Plague

by H W Buzz Bernard

  “How about instead I just lay on the horn and scream? A damsel in distress.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ATLANTA

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 23

  “Lay on the horn and scream?” Richard said as the patrol car’s spotlight lit up the Lincoln. “An international assassin? I’m not sure you’d want to risk that. But be my guest, give it a shot.”

  She pulled the Lincoln away from the curb, nodded and smiled at the police as they passed. “Where to, mein Fuhrer?”

  “Midtown.” He sat up. He didn’t know where Midtown was, but he wasn’t about to let von Stade know that.

  “So, we’re going on a date after all. I think I might enjoy that.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Tell me, Herr Wainwright, what do you think you’re really going to accomplish? Besides ending up on a coroner’s slab?” She looked at him in the rearview mirror, her eyes still low-voltage, angry.

  “Stop Barashi. Find Marty.”

  She turned to look directly at Richard. “Who’s Barashi? Who’s Marty?” Her hand eased off the steering wheel into her lap.

  “Both hands on the wheel.” He prodded her shoulder with the gun barrel. “Barashi? You probably know him as Dr. Alano Gonzales. Real name: Sami Alnour Barashi. Marty is a Methodist minister. Barashi snatched her out of Diamond Cutters.”

  Von Stade laughed lightly, derisively. “And people think my bubble is off center. But here you are dragging a lady preacher into a strip joint, then losing her. You don’t have much luck with women do you? First, Mrs. Scarelli, next your executive assistant, then this Marty... what did you say her last name was?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “How are we ever going to be lovers if you won’t open up to me?”

  Richard remained silent.

  “Oh, come now. You can’t say you’ve never had—how shall I put it?—a little ache for me?”

  “Not after I read an article in Die Welt. I think I’ll keep my trousers zipped.”

  “But I’ll bet you wondered what it would be like, didn’t you? What I would be like? I know you did.” She turned to look at him again, the wattage now absent from her eyes.

  “I wonder about a lot of things.”

  Von Stade guided the car onto I-85 and headed north. “And Barashi, how do you plan on stopping Barashi? Assuming I don’t stop you first. Which, of course, I will.”

  “Don’t count on it. Some days you get the bear, some days the bear gets you. But here’s something to chew on: I’ll bet you might not want to even try to kill me if you really knew what Barashi was going to do.” He watched her face in the rearview mirror and a caught a transient flash of uncertainty. “You don’t, do you?”

  “And you do?”

  “Generally, not specifically.” Richard read the overhead signs as the Town Car flashed underneath them on the Downtown Connector. “Get off at 10th Street,” he said. A guess. He recalled Butler saying Hotmouth Harry’s was off 14th.

  “Generalities don’t do much good, do they?” von Stade said. The timbre of her voice seemed to change, slipping from flip and assured into words tinged with disquietude. A ploy, perhaps, to put him at ease, draw him out, learn his next move, discover where he was headed.

  He didn’t respond.

  Von Stade inclined her head, ran her fingers through her hair. A pretty woman preening for her date. “I know this will come as a crushing blow to you,” she said, “and probably damage my good character, but it doesn’t matter to me what Barashi or Gonzales, or whoever the hell he is, is going to do. I’ve never met the man. You know: cut outs, dead drops, offshore bank accounts. I agree to a contract, my word is gold, and I get my money. Lots of money. That’s all that matters.” She laughed softly. “Well, that and a swift, clean kill.” She paused. “And maybe some good celebratory sex.”

  “And if you fail?”

  “I return the payment and remain celibate. I don’t lack for integrity, you know.”

  Von Stade guided the car onto 10th.

  “Pull over, stop,” Richard commanded.

  She steered the car into a no parking zone.

  “Turn off the engine and give me the keys. Move slowly. Keep your left hand on the wheel.”

  She did as she was told, reaching the keys back to Richard.

  “Drop them in the floor well.” He didn’t want her getting close to him or discovering the limited mobility of his right arm. He waved the SIG at her. “Hands back on the steering wheel.” He bent to retrieve the keys with his right hand, a delicate task. As he did so, he glimpsed her jaw go rigid, the muscles in her arm, tense, ready to explode. “I will pull the trigger,” he snapped. “Don’t gamble I won’t.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, that’s my worry. Yours is that you won’t have any more.”

  “Any more what?”

  “Worries.”

  She relaxed. “I must say, Herr Wainwright, you’ve turned out to be a much more worthy adversary than I would’ve guessed. All I had to do was dissuade you from nosing around, but you wouldn’t quit, wouldn’t let go. Eine Nervensage,” she hissed. She drew a deep breath. “A snap. That’s what this job was supposed to be. A snap.” She leaned back against the headrest, perhaps in reflection, perhaps in frustration.

  “I know the feeling,” he said. He spotted a vacant taxi coming up 10th Street behind them. He tucked the gun away and scrambled from the car, flagging the taxi with his left arm. It pulled in behind the Lincoln.

  Von Stade opened the door of the Town Car and stepped out. “What’s wrong with your arm?” she said, tapping her right shoulder.

  “Battle wounds,” he answered. He edged toward the taxi.

  He should have moved faster. Almost too late he saw her right arm come up, draw back, and in a continuous motion sweep forward letting loose the Combat Talon. “Bastard,” she screamed.

  The knife cartwheeled through the neon-engraved night. Richard ducked, and the weapon pinged off the taxi’s door.

  The taxi driver, a little Paki or Indian, babbled incoherently and accelerated away as Richard dove into the rear seat. The forward momentum of the taxi whanged the door shut.

  Richard sat up. “Hotmouth Harry’s,” he said. “You know where it is?”

  “Bad woman, vedy bad woman,” the driver kept repeating. “We go to police. Okay? Vedy bad woman.”

  “No police. Hotmouth Harry’s.”

  “Okay. Okay. I know.” The driver’s gaze remain riveted on the rearview mirror, likely making sure the knife-throwing woman wasn’t in pursuit.

  Richard asked to be dropped two blocks beyond Hotmouth Harry’s. He handed the driver a large tip and admonished, “Stay away from blonde assassins.”

  “Yes, yes.” The driver nodded vigorously and smiled, undoubtedly glad to be rid of a fare who doubled as a dartboard.

  Richard ditched his baseball cap in a trash can, then, head down, strolled casually along 14th, a poor soul lost in the night. And probably a mugging target.

  As he neared Harry’s, the urgent, sweaty rhythms of a hard-driving Zydeco band assaulted his ears. Pungent aromas of andouille, etouffee and jambalaya flowed from the restaurant, reminding him of how long it had been since he’d had a decent meal.

  He walked past the establishment and swept his gaze over the outdoor patio. It was nearly midnight, but he didn’t spot Butler. He needed a better look. He continued up the street a couple of blocks, then crossed and retraced his steps on the opposite side. Once he was in sight of the bar and grill, he paused and leaned against the wall of a building, taking his time to survey Harry’s crowded patio and, more importantly, what was going on around it.

  It took a minute or two, but he finally picked out Butler, partially screened by the scurrying waiters and mi
lling clientele. He sat alone, near the back of the patio, a mug of beer his only apparent companion.

  Richard continued his surveillance. An AT&T van parked about twenty yards to his left contained two repairmen apparently less interested in fixing something than in munching on po’ boys and keeping an eye on the shenanigans at Harry’s.

  Richard watched as a few couples, arm-in-arm and hand-in-hand—not all necessarily male-female—strolled through the night. One duo in particular caught his eye. They seemed to be running a race track pattern in front of Harry’s, up and down the street. As far as he could determine, they had no particular destination in mind. Just killing time. Sure.

  They sauntered toward Richard now, casually chatting with each other. Richard, not wanting them to get a close look at his face despite his altered appearance, bent to tighten his shoe lace. Hard to do with only one functional arm. As he knelt, he felt the SIG working its way up the small of his back, fleeing the constraints of his waistband like a prairie dog ready to pop from its hole.

  He rolled backward out of his squat, collapsing against the wall behind him, trapping the gun between his body and the wall before the weapon could tumble free. He let out a barely audible groan as he hit the wall. The couple paused to look at him.

  “You okay there, partner?” the man asked.

  “Yeah. Too many man-gerillos... mergerangoes... margaritas,” Richard slurred. He kept his head down.

  “Help you up?” The man stepped toward Richard and extended his hand.

  “Think I’ll shtay down here a while,” Richard whispered. “Waitin’ for my bud.”

  “Take it easy.” The couple continued their stroll.

  After they were a block away, Richard stood, keeping his hand on the SIG and jamming the weapon more firmly into the waistband of his khakis. His heart hammered at the same rate as the furious Zydeco beat from across the street. His shirt, saturated with perspiration, clung to him like a wet dishrag. Not cut out for this.

  He looked again at the patio across the street. A waiter stood at Butler’s table, not poised to take an order, but engaged in urgent, close-order conversation. Something you wouldn’t expect a waiter to have time to do on a bustling Friday night.

  Richard, understanding he was deep in enemy territory, decided to burrow even deeper. Hiding in plain sight.

  Barashi, sweat pouring off his body in salty rivulets, had stripped to his undershorts in an un-air-conditioned garage. Using an assumed name, he’d rented an apartment, a “safe house,” with an attached garage in Sandy Springs on the northern perimeter of Atlanta months before. Now he used the garage to make final preparations for his attack. He’d wanted more time to ready his mission, but his encounter with Wainwright, and Khassem’s betrayal, had forced his hand. If conditions were right, tomorrow would be the day. One America would never forget.

  He finished bolting a steel tank and electric pump onto the bed of his Dodge Ram pickup, then carefully checked the pump’s wiring. He pressed a hastily-rigged switch in the cab. The pump purred to life with a soft hum. He released the switch and returned to the bed of the truck. Adjacent to the pump sat the tank that would carry the Ebola solution. From the tank, four hoses ran to thin iron pipes mounted vertically on the right side of the truck. At the top of each eight-foot pipe, a nozzle angled outward at 45 degrees. Barashi retightened the fittings between the tank and the hoses and between the hoses and the nozzles. Satisfied, he climbed down from the bed and retrieved two magnetic signs. He slapped one on each door of the cab. The signs would give the presence of the truck at least superficial legitimacy at his targets.

  He toweled off and checked his watch. In less than twelve hours, Atlanta would be a very different place in which to live... and die. Justice would be served—American justice, so neatly interchangeable with revenge. Not all Western notions were to be discarded.

  He thought again of the church lady.

  Richard, perpetuating the persona of a down-and-out loner making a Cook’s Tour of the local hotspots, crossed the street and shuffled into Hotmouth Harry’s. The infectious music and aromas bordered on overwhelming, transporting him into a raucous fais do do in the bayous of Louisiana. He elbowed his way to the bar and, because of the din, flashed only a hand signal to the bartender to request a beer.

  Mug in hand, he positioned himself so he could watch both patio exits. It was now closer to one a. m. than midnight, so he assumed Butler and his watchers would soon abandon their vigils. But it was almost two before the virologist and his notional waiter pushed their way into the crowd massed in the interior of Harry’s and struggled toward the exit. Richard followed at a discrete distance. Once outside, the two men shook hands and parted. Richard tailed Butler, slouching along about a half block behind. The AT&T workers had packed it in, too, and the couple who’d made continuous loops in front of Harry’s had abandoned their patrol.

  He presumed Butler was heading toward a parking garage, but couldn’t be sure. Taxis and MARTA were options, although he thought it was too late for MARTA trains and buses to still be running. A large sign for a parking garage shone brightly several blocks away, and Richard guessed that was Butler’s destination. But it wasn’t. The virologist paused when he came to a corner, then turned left down a poorly-lit side street. Away from the garage.

  Richard reached the corner and stopped. He sensed his plan taking on water and beginning to list. Without looking behind him, he peeled off to the right, crossing the street and moving away from Butler. He didn’t want to do that, didn’t want to lose the guy, but he had the distinct feeling the jaws of a trap were about to snap shut. When he reached the opposite corner, he turned and glanced back.

  His senses hadn’t short circuited. He’d slipped a snare. He’d been sandwiched between Butler and yet another pursuer, one obviously working on speculation—or hope, perhaps—sweeping in Butler’s wake. The unmistakable bulk of Lieutenant Jackson lumbered up to the corner. The detective took a hard look at Richard, apparently struggling to make a connection between the pony-tailed CEO he’d hassled earlier and the stooped guy with the shaved head. Then Jackson turned to watch Butler, still striding away from him. Richard could tell it was decision time. Would Jackson cross the street and check him out, or continue his rear-guard action on Butler?

  Richard didn’t allow his gaze to linger on Jackson, didn’t want to give the detective any reason to take a closer look. Instead, he turned away, feigning indifference and fixed his vision on the traffic light. He waited for the WALK signal, then lollygagged along the street in the direction of the parking garage, moving slowly, just a little unsteadiness in his gait; a man who’d imbibed in one snort too many but was at peace with the world. He gambled he wouldn’t draw any further interest from Jackson; and that Butler would eventually end up at the parking garage. Not that there weren’t other car parks around, but this one appeared to be the biggest and nearest.

  Jackson apparently decided not to gamble. He turned and paced after Butler, now more than a block ahead of him.

  Richard waited almost a half hour in the garage, climbing slowly up and down the stairs of the structure, listening for footfalls, and stepping out of the stairwell periodically to check the elevator.

  His patience paid off. The clip-clop of sandals, not shoes—strange—echoed through the stairwell about a quarter to three. The door on the level below him scraped open. He waited a moment and listened, but heard no trailing footfalls. He dashed from the fourth landing to the third and pushed through the door into the garage. Butler. Ambling along in shorts and sandals as if he were coming from a pool party. Richard fell in behind him, not close enough to be threatening, but close enough to make a move. He made a show of searching for his car keys: patting his pants, then jamming his left hand deep into his pocket and fumbling around. The 9mm cartridges made a nice metallic rattle, just like keys.

  Butler pivoted.


  Richard smiled and nodded. “Always forget where I put ’em,” he said.

  Butler’s Cape Buffalo mustache twitched. “Yeah, me too sometimes. Have a good one, dude.” He reached his car, an elderly but pristine Mercedes 500 SEL. He inserted a key into the front door lock and turned it. The vacuum-driven locking system released the locks on all four doors.

  Richard approached a Lexus parked to the right of Butler’s car and bent over it as if to use a key. He heard the door of the Mercedes open and shut. He spun, yanked open the passenger door, plunged into the car, and snatched the SIG from the back of his pants. He aimed the weapon at Butler. “You don’t look like a doctor,” he said.

  Butler shrugged. “You don’t look like a CEO.”

  Richard settled into the seat beside Butler.

  “At least I hope to hell you’re Richard Wainwright, CEO, and not some damned car thief,” Butler continued, “’cuz I’d sure as shit hate to lose these wheels.”

  “What about your life?”

  “You would have shot me already.”

  “Come alone, I said.”

  “I’m a government employee. I can’t go around freelancing and setting up secret meetings with wanted murders.” Butler started the engine and backed the Mercedes out of its parking slot.

  “I’m not a murderer.”

  “No, I imagine you’re not, or you wouldn’t have spent the night dodging the local constabulary just to chat with me. Where to?” Butler herded the big car down a twisting ramp toward the garage exit.

  “Call it.”

  “Lots of Waffle Houses open all night.”

  Richard tucked the gun back into his pants. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  They approached the exit. “Better scrunch down in the seat after I pay the toll. There still might be a plainclothes guardian angel or two fluttering along the street. By the way, since we’re buddies now, call me Dwight.”

  Richard ducked below the window as they drove out. “Richard here.”

  Dwight nodded. He steered the car onto Peachtree Street. “Coast clear,” he said after a couple of minutes. “So, you think you know how this Gonzales or Barashi or whoever he is, is going to attack?”