explorer?”

  Devesh waved a hand. “Like I said earlier, that’s a trail we are leaving to another arm of the Guild.” He nodded to the woman. “All our efforts here, all the research aboard the ship, all the sacrifices to come, center on this one woman.”

  “I still don’t understand. What’s so important about her?”

  Devesh’s voice lowered. “This woman…she’s changing. Like the bacteria. The Judas Strain is growing inside her.”

  “But I thought you said the virus doesn’t infect human cells.”

  “It doesn’t. It’s doing something else inside her.”

  “What?”

  Devesh faced Lisa. “It’s incubating.”

  INCUBATION

  7

  Of a Journey Untold

  JULY 6, 6:41 A.M.

  Istanbul

  In less than a day Gray had escaped halfway around the globe — and landed in another world. From the minarets of Istanbul’s countless mosques, muezzin called the Islamic faithful to morning prayer. Sunrise cast long shadows and ignited the city’s domes and spires.

  Gray had a bird’s-eye view from the rooftop restaurant where he waited with Seichan and Kowalski. No one looked happy. They were jet-lagged and on edge. But the dull ache behind Gray’s eyes had more to do with his own concerns. Pursued by assassins, hunted by his own government, he had begun to doubt the wisdom of this current partnership.

  And now this strange summons to Istanbul. Why? It made no sense. But at least for once, Seichan seemed equally baffled. She dripped honey into a tiny gold-rimmed cup of Turkish tea. The tea waiter, dressed in a traditional blue-and-gold embroidered vest, offered a refill to Gray.

  He shook his head, already buzzing from the caffeine.

  The waiter did not bother with Kowalski. The large man — dressed in a pair of jeans, black T-shirt, and long gray duster — had skipped the tea and gone straight for dessert. He nursed a chilled glass of grape brandy, called raki. “Tastes like licorice and asphalt,” he had commented with a curl of his lip, but it did not keep him from consuming two glasses. He had also discovered the buffet table, buttering up a pile of bread, stacking on olives, cucumbers, cheese, and a half-dozen hard-boiled eggs.

  Gray had no appetite. He was too full of worries, too full of questions.

  He stood up and crossed to the half wall that encircled the rooftop terrace, careful to stay in the shadow of a table’s umbrella. Istanbul, a terrorist hot spot, was under constant satellite surveillance. Gray wondered if his features were already being run through a facial-recognition program in some intelligence agency.

  Was Sigma or the Guild closing in even now?

  Seichan joined him, resting her teacup on the tiled ledge. She had slept the entire flight here, reclined in first class. With the rest, her color had much improved, though she still walked with a limp, favoring her wounded side. Aboard the jet, she had changed into a looser outfit, donning khaki pants and a billowing midnight-blue blouse, but she’d kept her black Versace motorcycle boots.

  “Why do you think Monsignor Verona called us all the way here?” she asked. “To Istanbul.”

  Turning, Gray leaned a hip on the wall. “What? So we’re talking now?”

  Her eyes rolled ever so slightly, exasperated. Since they had left the doctor’s office back in Georgetown, Seichan had refused any further explanations. Not that they’d had much time. On the run, Seichan had stopped only long enough to make one call. To the Vatican. Gray had listened in on the conversation. It seemed Vigor had been expecting her call and was not at all surprised to find Gray with her.

  “Word has spread,” the monsignor had explained. “Interpol, Europol, everyone is searching for you. I assume it was you, Seichan, who left me that little message in the Tower of Winds.”

  “You found the inscription.”

  “I did.”

  “You recognized the writing.”

  “Of course.”

  Seichan had sounded relieved. “Then we don’t have much time. Many lives are in jeopardy. If you could gather your resources, figure out what—”

  “I know what the inscription means, Seichan,” Vigor had scolded, cutting her off. “And I know what it implies. If you want to know more, you’ll b
oth meet me at Hotel Ararat in Istanbul. I’ll be there seven in the morning. At the rooftop restaurant.”

  After the call, Seichan had hurriedly arranged false papers and coordinated their transportation. She had assured him the Guild knew nothing of her contacts. “Just favors owed,” she had explained.

  Seichan twisted with a wince to face him, drawing him back to the present. Her elbow bumped her cup of tea. Gray caught it before it went tumbling to the street below. She stared at the jostled cup with the slightest pinch of concern at the corner of her eyes. Gray suspected such carelessness was rare for this woman, someone always in control.

  Just as quickly, her expression hardened again.

  “I know I’ve kept you in the dark,” she said. “Once Monsignor Verona arrives, I will explain everything.” She nodded toward him. “But what about you? Did you make any headway with the obelisk’s writing?”

  He merely shrugged, letting her think he knew something.

  She stared — then sighed. “Fine.”

  She returned to their table.

  Seichan had supplied Gray with photographs and a printed copy of the angelic script. En route here, he had attempted to break whatever code was locked within the script, but there were too many variables. He needed more information. And besides, Gray suspected he already knew the message of the code: break open the obelisk and find the treasure inside.

  They’d already done that.

  Gray wore the silver crucifix on a cord around his neck. He had already examined it. It was definitely old, well worn. Even under a magnifying lens, he could discern no writing, no clues of any significance that would confirm Seichan’s wild claim that the cross once belonged to the confessor of Marco Polo, the world traveler and explorer.

  Alone at the railing, Gray studied the city, already bustling in the early morning. Below, buses competed with cars and pedestrians. The bleat of horns attempted to drown out the sharper cries of hawkers and the continual babble of early-morning tourists.