I said nothing.
“Mr. Ledger, if terrorists had a truck filled with suitcase nukes and one of them went off in each of twenty cities around the country it would do less damage to America as a whole, and to its people, than if another carrier like Javad got out into the population. If a plague of this kind starts we could not stop it. The infection rate and aggression factor would make it uncontrollable within minutes.” He chewed his gum for a minute and then repeated that. “Minutes.”
I held my tongue.
“If we cannot count on your complete loyalty and complete cooperation, you are worthless to us. You would be useless to me.” Even behind his tinted glasses I could feel the impact of his stare.
“What is it you want?”
“Time is very short, so this is the deal, Mr. Ledger: we have a need to put a new tactical team into operation asap. Ordinary military and even our standard special forces units are not appropriate for this, for reasons we can discuss later. Major Courtland already has one team at operational readiness; our other team is on the West Coast involved in something of nearly equal importance. One local team isn’t enough. I need a third team. I need it to be tight and I need it yesterday. I also need someone to lead that team into the field. I’ve narrowed the list of possibles down to six candidates. Five others and you.”
“Hooray for me. What does this have to do with Rudy Sanchez?”
“I want you to give me your word that you will join us and become one of us. Not some reckless outsider. You are either DMS or you’re not.”
“Or what, you’ll kill Rudy?”
Church jerked his head toward Courtland. She punched a button on the wall. “Gus? Uncuff Dr. Sanchez. Bring him a sandwich and keep him company.” She turned off the monitor.
I turned back to Church. “Why all the frigging drama?”
“To make a point. If I’d had more time to be dramatic I’d have had your father, your brother and his wife, your nephew, and even your cat in here.”
“I’m a short step away from popping a cap in you,” I said.
He leaned close. “I don’t care. Dr. Sanchez is here because you made a breach of security. How we’ll handle that is another matter. Right now we need to stop playing ping-pong here and get to the point.”
“Then damn well get to it.”
“I told you what I need.”
“A team leader?”
He nodded. “I need to start training the new team today because if we’re really lucky, Mr. Ledger, that team may have to go into the field within days, maybe within hours. I don’t have time to coax you or stroke your ego or appeal to your patriotism.”
“So . . . what? You wanted to make me afraid?”
“An apocalypse is an abstract and unreal concept. The sudden loss of everyone you love and care about is not. Time is not our friend.”
“You’re saying that there are more of these walker things, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Even though I expected that answer it was like a punch in the mouth. He said, “We haven’t stopped this thing yet, Mr. Ledger. At best we slowed it down by a few days.”
“You should have figured that out before. It’s the logical—”
“We did figure it out, but we had nowhere to go with the supposition. Our code breakers have been working round the clock to determine the location of any cells connected to the one you took down. We know where one is because of the truck the task force tailed. We have not risked hitting that site because there may be more sites and we don’t want to panic these people. Play it wrong and they could go dark and we’d lose the trail, or they could release the plague right away. We’ve recovered enough information to make us reasonably sure they are sticking to a prearranged deadline, so we don’t want to hurry that along. Because we did not intercept that truck, and did not raid the place to which it went, we’re trying to make them believe they’ve given us the slip. The raid, after all, was half a day after the truck left.”
“Trucks,” I corrected. “There were two. We tailed one and lost one.”
“Too bloody right you did,” muttered Courtland, and I gave her a hard look to which she merely cocked a challenging eyebrow.
“So why the urgency to train a hit team if you’re not about to make a hit?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s my intention to have a team covertly infiltrate the one facility we have under surveillance.”
“Infiltrate to what end? To locate other cells or to find more walkers?”
“Either will do.”
I swallowed a dry throat. “What makes you think that the other hypothetical cells will still be in place? Once this cell here at this warehouse went dark the others would probably have followed a protocol of some kind—”
“Very likely,” Major Courtland cut in, “but we have to go forward with what leads we have. On the upside, however, the other facility shows no sign of activity, no rats fleeing, so maybe they think they’re clear. In the absence of more intelligence a quiet infiltration is our safest option.”
I frowned. “And with all the military special ops and guys like SWAT and HRT you want to form a new team? There are guys out there with years more experience than me. Does the name ‘Delta Force’ ring any bells with you people?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Church said. He gestured toward the far door, the one with the heavy scanner. “The other potential team leaders are in the adjoining room. Each of them is tough, experienced, and aware of the threat. All of them are active military—two Rangers, one Navy, one Marine Force Recon, and yes, even one from Delta Force. All of them have more combat and tactical experience than you do, though admittedly you bring other qualities to the game. You’re all unique in one way or another but we don’t have time to discuss that at the moment. I need to get the team leader status sorted out right now.”
“What do you want us to do? Play rock-paper-scissors to see who gets the job?”
“Grace?” he said, and she went over to the heavy-duty door and unlocked it.
“If you’ll come this way, Detective.”
I stood up slowly. “This is a lot of James Bond bullshit to decide a human resources issue isn’t it?”
Church remained seated. He nodded his head toward the doorway, so I walked over and peered inside. Five guys in civilian clothes: three sitting and two standing. All of them looked tough and all of them looked either confused or pissed off. They seemed frozen in an agitated tableau as if the door opening had interrupted them in the middle of a heated debate.
I turned back to Church. “You still haven’t told me how you want us to sort this out.”
He made that face again that might have been a smile. I’ve seen the big hunting cats make that same kind of face. “Think outside the box, Mr. Ledger.”
“Okay,” I said, “but you have to pick up the tab afterward.”
He gave me a single short nod.
I stepped into the room. All of the men were looking me up and down, a couple of them giving me evil stares that would have scared the paint off a tank. Courtland left and pulled the door closed behind her. I heard the heavy lock engage.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gault / The Hotel Ishtar, Baghdad / Five days ago
GAULT WAS ON the road, moving in a roundabout way from Amirah’s bunker in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan across the border to Iran, where he changed identities three times in fourteen hours and then entered a safe house run by a client of a client, where he ate, made some calls, and then changed identities again—back to Sebastian Gault. Gault was welcome in Iran and most other countries because his company was one of the world’s top suppliers of pharmaceuticals for humanitarian aid. He traveled with three kindhearted but clueless members of the World Health Organization as they visited remote villages in western Iran where a TB outbreak had been reported. Gault did a few stand-ups for a Swiss news service about the need for swift action in stemming the spread of the new strain of TB, and then thanked the Iranian government for
allowing free passage for the WHO doctors. When he crossed the border into Iraq he was met by a military escort of British soldiers who got him safely all the way to Baghdad.
Toys met him in the lobby and they shook hands.
“I trust you had a comfortable trip,” said his personal assistant, taking Gault’s bag and leading him to the elevator. As they crossed the lobby they were both aware that everyone was looking at them. Toys was a not tall man but he had tall energy. He was slender, fit, and had impeccable posture; and he always managed to look cool and well groomed no matter where they were. Gault had seen him ankle deep in the mosquito swamps of Kenya looking as collected as if he were at a cocktail party at Cannes. But to anyone watching it was immediately clear which of them was the alpha. Gault was taller, more physically imposing, with swept-back hair and piercing dark eyes. He was ruggedly handsome, where Toys was delicately so. By himself Toys could command almost any room, but his light dimmed considerably in Gault’s presence. Gault knew this; and so did Toys. They were both comfortable with the arrangement.
They chitchatted on the lift, talking of relatively unimportant Gen2000 matters. Once they were in the suite of rooms they shared at the Hotel Ishtar Toys swept the place with the newest generation of Interceptor surveillance sensors and everything came up clean. Even so, they avoided any sensitive topics for an hour, at which point Toys swept it again, knowing that surveillance teams often deactivate active listening in the first few minutes after someone checks in to a hotel knowing that a smart spy would sweep the room. They typically reactivate their bugs in forty minutes, so he gave it a full hour. It still came up clean.
Toys busied himself with unpacking while Gault took a hot bath. Later, with Gault snugged into a bathrobe and ensconced in a cushy armchair, a tall gin and tonic quietly melting on a nearby table, Toys settled down onto a more decorative faux Louis XIV chair, legs crossed, rolling a neat whiskey between his palms.
“You got a text message while you were in the bath,” Toys said primly. “Just one word: ‘Clean.’ That’s from El Musclehead?”
Gault smiled and nodded. “His team field-tested an entirely new generation of the Seif al Din today. That was the code to let me know the operation was successful.” He gave Toys the details.
“That’s disgusting,” Toys said, but if he had any real emotional reaction to the slaughter not one drop of it registered on his face.
“It’s a solid step forward,” Gault reminded him.
With a waspish sniff Toys said, “So, tell me about the happy couple.”
Gault told him everything, including his observations of the telltale clues in Amirah’s voice and facial expression. Toys listened without interruption, but when Gault was done he shook his head. “I think she’s been stuck too long in that bunker with all her toys, making monsters. She’s probably halfway to being a monster herself by now. Are you sure she shares your goals?”
Gault shrugged. There was a time, early in their affair, when he thought that he and Amirah would become some kind of king and queen of the economic world. His plan would clearly work, was working already, and he estimated that at the very least his various companies would net something like twenty to thirty billion. Best-case scenario hovered deliciously around the one hundred billion mark. He could conceivably become the richest man on earth. But so much of that hinged on Amirah staying within the confines of the operation.
When it was clear Gault was not going to answer Toys tossed back the rest of his drink and got up to make a fresh one. The phone rang and Toys answered.
“I’ve been trying to reach your boss all day,” snapped the American. “Is the line clear?”
“What do you think?” Toys asked. “Hold on . . . he’s right here.” He handed the phone across to Gault.
“What can I do for you?” Gault said. Toys leaned in close to eavesdrop.
“This morning the heads of all of the special operations divisions were given a briefing by the head of this new Geek Squad.”
“Ah! So . . . who’s running it?”
“That’s the weird part. We received certain documents, ostensibly from the head of this new branch, but on several of them the name of the person in charge was different. Some identified him as Mr. Elder, Mr. St. John, Mr. Deacon, and Mr. Church. Now, whether these refer to the same man or for section heads is unknown, but I got the impression they were code names for one guy—the one who was giving us our briefing. He was introduced to us as Mr. Pope. I have some careful feelers out there and I should be able to lock it down.”
“That fits with what Toys has been able to dig up,” Gault said. “What interests me is whether you’ve been able to get a man inside, as I asked.”
“Yeah,” said the American. “I have.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Baltimore, Maryland / Tuesday, June 30; 2:42 P.M.
I STOOD BY the door and looked them over. My nerves were still jangling from seeing that gun against Rudy’s head and I don’t know whether I believed Church would have killed him or not. I felt like there was this gigantic Big Ben–sized clock ticking right over my head.
The room was mostly bare except for a few folding chairs and a card table on which was an open case of bottled water, a tray of sandwich meats and cheeses, and an opened loaf of white bread. Apparently the DMS budget didn’t extend to decent catering.
The guy closest to me, standing to my left, was maybe six feet but he must have been two-forty and all of it was in his chest and shoulders; his face had a vaguely simian cast to it. Next to Apeman was a taller, leaner guy with a beaky nose and a long scar that ran from his hairline through his right eyebrow and halfway down his cheek. Opposite Scarface was a black guy who looked like every army top sergeant you ever saw: buzz cut, a boxer’s broken nose, and a lantern jaw. Behind Sergeant Rock was a red-haired kid in his early twenties who had a jovial face. In fact he was the only guy smiling in the room. To the Joker’s right was a real moose of a guy, easily six six, with ropy muscles and heavily scarred hands. Jolly Green Giant was the first to speak.
“Looks like we got another candidate.”
I walked into the center of the group.
Scarface grunted. “Make yourself comfortable. We’ve been in here for almost three hours trying to sort out which one of us should head this team.”
“Really,” I said and kicked him in the balls.
He let out a thin whistling shriek of pain that I ignored as I grabbed the shoulder of his windbreaker and jerked him hard and fast so that he collided with Apeman and they both went down.
I spun off that and stomped down on the Joker’s foot and then pivoted to bring the same foot up again, heel first into his nuts. He didn’t scream, but he hissed real loud; and I nailed Sergeant Rock with a palm-shot to the chest that sent him sprawling onto the food table, which collapsed under him.
That left Jolly Green Giant standing and he gaped at me in shock for maybe a half second before he started to swing; but that was a half second too long, and I darted forward and drove the extended secondary index-finger knuckle of my right hand into his left sinus, right next to his nose, giving it a fast counterclockwise twist on impact. He went back like he’d taken a .45 round in the face.
I pivoted again to see Apeman pushing his way out from under Scarface but he was only halfway to his feet and I swept his supporting leg out from under him and he fell hard on his tailbone, almost—but not quite—catching himself by planting his hand flat on the ground. I stamped on his outstretched fingers and then chop-kicked him in the chest before spinning off to face Sergeant Rock—who had come up off the collapsed card table with an impressive display of rubbery agility.
The other four guys were down and it was just him and me.
He held his hands up and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sucker him again, but then he smiled and turned his karate guard into a palms-out. Not a surrender so much as an acknowledgment of set and match.
I gave him a nod and stepped back, and edged away from
the other four. Two of them were down for the count. Jolly Green Giant was sitting in the corner holding his face; if he had any kind of sinus issues that punch I gave him would likely become a migraine. Scarface was lying on the floor in a fetal position, hands cupped around his balls, groaning. The Joker was getting to his feet, but he had no fight left in him. Apeman was sitting against a wall trying to suck in a breath.
I heard the door click open and I stepped to one side as I turned, outside of everyone’s reach. Church and Courtland came in. He was smiling, she wasn’t.
“Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I want you to meet Joe Ledger, the DMS’s new team leader. Any questions?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Baltimore, Maryland / Tuesday, June 30; 2:43 P.M.
“HOW LONG DID this take, Grace?” Church asked.
“Four-point-six seconds.” It sounded like the words were pulled out of her with pliers. “Or eight-point-seven if you count from close of door.”
The other candidates stared at Church and at me and one of them—Apeman—looked like he was going to say something, but he caught some look from Church and held his tongue and glared. There was not a whole lot of love in the room.
“Get up,” Church said to them. His voice wasn’t bitter or harsh, merely quiet. Sometimes quiet is worse, and I watched the faces of each man as they climbed to their feet. Jolly Green Giant and Sergeant Rock showed no trace of animosity on their faces, and the latter even looked amused. Joker’s face was cautious, guarded. Scarface looked equal parts deeply embarrassed and angry. Apeman stared hot death at me as he stood up; he rubbed his chest and gave me a sniper’s squint.
My hands were shaking, but adrenaline will do that. Plus the image of Rudy with a gun to his head wouldn’t leave my mind.
“I want to see Rudy,” I said. “Now.”
Church shook his head “No. There are other things you need to do first.”
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