by Hank Parker
“What are you planning to do with it, Frank?” she asked.
“Frank? Quit calling me Frank! Call me by my proper name. Doctor Vector.” At that, he broke into a fit of coughing. When he finally settled down, he reached into a pocket, pulled out a bottle of pills, and popped a couple into his mouth.
Who the hell was Doctor Vector? Mariah forced herself not to roll her eyes. Hoffman must be totally deluded. And sick as well. Looked like he’d lost quite a bit of weight since she’d last seen him at the Barn. Pasty-faced. Red-rimmed eyes. And a nasty cough. His defenses would be down. Or so she hoped. She’d keep asking questions. “Why should I call you Doctor Vector?” she asked.
“Shut up,” barked Hoffman as he fumbled with the line that bound her to the chair. He straightened up, suppressed another cough, and pointed again at the table. “I’m waiting,” he said.
She was now free. She stood and faced Hoffman. The gun was in his hand, pointed at her face. His finger was on the trigger. His eyes were no longer gleaming; they now looked more like what she remembered from the Barn. Cold, expressionless. She turned and walked toward the table, her mind racing. Think like a scientist, she told herself. That meant looking at the evidence, seeing connections, drawing conclusions, foreseeing possible outcomes. Start with the evidence. The virus had gone from the Barn to a remote lab in the Philippines where they’d scaled it up. Omar had been smuggling it into Borneo. Omar must work for Hoffman, a.k.a. Doctor Vector. Omar was apparently Pakistani, home to many Islamic extremists. Abu Sayyaf, a Muslim terrorist organization, was linked to al-Qaeda, also a Muslim terrorist organization. The date on the document in the safe: 9/11. Looked like they were planning a virus release on that date. But where? And who was behind it?
She needed to stall for time. She looked directly at Hoffman. “Can’t I have some protective gear?” she asked, making her voice sound plaintive, scared. “At least a pair of gloves.”
Hoffman waved his gun at her. “Get moving!” he yelled, then broke into another fit of coughing.
Mariah waited as Hoffman bent over double with his racking cough, somehow keeping his gun loosely trained on her. When he finally straightened up, she was even more shocked at his appearance. His eyes were now so bloodshot that they looked like swollen red disks. Worse, blood was running from his nose and dripping off his chin onto his long-sleeved T-shirt.
Hoffman pulled a stained handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his face. “What are you looking at?” he wheezed as he gripped the gun in both hands and aimed it at Mariah’s head. “Move!”
Mariah knew she had no choice, and now she knew something else. Hoffman’s illness was no bad cold or flu. The symptoms were obvious. The bloodshot eyes, the hacking cough, the bleeding from his nose, the aggressive behavior. The man had contracted Kandahar virus. And, if she wasn’t careful, she’d end up being exposed herself. She had to take precautions, even if it might rile up her former boss even more.
Slowly backing away from Hoffman, she grabbed the hem of her blouse and tore the bottom into three strips. Making a double thickness, she placed one part around her nose and mouth and tied it behind her head. Not much help, she thought, but better than nothing. She wrapped the other pieces around her hands. The delay had given her more time to think.
She was pretty confident about the who part of the virus release. Hoffman—she was finding it hard to think of him as Doctor Vector—had to be the ringleader. He wasn’t the type to defer to someone else’s authority. Unless he was somehow being blackmailed, or had been hired by terrorists, but that seemed unlikely. Since the death of his wife, the only person in the world he’d seemed to care about, he had no one to live for. And what would he do with more money? His work was his life now.
The where and why questions were more vexing. They certainly wouldn’t release the virus in Borneo, she thought. Not enough bang for the buck. Somewhere else in Southeast Asia? She reviewed Hoffman’s career history in her mind. From what she knew, he’d never served in Asia, not even in Afghanistan, so she didn’t think he had an ax to grind in this part of the world.
She forced herself to slow her thinking. Focus on motive, she told herself. Hoffman’s motive. Think. What drives him? She ticked off what she knew. His work ethic. Super-patriotism. His devotion to his wife. Her death, and how she’d died. He’d have every reason to go after Islamic extremists, but instead he’d enlisted their help. It didn’t add up.
She sifted through her memory. Something was nagging at her, something she should have remembered, something important. She looked over at Curt. He’d be able to help her remember. But he was still out cold, head slumped on his chest, breathing softly through his nose.
Now Hoffman was striding up to her, pressing the gun against her head. “I said move!” he said, pushing her roughly toward the table. Then he backed away toward the open door of the hut and positioned himself in the doorway, as if to block any effort on her part to escape. “Make it quick,” he said. “And be sure you seal that bottle well. Use the silicone on the table.”
Even if she wanted to escape—which she surely did—where could she go? thought Mariah. At this point, her best bet was to keep Hoffman talking, to try to get him to disclose more, perhaps help her to remember that important thing that was still nagging at her. She decided to play on his pride.
“Obviously you’re aware that your boss is dead,” she said as she edged slowly toward the table. “Omar.”
“Omar!” cried Hoffman. “He’s just a tool.”
Mariah saw a fleeting look of regret on Hoffman’s face. He realizes he revealed too much, she thought. Keep him talking, play on that ego. “Well, he was clever enough to figure out how to smuggle the virus out of the U.S. and bring it all the way to the southern Philippines,” she said. “Not to mention set up a lab down here and recruit a bunch of terrorists.” At this, she saw Hoffman’s face redden, but this time he managed to keep his mouth shut.
She decided to try a bluff. “We captured a guy in Jolo,” she said. “We know about the plan to release the virus on 9/11. He didn’t say where, but it’s a safe bet it’ll be in a major U.S. city.” She watched Hoffman’s face closely, saw his mouth start to open then clamp shut. “Funny, I’d never have taken you for a terrorist,” she said. “You’re too dedicated to your work. And too much of a patriot, I thought.”
“I am a patriot,” he sputtered. “Proud of it. The U.S. is the greatest nation on earth. Or was.”
“Was?” Mariah feigned confusion.
“Yes, was. We’re losing our way of life. And the government’s just sitting back and letting it happen!”
“So that’s a reason to attack your own country?” said Mariah.
Hoffman stared at her. His mouth started to open, then closed, as if he had decided to shut off a response. Finally, he said, “Figure it out. You’re not stupid.”
Just how was she supposed to figure it out? She needed more information. “I doubt that virus is still viable,” she said. “You’ve brought it all the way from the Barn. Unless you’ve kept it frozen, it’s probably inactivated by now.”
“You take me for an idiot?” said Hoffman. “You think I don’t know that I need to use a cell culture?” At this, he broke into a cackling laugh that soon devolved into another fit of coughing.
“But even a cell culture needs to be maintained at a stable temperature,” said Mariah. “Hardly the conditions in the southern Philippines.”
“Obviously, you didn’t look closely at that briefcase,” said Hoffman. “Besides, I have a Plan B.”
“And what would that be?” asked Mariah.
“Enough!” yelled Hoffman. “We’re wasting time!” His face took on a stony expression again. He waved the gun at Mariah. “Now move.”
“And if I don’t?” said Mariah. She desperately wanted to stall for more time, to get Hoffman to keep talking.
With a soun
d between a snort and a snarl, he steadied the gun and fired.
* * *
As he waited for Curt and the others on the small island where he’d said good-bye to them that morning, Bill Cothran was frantic. It was already midafternoon and there’d been no sign of them. He’d watched them for as long as he could, but he’d lost them when their boat had rounded the island. They should have been back by now. Had something gone wrong?
For the umpteenth time, he raised his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the ocean. Nothing. Not even an indigenous boat. Despite his efforts to stay optimistic, he ran through a variety of scenarios, none of them positive. An accident. A losing battle at sea. Capture. Worse. And without a boat of his own, he had no way of searching for them.
He began to second-guess himself. He should have gone with them. But almost immediately he knew that would have been unnecessary, even foolish. Curt was at least as capable as he himself was of handling anything that came up. And four persons in that inflatable would have slowed it down way too much.
In a few hours, it would be dark. It was time to call the task force again. He’d kept in regular touch with them since the inflatable’s departure. He glanced at his watch. Based on his last contact with the task force, the helicopter should be ready to go by now. It was time to initiate a search.
* * *
Mariah screamed—she couldn’t help herself—as the noise of the shot boomed in the hut. For several seconds, she heard nothing more; then, as her hearing gradually came back, she was aware of a high-pitched ringing in her ears. She expected to feel pain but nothing seemed to hurt. She looked down at her feet, where Hoffman had pointed the gun. No blood, but a fist-sized hole in the floor of the hut. She was sure that if he’d wanted to hit her, he could have. He was just trying to scare her.
Knowing that Hoffman was deadly serious, she moved to the table, unlatched the case, and opened it. The three bottles were inside, secure in their Styrofoam inserts. She could see a small crack in one of them, but didn’t see any signs of leaking. The other two bottles appeared to be unblemished. She slowly pulled an undamaged bottle from the case, hoping Hoffman would assume it was the cracked one. With her back to him, she set it upright on the table and pretended to be fumbling with the cap. She thought about what she’d learned so far. Clearly he was planning a virus release, but she still didn’t know where.
Suddenly she remembered the thing that had been nagging at her. A discovery, back in the task force headquarters, in the safe on the table. An envelope full of currency. Euros and British sterling. Someone was going to Europe. Was Hoffman planning an attack there? England and the continent? And if so, why?
She needed more time to think. She shifted her position slightly to better screen her actions from Hoffman. She grabbed the empty bottle and turned around, holding it in front of her, her cloth-covered hands wrapped around it so that he couldn’t see the contents. She turned and began to walk rapidly toward him. “This bottle’s leaking badly,” she said.
“You think you’re scaring me?” said Hoffman. “Get back. I will shoot.” He began to cough again.
Mariah kept walking.
“I’m warning you,” gasped Hoffman between coughs. He gestured with the gun.
Mariah paused and waited. Soon Hoffman was no longer able to control his coughing. Blood was running from his nose and mouth. He bent over at the waist. Mariah stood still, swinging the bottle to and fro in her cupped hands, thinking, thinking. She went back to motive. Hoffman has to hate Muslims, she thought. They’d killed his wife. So why attack Europe? And why use Muslim terrorists to help him?
She tried to put herself into his mind. What was it he’d said? The government sitting back and letting it happen. What was it? She remembered something that Hoffman had said at a meeting back at the Barn, a year or so ago, that Western nations were coddling Muslims, that sharia law was taking root in European cities, and that it wouldn’t be long before it happened in the United States as well. At the time she’d attributed his remarks to his super-patriotism. She’d heard such talk before from right-wing Americans. But after Curt had filled in some of the details of what had happened to Hoffman’s wife, she began to see a bigger picture, a picture involving revenge. A terrible thought flashed through her mind. Was Hoffman scheming to launch a devastating attack in Western cities and make it look like Muslims were behind it? Was he framing Muslims? Did he figure that this would result in a massive counterattack against Muslim nations? A deranged, horrific plan. But the man is crazy, she thought.
She began to advance again toward Hoffman, who was still racked with coughing. She raised the bottle over her head.
Hoffman straightened up. Mariah deliberately looked over his shoulder through the open door, affecting surprise in her face. “What took you so long?” she yelled. Hoffman started to turn. Now! Mariah took a couple of rapid steps forward and swung the empty bottle down on the wrist of Hoffman’s outstretched arm, the arm holding the gun. The pistol clattered to the floor. The force of the blow drove Hoffman back. He teetered on the edge of the porch, struggled to maintain his balance, and pitched over the side. Mariah heard some solid part of him—his head, she thought, wincing—clip the ladder and then a flat smack as he splashed into the lagoon below. Mariah moved to the edge of the porch and looked down. Hoffman floated below, motionless, blood pulsing from his temple, staining the seawater around him a reddish brown. The current began to sweep his body away. Mariah saw that the hut was anchored by sturdy posts to a coral reef, and that the water depth of the reef was very shallow. A narrow channel ran through the reef, and as Hoffman had said, a broad lagoon separated the reef from a landmass, which Mariah assumed was an island.
Trembling, she picked up the gun, placed it on the table, and walked over to Curt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SEPTEMBER 6, AFTERNOON
(SEPTEMBER 7, PHILIPPINES TIME)
A man stood on a walkway above the south bank of the Thames River and gazed at the London Eye, a gigantic Ferris wheel with enclosed passenger capsules. It offered the best views in the city, the man knew. And the best vantage point for all manner of other tasks too.
He secured a waxed cotton hat more tightly on his head and turned up the collar of his raincoat against the chilly drizzle. He was glad it was raining. The weather was keeping most of the tourists away and he could carry out his reconnaissance without arousing suspicion. Not that he would normally look out of place. He’d lived in London for nearly twenty years and had learned to dress like a well-heeled Englishman, right down to the tan Burberry Westminster trench. Just what was needed to be a covert member of a sleeper cell.
He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and surreptitiously snapped a series of photos—of the cityscape up and down the river, and of the Eye and the ticket office. The office was open but only a few hardy tourists were buying tickets, and there was a notable absence of security in the area, not even a patrolling bobby. But he knew that in better weather, with larger crowds, there would be a police presence. He watched as the capsules discharged and embarked passengers, using the camera’s zoom function to zero in on the operation of the capsule doors. He timed how long it took for a capsule to load new occupants and to rotate from ground level to the top of its arc. He slowly walked along the concrete path beside the river, counting his steps, noting where openings in the riverside barrier led to steps down to the water. He made a few notes on a small pad, glanced at his watch, and briskly made his way back toward the Waterloo tube station. His contact was expecting a report within the hour.
* * *
Mariah leaned over Curt and spoke to him softly but got no response. She released the ropes that bound him to the chair and gave his shoulder a gentle shake. “Come on,” she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “Wake up. Please.” She heard him moan and then saw his eyes flutter open. “Shhh. Be quiet,” she told him. She found a flask of water, unc
apped it, and held it to his lips.
Curt took several swallows, gave a slight shake of his head, and looked around the hut. “What’s going on?” he asked. “What’s this place?” He started to rise from the chair.
Mariah gently placed a hand on his shoulder and eased him back down. “Take it easy. You’ve been out for a while.” She picked up his ball cap from the floor beside the chair and handed it to him.
As Curt settled back in the chair Mariah triaged her thoughts. She willed herself to tell Curt about Angus, even though she knew that would hurt him more than anything else in the world. But he had to know. And she had to remain strong.
“Angus is gone,” she said. She wanted to look away, to avoid seeing the hurt. But she kept his eyes on his, moved closer to comfort him.
For several seconds Curt said nothing, his eyes moving back and forth from Mariah to somewhere on the far wall, his face an expressionless mask. Finally, he said, “What happened?”
Mariah told him about the chase on the reef and the current funneling through the channel. She watched him closely. His face remained impassive, but he was now looking straight down toward the floor. She had come to know him well enough to realize that his avoidance of her gaze was a sign that he was struggling to contain his emotions. He wouldn’t look back at her until he was under control again.
Finally, he looked up. “How did we get here?’ he asked.
“After Angus and Omar were swept away, I was able to rescue the briefcase. Three containers of the virus inside. Disguised as bottles of rum. I was working my way back to you when the guy who’d fallen out of the pamboat showed up and overpowered me. He tied us up and brought us here. Must have drugged you or something. You’ve been out for a while.” Mariah paused and looked intently at Curt. “And Hoffman—who is also Doctor Vector—was guarding us.”
“Hoffman, Doctor Vector?” said Curt, confused.
Mariah nodded. “I was as shocked as you are,” she said. “Claims Vector is his real name. The guy’s totally crazy. Plus sick as hell. All the symptoms of Kandahar. I was able to get out of him that he was planning to release the virus in a city. Probably Europe. I’ll explain more later. Right now we need to get out of here before someone comes looking for him.”