Biowar (24 page)

“Tell me difference.”

“To me or the rat?”

“Moniliformis is a gram-negative rod; spirillum is a spiral,” said the voice.

“Spiril-lum,”
said Dean, remembering part of the lecture he’d heard on the way over. “Spiral. See? You can tell the difference with a microscope. It jumps out at you, right away.”

“How?” asked Goatee.

“They’re no more than grad students, if that,” said Rockman. “They’re asking real simple questions, but they’re looking for answers they’ve memorized. We think Hercules is the real expert, but these guys are working for the muscle people. They don’t really understand what you’re saying. Hercules is the one you have to worry about.”

Dean had reached the same conclusion about the men’s level of knowledge, but he didn’t agree that he couldn’t worry about them. On the contrary.

“I don’t know how to tell you more clearly than that,” he said to Goatee.

Hercules returned with Dean’s water. Dean took it, nodding in gratitude.

“How can you tell the difference?” asked Goatee again.

“You can use white blood count numbers to diagnose the disease in a patient,” said the expert in Dean’s head, guessing what the man had been told was the answer.

But Dean played it beyond the crib sheet.

“Between bacteria that look like springs all wound up and others that look like pencils or little rods?” he said with exasperation. He looked at Hercules. “You know what I’m trying to say, right? They’re both gram-negative bacteria. One looks like—a string of beads, maybe. The other—” He spun his finger as if demonstrating.

“The relationship between
S. moniliformis
and streptococcus,” said Hercules. “That’s the sort of question you should be considering.”

“None,” said the expert.

Dean knew instinctively that wasn’t the right answer, even if the textbooks might declare it to be. He held Hercules’ gaze. “If I could answer that as precisely as Dr. Kegan,” said Dean, “then I’d be the genius and he’d be the assistant. But even to know that’s a valid question means you’re a step ahead.”

Hercules smiled and pulled over one of the chairs. “No, he’s far ahead.”

“Penicillin resistance,” said the voice in Dean’s head. “Oh, wow—now I see what they’ve done.”

“Let’s get on with it,” said the man with the goatee.

“Let’s,” said the clean-shaven man. “You will take us to the antidote now, Dr. Dean, or we will kill you.”

“I’m not a doctor,” said Dean as the man with the goatee grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him out of the seat.

Lia watched the Fokker feed on the handheld while the guards who had trailed Dean and Hercules to the trailer settled into their posts below the steps, then ran around the side of the building to the door at the front. It was locked, and though the lock itself was easily picked, she wasted time checking for an alarm system—none—before she could get inside. By then, Telach was already telling her to hide because Hercules and Dean were coming in at the far end.

Hiding was not quite an easy matter—the door nearest the entrance was locked and equipped with an alarm system, as was the second. As the outside door at the end of the hallway opened, Lia threw herself down to the floor. This time, she had her silencer-equipped Mac 11 ready.

“In here, first,” said Hercules in English at the far end of the hall. “Let’s take care of nature.”

Lia caught a glimpse of Dean as he followed the Greek into a room at the left at the far end of the hallway.

“Two more outside—they’re coming,” said Telach.

“The alarm system, have you compromised it yet or what?”

“It’s not hooked into a computer. Use your stomper.”

The “stomper” was a glorified alarm buster that could figure out the circuit configuration and disable it, usually—though not always—without detection. It was definitely only a second choice, but there was no alternative now. Lia pulled the cigarette box-sized device from the flap on her jacket and pulled off the end, exposing a magnetic coupler. She got up, slapped it on the door where the sensor was, and pushed in as the indicator bar flashed.

“In,” she said, sliding the door closed as gently as she could. Footsteps approached; neither of the two men spoke.

She swung up the machine pistol, ready to fire.

Neither man stopped. She heard the door at the front of the building open.

“Where’s Dean?” she hissed.

“He’s with Hercules at the other end of the building. There’s a bathroom there.”

“I’m getting him.”

“No, Lia,” said Rubens firmly.

“Yes. You don’t have an antidote. They’ll kill him.”

“We need to get as much information as we can,” said Rubens. “Mr. Dean is not our highest priority.”

“Bull.”

“We want you to look in the trailers and see if there are samples you can remove. We’ve located what looks as if it’s an incubator in one of them.”

“They’re coming,” said Rockman.

Rubens stood holding Chaucer’s headset to his ear. He looked down at the scientist, then covered the mouthpiece so his voice couldn’t be heard over the circuit.

“What is the antidote?”

“Well, assuming they’re talking about a cure, ordinarily it’s penicillin. Rat-bite fever responds pretty well. But they’ve found some way to make it resistant, either by breeding or, I think, recombinant DNA that combines elements from a different bacteria. That’s what the business of streptococcus was all about. Streptococcus is the same organism that causes, among other things, strep throat.”

“Kegan worked with that?”

“Twenty years ago or more. But the important thing is that we understand what he’s doing now—he designed the bacteria. That’s incredible. Even a designer virus—”

“So it could be amazingly contagious,” said Rubens, cutting him off.

“Or not. It depends on what the characteristics are. We don’t know what they might have done. We really need to examine the organism. The people who have already been infected—they’re gold mines.”

“Is it likely it’s in the lab?” asked Rubens.

“I don’t know,” said Chaucer. His face clouded suddenly. “What if there is no cure?” he added, the situation finally dawning on him. “What if this can’t be stopped?”

“Talk to Johnny Bib up in Kegan’s house,” said Rubens. He couldn’t encourage pessimism. “Tell him what you’ve found. Let him babble on until he comes up with something.”

Chaucer gave him a blank look.

“He’s quite crazy,” said Rubens. “But he’s a genius at finding connections. And there’s some sort of connection here between Thailand, these germs, and the odd books he’s looking at.”

“Okay,” said Chaucer, clearly not convinced.

“Stay where you are, Lia,” Rubens said, taking his hand from the mike. “Mr. Dean will be safe, I assure you.”

“Fuck yourself.”

Rubens sighed. “Such language from a professional.”

“Fuck yourself twice.”

Dean followed Hercules down the hallway. His headache had actually started to recede. The foreigner seemed genuinely concerned for his health, though Dean wondered from some of his reactions if he thought he’d caught whatever disease this was from Kegan.

Obviously Keys had been working on something very bad.

Evil. That was the word.

Keys? Evil? The guy who’d gone to the jungles of Asia to save people? When Dean went to kill people?

Actually, they’d both gone to save people. Keys was just more obvious about it.

“We’re with you, Charlie Dean,” said Rubens, the words seeming to echo in his feverish head. “Just relax and go along. You’re going to drive into Vienna. We’ll be with you the whole time; just follow our directions. We have a team working on preparing something for you right now. The more information you can get from them, the easier it will be.”

Jesus, thought Charlie—we’re not talking about a milk shake, for cryin’ out loud.

His headache flashed back with the force of a freight train.

Lia stood poised by the door as they approached. It would take three seconds, no more—push the door open, step out behind them, blast Hercules in the head.

And then?

Grab Charlie and run down the hall, back to the room where he had just been. Out the window—no, go right out the door and wax the two guards, who were still in the back by the trailer.

Then over the fence, take out Beard Boy and Clean Face.

She could look in the trailers at her leisure.

Probably not. But it would be easier than sneaking into them.

Of course, whoever was behind this would know their operation was compromised.

So what? Would they move up their timetable, unleash some superbug on the world?

Maybe Charlie already had it. Maybe that was what Rubens was worried about.

The handheld computer showed they were three yards away.

Lia’s hand was on the doorknob. She had been in the Army—technically, she was still in the Army, just on semi-permanent loan to Desk Three. She was programmed to follow orders.

Sensible, legal orders.

Which these weren’t. Sensible, that is. They were legal.

God, Charlie, I don’t want you to die. I love you, baby.

It was that thought—the realization that she did feel for him—that kept her from saving him now. She knew it was possible that her emotions might be interfering with her instincts. She hesitated for that reason, and in the space of that hesitation, her chance was gone.

38

Dr. Kegan had an excellent stereo system, and while his CD collection favored sixties and seventies rock, there were seventy-three CDs devoted to jazz.

Seventy-three was an extremely interesting number. Not only it was it prime—which by definition meant it had power—but also in many Christian mystical systems it represented the union of Christ and the Trinity—“7” and “3.” Seven alone—“4” equals man, “3” equals God. So it was 433—another prime. This filled Johnny Bib with a certain amount of awe, which merely compounded his excitement when he discovered that the first CD in the collection was a Thelonious Monk compilation. The music of Monk, with its complicated references and atonal digressions, was to Bib’s mathematical mind an artistic precursor to the revelations of chaos theory. Or, more precisely, a statement of the underlying principles, which of course were anything but chaotic.

Johnny Bib slid the disk into the player and cranked it; the notes began to fill not only the library where he was working but the entire house, ported through an admirable remote arrangement. But just as Johnny began pondering the simple yet elusive rifts of “Ruby My Dear,” the phone rang.

“Bib,” he said, grabbing the line and answering as if he were in his own office.

“Hello. This is Dr. Chaucer. Mr. Rubens directed me to call.”

“Yes?”

Johnny listened as Chaucer explained that they had developed new information regarding the targeted bacteria. It seemed as if it would turn out to be a penicillin-resistant strain built from the bacteria that caused rat-bite fever. Did that ring any bells?

A curious turn of phrase, thought Johnny as Monk’s piano jangled in the back.

“Could the DNA itself be an encryption?” asked Johnny Bib.

“Well, we haven’t gotten the DNA sequence itself,” said the scientist uncertainly. “In any event, even with a bacteria, it would be exceedingly long.”

“Chaucer, right? Any relation?” Johnny Bib had always wondered why there were 24 tales, or even the 124 contemplated. These were not auspicious numbers.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Monk slapped into “Well You Needn’t.” That said it all for Johnny Bib.

“What was your question?” asked Johnny.

“I, uh—is there anything that you’ve come across that might have to do with treatment-resistant disease, specifically rat-bite fever?” said Chaucer. “And . . .”

Plants—it was the plants!

“... was there any evidence regarding something like penicillin, because there would have been—”

“Put on Mr. Rubens. I have important information for him,” said Johnny Bib.

“Uh—”

“We can discuss your questions later. Please. This is of vital importance.”

39

Lia slipped out the bathroom window onto the hard macadam and edged toward the comer. There were only two guards left at the facility. One had gone to the front of the building. The other had taken up a post at the rear, where he could watch the trailers. Less than ten yards separated her from this second man; she could pivot around the comer and empty her pistol into his chest before he had a chance to react. But that wasn’t the gig.

“Go with the voice,” Lia told the Art Room.

“Kommen,”
muttered a voice from inside the hall. Though somewhat clipped—it had been extracted from a longer sentence—the word was in the other guard’s voice, which the Art Room had recorded and was now replaying through a small speaker Lia had left hidden in the rest room wastebasket.

Thinking he was wanted, the man began walking nonchalantly toward where he thought his companion had called him from—the side of the building where Lia was crouched.

“Try it again,” she said, watching on the handheld.

The Art Room replayed the voice, this time adding a snippet that seemed to indicate the guard was inside one of the rooms. The man changed direction.

“Had you worried there, huh?” asked Rockman as Lia trotted toward the trailers, the coast finally clear.

“You’re lucky they didn’t use their walkie-talkies.”

“We’re jamming them.”

“And you don’t think that would make them suspicious, huh?”

“Relax. They obviously don’t think they’re doing anything important. They’ll be throwing back beers in a minute.”

Lia reached the rear of the first trailer. Rather than using the door, she went to the back and climbed on top, moving quickly to a vent panel. She fished into her knapsack and removed a power screwdriver, diddling with the attachments to get the right hex head.

“Coming back outside,” warned Rockman.

Lia lay down next to the vent and began unscrewing the screws by hand.

“Walking around, walking around,” warned Rockman. He was watching a feed from the Eyes asset, which had been taken off the team trailing Dean because of the helicopters.