“SEBASTIAN GAULT HAS been spotted by our man in the Red Cross outpost.”
Amirah looked up from her computer screen at the young Yemen woman who stood in front of her desk. “When will he get here?”
“Day after tomorrow at the latest.”
Amirah chewed her lip thoughtfully.
“Do you want Abdul to…?” Anah left it unsaid.
But Amirah shook her head. “No, let him come. It should be an enlightening experience for him.” She smiled at Anah who flinched before returning the smile. Anah turned and left the room, silently reciting a prayer. For just a moment Amirah’s face had looked like that of a desert demon, a djinn. Anah was glad to be away from that evil and totally mirthless grin.
Chapter Eighty-Six
Crisfield, Maryland / Thursday, July 2; 8:44 P.M.
“YOU LOST ME,” Dietrich admitted. “I thought you were saying this was all about shifting the U.S. budget away from war and into research. So… what, are we talking about an axis of evil formed by Walgreens and CVS?”
“Think bigger,” Rudy said.
“Doctors, hospitals? Drug companies?”
“Bingo,” I said. “That’s who would stand to make more money if word of this thing got out.”
“Then this whole thing is some kind of goddamn advertising campaign?” Dietrich asked.
“In a way,” I said. “Show the big scary bug to us, prove to us that terrorists are capable of releasing it, then let us stop the first wave so that we feel like we’ve caught a break. But at the same time make us so afraid that the bug might still be out there, still in the hands of terrorists, that we have to scramble to get treatments. Everything that happened at the plant supports that. They handed us the first steps in developing the treatment, sure, but even Hu said that it would take billions to fully research it and maybe trillions to distribute the cure.”
“So who’s the bad guy?” asked Dietrich.
“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” Grace said. “I’m sure whoever is behind this will make sure they’re one among many companies making fortunes. They won’t be so rash as to stand out or try to come to market with the only treatment.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
Church pursed his lips and we waited. Finally he nodded. “I think you’ve hit it, Captain. Excellent work.”
“Do I get a cookie?”
“And you are still a world-class smartass.”
I bowed in acknowledgment.
“So where does that leave us?” Rudy asked. “Do you know how many pharmaceutical companies are out there?”
“Too many,” Church said. “But not all of them could have funded something like this.”
“We need to find one company with pockets deep enough to hide the kind of expenditure required for the research and development of this kind of disease. Or diseases,” I corrected. “Or a group of them who have pooled their resources.”
“Surely there must be some way to narrow that list even further,” Rudy argued. “Not all pharmaceutical companies deal with disease pathogens. Not all of them deal with preventive medicine.”
“Will that matter?” Dietrich asked.
“Sure,” Rudy replied. “If they aren’t prepared to do the research or mass-produce the treatments then they wouldn’t be in on the first wave of cash. The big-money wave. Their factories wouldn’t be configured for it. But even discounting those, we’re still looking at a lot of companies.”
“It’s likely to be a great deal more complicated than that,” Grace said, “because a lot of the big companies are multinational, with divisions peppered liberally all around the world. I doubt any of them would be so daft as to orchestrate this inside the borders of any of the superpowers. The governmental regulations on materials and money would be too risky. I’ll bet these bloody bastards have an R and D facility in some third world country. How would we know where to start looking?”
“MindReader,” said Church. “Though we’re going to have to make a lot of guesses as to what the search arguments are going to be; and this whole thing is still speculation, so we are likely to trip over some of our own assumptions. This presents its own complication, however. No matter who we ultimately discover as the culprit behind this, we still have to bring this to the President and then ask for help from the pharmaceutical companies to prepare in case the disease is ever released, whether that happens deliberately or, more likely, by accident.”
“Oh man,” Dietrich said, “that means that we’re probably going to be making our bad guy pretty damned rich.”
“Right up to the moment we put a bullet in his brain,” Grace said. She wasn’t joking and no one took it as such.
“In the meantime,” I said, “we still have to bear in mind the possibility that actual terrorists are involved in this. My guess is that our phantom pharmaceutical company has been funding terrorists to encourage their cooperation.”
“It makes sense,” Church said. “The terrorists get to benefit from the shift of resources in the superpowers, which gives them a real victory in the eyes of the world. They know that taking hostages didn’t work. Hijacking planes and crashing them into buildings didn’t work. Blowing up subways didn’t work. They may have done a lot of damage, but in the global scheme of things their batting average is low. Now with this they get to rack one up in the ‘win’ category.”
Dietrich chewed on that. “So, they’re something like hired guns for the drug company behind all this.”
“Something like that,” I said, “but one thing we know about terrorists is that they don’t give up easily, and they are seldom satisfied with a subtle victory. They’re not great team players, they resent being someone else’s flunkies, and they suck at sticking to the rules.”
“Meaning…?” Rudy asked.
“Meaning,” I said, “that just because our bad guy has paid them to arrange some demonstrations of this disease, it doesn’t mean that they’re going to pack up shop and go home now that the scheme worked. A lot of their people have been killed in the process. If El Mujahid is involved, then hurting the U.S. economy might not be enough to satisfy his needs.”
“What needs?” Rudy asked.
“Religious needs,” I said.
“Oh crap,” Dietrich said softly.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Sebastian Gault / Afghanistan / Thursday, July 2
“LINE?” ASKED THE American.
“Clear,” said Gault. Toys was right there with him, listening in on the call.
“I have some bad news for you. The Boxer slipped the punch.”
Gault heard Toys hiss quietly. “How?” Gault asked.
“He KO’d the other players. I think he had a corner man. Police found the vehicle at a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike. No trace of the Boxer. Seems like they already had another play running, and the knock-down order reached them too late.”
Gault stood up and walked across the tent and stared out into the Afghani darkness. The Red Cross camp was quiet and the sky above was littered with stars.
“What about the chocolate box?” Gault asked, then abruptly swore in frustration. “For Christ’s sake, let’s skip the sodding code. Tell me what happened?”
After a long pause the American said, “The trigger device has already been picked up. Someone identifying herself as the wife of Sonny Bertucci picked it up an hour ago. The woman fit the description of the woman that’s been sleeping with Ahmed Mahoud, El Mujahid’s brother-in-law.”
“Then they’re already two steps ahead of us,” Gault said. “That means that you’re going to have to find some way to stop him when he makes his run,”
The American swore and the line went dead.
“Bloody hell,” Gault said. “It’s all coming apart.”
“Don’t start,” Toys snapped. Since the moment when he’d slapped Gault the dynamic of their relationship had undergone a change. He’d stepped up into a position of greater power even though Amirah’s betrayal had only made Gaul
t stumble rather than collapse. They had not drifted back into their old pattern, and maybe never would. Both of them were aware of it though neither put the topic on the table. “Now we have to be very careful, Sebastian. If the Yank has to spill his guts to the authorities in order to stop El Mujahid then your name is going to be mud on five continents.”
Gault snorted. “Oh, you think?”
“Well, just be glad we planned well in advance. You have enough false identities and bolt-holes to stay hidden for years, probably forever.” He sniffed and brushed a strand of blond hair from his eyes. “Which means I’ll also have to go into hiding. We’ll need new faces, new fingerprints…” He sighed. “Bugger all.”
Gault saw the misery in Toys’s face. “I’m sorry. It was all working so well.”
“That’s a consolation.”
Gault stared up into the limitless nothing of the sky. “We’ll be at the Bunker day after tomorrow. If there’s any luck left in the bottle then Amirah will have a cure and then maybe we can find a way to bring it to market while there’s still an intact world economy.”
Or an intact world, Gault thought, but he didn’t say it.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Crisfield, Maryland / Friday, July 3; 10:01 A.M.
I STAYED AT the plant again that night and spent Friday alternately working with Jerry and working with Church to concoct a news story that would calm the public. The new story, which was released to the press via the Maryland governor’s office, said that a major meth lab had been raided by a task force under the direction of the ATF, but during the raid part of the lab blew up. Church’s computer techs cobbled together bits of video footage of other raids—enhanced with some nifty computer graphics—that showed tactical teams raiding the plant. It was pretty convincing, and it did what we wanted it to do: it knocked the phrase “terrorist attack” right off the headlines and out of the CNN news crawls.
BY LATE FRIDAY night I was totally fried. So was everyone else so we bagged it and decided to head back to the Warehouse. In DMS parlance the temporary headquarters on the Baltimore docks was now being called the Warehouse, capital W; just as the Brooklyn facility at Floyd Bennett Field was called the Hanger. Grace said that the Warehouse would probably become one of the organization’s permanent sites, it being conveniently close to D.C.
Church wasn’t going with us. He said that he needed to brief the President personally and he took a Bell Jet Ranger to Washington; Hu went with him, but before they boarded I took Church aside.
“Every time I close my eyes I see the face of that lab tech with the detonator saying that it’s all too late. It’s nagging at me.”
“You’re not alone in that,” he admitted. “Do you have a suggestion?”
“I do. You already said that if this thing was launched on some big event that it would get out of control. Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July and there’s no bigger event that I know of than the rededication of the Liberty Bell.”
He nodded. “I’ve already alerted their security teams to be on ultrahigh alert.”
“I was supposed to be on that detail,” I said, “and I think I want to follow through on that. But I want to make it a field trip. I want to take Echo Team to Philly and let them put their eyes to work. Give them some fieldwork that doesn’t involve zombies. Maybe take Grace and Gus, too.”
When I said Grace’s name there was the faintest flicker of amusement in his face, but it was gone in an instant. Maybe I imagined it.
“Is this a hunch?” he asked.
“Not really. Maybe half a hunch. It’s just that if I were going to launch this thing, that’s where I’d do it.”
Church leaned a shoulder against the chopper and considered the point. “The First Lady will be there. Perhaps I should request that she be removed from the event.”
“That’s your call. I could be wrong about this. There are a lot of big celebrations tomorrow, all over the country; and maybe these guys are too smart to pick the one where about every third person in the crowd is carrying a federal badge. No, I can’t see disrupting the event on a half a hunch, but I think you should reinforce your warning to all commands to stay extra frosty.”
He nodded. “I’ll do that; and I’ll be with the President in a couple of hours and he can punctuate the request. But I’ll have some National Guard units on standby just in case.”
“Fair enough.”
We shook hands and he climbed into the chopper.
The rest of us climbed into the Seahawks and we rose into the night sky, flying across Maryland with two Apaches giving close air support. For some strange reason going back to the Warehouse felt like going home.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Baltimore, Maryland / Saturday, July 4; 1:12 A.M.
BACK AT THE Warehouse we each went our separate ways. Echo Team was already sacked out for the night but Top had left me reams of notes on the new recruits. I put that aside for later and headed off to get clean. In the shower I let the hot water blast me for a long time. I do some of my best thinking in the shower and as I washed, rinsed, and repeated I wondered about who Lester Bellmaker might be and despite furious lathering I came up with nothing.
It was already into the early hours of July 4. I figured we’d head out early and get to Philadelphia in time to add a little security muscle to the event. And if nothing happened… at least they have great hot dogs, soft pretzels, and beer in that town.
Back in my room I was bemused to notice that Cobbler had been fed and even his cat litter changed.
When I climbed between the sheets Cobbler crouched at the foot of the bed and stared at me like I was a stranger. I told myself that he was only spooked by having been handled by someone he didn’t know, but I knew that wasn’t really it. It was me. Rudy was right—I’d been changed, too. Cobbler could see it in my eyes and he kept his distance. After five minutes of trying to coax him nearer I gave up and turned out the light.
I could feel him watching me with his wise cat eyes.
I finally fell asleep around one or so but within minutes a tap at the door woke me. It was tentative. I lay in the dark and listened, uncertain whether it was real or part of some complicated dream. Then it came again. Firmer this time.
I switched on the bedside light and padded to the door in sleeping shorts and a T-shirt. There was no peephole or intercom so I unlatched it and peered cautiously through the crack. I guess I expected Rudy, or Church. Maybe Top Sims or Sergeant Dietrich.
I never expected Grace Courtland.
Chapter Ninety
Baltimore, Maryland / Saturday, July 4; 1:17 A.M.
SHE WORE MAKESHIFT pajamas—blue hospital scrubs and a black tank top. Her hair was untidy, there were fatigue smudges under her eyes. She held a six-pack of Sam Adams Summer Ale beer by the handle of the cardboard carrier.
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because I can’t sleep. Let me in.” She let the sixer of beer swing from her finger.
“Okay,” I said, and stepped back to pull the door open. Grace nodded and walked past me into the room. She gave it a quick, flat appraising look and grunted.
“They brought a lot of your things.”
“They brought my cat,” I said as I closed the door. Cobbler jumped off the bed and came over to her, sniffing tentatively. “Cobbler, be nice to the major.”
Cobbler still looked cautious but when Grace squatted down to pet him he allowed it. Her fingers flexed luxuriantly in his fur.
“Have a seat,” I said, indicating the recliner. I got the bottle opener that was attached to my key chain, opened two bottles and handed her one. I took mine and sat on the edge of the bed.
She rose and stood looking down at the cat for a moment, sipping thoughtfully.
“I like your friend Dr. Sanchez.”
“Rudy.”
“Rudy. We met outside the showers, had a bit of a heart-to-heart. He’s a good man.”
“You any judge?”
“I’ve known a few shrinks in my time.” She looked away, but I saw that her eyes were wet. Cobbler was still close so she busied herself by scratching between his ears, then she tilted the bottle back and drank nearly all of it.
“These last few days have been unreal,” she said softly. “Ungodly…”
She shook her head, sniffing back tears. She finished her beer, got another. I handed her the opener and as she took it her fingers brushed mine. She wanted it to look casual, but she wasn’t that good an actress. My skin was hot where she’d touched me.
“It must have been pretty bad at the hospital,” I said. “I still haven’t seen the tapes, but Rudy told me. Worse even than the crab plant, from what he said.”
Back in her chair she looked at the beer bottle as if interested in something on the label. When she spoke her voice was almost a whisper. “When we realized something about… about what was going on, when we saw that we were losing control of the situation at St. Michael’s… I…” She stopped, shook her head, tried again. “When we realized what we had to do… it was the worst thing in my life. It was worse than…” A tear gathered in the corner of her eye.
“Have some beer,” I suggested softly.
She drank and then raised her head and looked at me with her red-rimmed eyes. “Joe… when I was eighteen I got pregnant by a boy during my first year at university. We were just kids, you know? He freaked and buggered off, but then he came back when I was in my third trimester. We got married. A civil ceremony. We weren’t ever really in love, but he stayed with me until the baby was born. Brian Michael. But… he was born with a hole in his heart.”
The room was utterly silent.
“They tried everything. They did four surgeries, but the heart hadn’t formed correctly. Brian lived for three months. There was never really a chance he’d make it, they told me. After the last surgery I sat with my baby day and night. I lost so much weight I was like a ghost. Eighty-seven pounds. They wanted to admit me.”
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