Biowar (40 page)

“Devious,” said Marshall. Her tone was closer to mocking than admiring. Rubens realized that the performance was mostly meant for him—she was showing him that she could be an enemy as easily as an ally.

Marcke, apparently mindful of the time line Rubens had laid out earlier, raised his hand to end the discussion.

“Do it,” said the President. “Let’s talk about what Dr. Lester should be saying on the talk shows, and then let’s all take a break.”

Rubens called the Art Room from inside the White House.

“We’re go on the project,” he told Telach.

“Yes.”

Her voice sounded distant but no longer shaky. Progress, he thought.

“Where else are we?”

“We’ve downloaded data from the Syrians. Lia and Dean are just getting out of there; we’re setting up to debrief them and run back the mission.”

“Have you analyzed the bacteria from the school?”

“We haven’t gotten it physically to the mobile lab yet,” said Telach.

“We’re positive the Swiss don’t have the bacteria?”

“If you want to talk to Johnny Bib about it, I’ll be happy to put him on.”

“Not necessary, Marie. What about Karr?”

“Tommy’s ready in Bangkok. We’ve tracked the detonator.”

“Very good. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I have it under control.”

He considered this. Marie had been out of sorts the other day but now seemed back on her game—the sharp come-back earlier and the bristle over his hurrying back were exhibits A and B.

“You seem more yourself this morning, Marie,” he told her.

“I always feel better after a sleepless night,” she told him. “Excuse me, but I have a job to do.”

“Very good,” he said, hitting END.

89

Karr glanced up at the ceiling of the Bangkok Star Imperial, trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the gold leaf. But the shine was more luster than reflection.

“Now that’s a surprise,” he said, spinning around as he continued to stare upward. As he did, he bumped into one of Bai’s security people.

It was a fairly hard bump. The man—who, though six-three, was still about four inches shorter than the American—fell to his knees, suddenly out of breath. Karr leaned over to help, applying a very special first-aid resuscitation technique—which resulted in the guard’s Beretta pistol flying up out of his hand into the air.

Karr snatched it when it reached eye level. He stuck it into his waistband as he walked toward the office Bai used as his headquarters. Two large Asian men—they looked Chinese, but that may have been a function of the tattoos on their necks—pushed their chests out in his direction.

Their drawn pistols were somewhat more impressive than their muscles.

“Hey, guys. Remember me?” said Karr cheerfully. “I have some business with the boss.”

The sentry on the right replied with a long sentence that, when translated from Thai, might be considered a travel suggestion.

“Nah, he definitely wants to talk to me here rather than there,” said Karr. “Although I suppose he can catch me
after
I talk to the defense minister. Either of you got the time? I may be running a bit late.”

As the two men pressed closer to him, the door at the end of the hall opened. Bai said something to the men, who stood aside.

“Thanks,” said Karr, walking inside.

“Why are you here?”

“The obvious reasons,” said Karr.

He sat down in the seat near the desk, then opened his jacket. Bai immediately flashed his pistol.

“Relax. I want you to look at these pieces of paper, then decide whether you want to cooperate or not. Your call.”

The NSA op pulled the documents out of his coat pocket and unfolded them. The top two were copies of electronic transfers that had been made to Bai’s personal account from Hong Kong banks occasionally used by the Chinese Communist government as a conduit for external operations. One collected transactions from Bai’s accounts overseas, showing that the money had indeed gone to him and his family. The next two were authorization memos connecting the transfers to arms shipments to guerrillas in Myanmar. Last but not least was the transcript of a conversation between Bai and a member of the guerrilla group known as the Crescent Tigers.

“The translation on that last one may not be that good,” Karr said as Bai stared at the intercept. “They did it by computer and they had to use English because the character set was a serious pain in the ass to transmit. I mean, you know, technology’s great, but it does have its limits.”

Bai sat back in the seat. “What do you want?”

“Kegan. I need him now.”

“I owe him too much to betray him.”

“He saved your sister’s life, yes,” said Karr. “But that was a long time ago.”

“I can’t.”

“You think he’s worth these papers showing up in the defense minister’s office? Considering all you’ve done for him already?”

Bai shook his head, but Karr could tell he was wavering.

“He’s going to die anyway, Mr. Bai. You know that as well as I do. The other people looking for him won’t be as considerate if they find him before I do. And you know they’re looking for him. They followed me out of here last time I came by.”

90

Malachi checked the course indicator on the lead bird, then rolled through the instrument screens, making sure the aircraft was in good shape. Train had split the team in half, giving Malachi and Whacker the two F-47s inbound for Moscow while he and Riddler mopped up over Syria and took the flight home. The commander and the other weapons officer would join them just before they were ready to hit the target area; in the meantime, this was a piece of cake. Malachi had his aircraft at 72,000 feet; their stealthy profiles were invisible to Russian radar, which was surprisingly sparse once you got beyond the border areas.

“Civilian aircraft coming out of the west toward us,” said Whacker. He ran down the particulars; the airplane, a Boeing 767, was flying around thirty-two thousand feet and would come within three miles of them if they didn’t change course. Technically, that was probably far enough away for them to be missed, but given the fact that they were over Russia, Malachi brought his throttles up to full, accelerating briefly to get past the passenger jet.

“Looking good,” said Riddler. “Getting tired?”

“Hey, no way,” said Malachi. “You want some strawberry drink?”

“What’s it spiked with? Caffeine or amphetamines?”

“Just sugar. Can’t beat a glucose high.”

“You been listening to thrash rock too long.”

“Alternative music.”

“I listen to alternative music. You listen to trash crap.”

“Thrash. And Barry Manilow is alternative?”

“That was Frank Sinatra I was listening to the other day. A world of difference.”

Malachi was about to argue the relative merits of crooners he knew nothing about when Telach interrupted from the Art Room.

“Malachi, we have a change in plans. How quickly can you be on target?”

“How quickly?”

“Balls-out.”

“Uh.” His fingers slammed on his auxiliary keyboard, the computer doing the number crunching.

“I can get you there in forty-nine minutes, but we’ll have to self-destruct right after we shoot.”

“Set it up. We’re just decrypting an intercept that they’re moving the shipment up.” She paused, doing her own calculations. “You’ll have only ten minutes to spare.”

“Okay. Listen, we’re going to need a precise target,” he told her, bringing up the greater Moscow area on the GPSASSISTED map screen. “I may be able to shave a minute off, depending on where we’re going.”

“Botkin Hospital. I’ll have a precise map for you in a few moments, with index numbers for your target.”

“Hospital?” said Malachi.

“The order is nine-thirteen-oh-three. I need you to acknowledge it and add your personal voice code.”

91

There was a guard in the hall and another on the door. Karr decided his best bet was the window.

The only problem was the window was twenty stories above the ground.

He knocked on the door of apartment 22D, directly above the one where Bai had told him Kegan was holed up. To his surprise, the door opened immediately.

“Hello,” he told the old woman who answered. “I’m here to wash the windows.”

He walked inside as the woman stood at the door looking at him, dumbfounded—obviously she didn’t speak English, much less need to have her windows cleaned.

Karr pulled off his backpack and pointed to the window.

“Got to take a look at it,” he told her.

The woman began talking to him in Thai. Karr ignored her, walking to the large plate glass window at the far end of the living room.

“Double-insulated. Figures.” He nodded at her, then took out the souped-up RotoZip cordless drill from his pack. The diamond tip on the bit quickly made it through the glass; he moved down as if he were working with a piece of plasterboard. He reached the bottom and turned left.

“Torque on these suckers makes it hard to get a perfect straight line, you know?” he said cheerfully. “But we’re in a little bit of a hurry here.”

As he turned the comer up, the bit broke.

“I hate that,” he said, pulling the drill out. “Don’t you hate that?”

The woman reached and picked up the phone.

“You got the phone, right, Rockman?”

“Cho’s taking the call right now.”

“Yeah, well, double-check, okay? You told me there was no one in this apartment.”

“Sorry. The image from the Kite looked clean.”

“You check on our guy?”

“I’m looking at the thermal image right now,” said Rockman. The feed was coming from a Kite robot aircraft Karr had launched before coming upstairs.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Smile.”

Karr waved out the window at the Kite, then went back to work. He intended on using a suction gripper to pull the glass piece inside and left the right comer intact. But before he could put the gripper on—the device looked like the plunger end of a plumber’s helper—the glass broke and fell, fortunately into an open courtyard.

The old woman was now talking into the telephone to a translator at the Art Room, who was telling her that the “odd white giant” who had invaded her house was looking for marauding insects. Karr, meanwhile, set an anchor in the wall. He tugged, then tugged again.

“Ready for me?” he asked Rockman.

“Let’s go for it.”

Tommy edged through the window space, holding on to the ledge. The Kite, meanwhile, swooped below, zooming against the window of 20D. As it hit, the small charge of explosive in its nose exploded. Karr dropped the twenty feet or so to the window so quickly that he found himself in a cloud of dust as he kicked out the rest of the window and dropped inside.

“Your right, your right,” Rockman coached in his ear.

Karr swung up his A-2 as the door opened. The guard got off one shot before the fusillade of bullets from Tommy’s gun carried him back out into the hallway, dead. By the time Karr got out there, the other man had fled.

“He’s in the apartment, on the left. Alone,” said Rockman. But Karr had already seen Dr. Kegan, sitting with a blanket pulled around him in the large chair at the side of the room.

“Who are you?” asked Kegan calmly when Karr returned.

Karr stretched his arms and shoulders and began pulling off his knapsack. “Name’s Kjartan Magnor Karr. Most people, though, call me Tommy. Kind of a long story why.”

“How’d you find me?”

“I had some help. You missed your meeting, Doctor. CDC and FBI guys were worried about you.”

“Couldn’t be avoided.”

“That go for the rat-bite fever, too?”

Kegan frowned.

“Why’d you sell it?” asked Karr.

“I ran out of money.”

Karr pulled over a chair and sat down.

“Want to talk to me about it?” asked Karr.

“Not really.”

“Might as well, though.” Karr pointed at his stomach. “Pancreatic cancer?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Well, a friend of yours mentioned it. But he was under the impression it was cured.”

Kegan gave him a funny smile.

“You really don’t cure that, do you? One of our doctors mentioned there really isn’t a cure. Sooner or later you die. Sooner, right? You’ve lasted a long time.”

“I’m right in the probability curve,” said Kegan. “Funny how those things work.”

“You found out eighteen months ago.”

“Twenty-four. At first I did the treatments, you know? Not really because I thought they would work. Just because I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You came here for a cure?”

“No. Not really.”

Karr nodded. “So you wanted to take care of the people who’d killed your girlfriend in the seventies. Long time to hold a grudge.”

“They changed my life. They ruined it.” Kegan shifted in the chair, drawing his legs up under him. He’d lost a great deal of weight recently; the skin hung off his face. “Though I suppose it’s at least spared her this, seeing me waste away.”

“Sucks.”

“You don’t know the half of it. I can’t eat. I can barely drink.”

“Actually, I do know the feeling. Or at least something like it. I caught your disease.”

Kegan stared at him for a moment, trying to see if he was telling the truth or not. “You caught it?”

“From your cat.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“It’s all right. The old lady’s penicillin cured me. That cured the guerrillas, right? Or some of them, anyway. That’s what screwed up your plan—they got better.”

“I didn’t mean for anyone else to get hurt. I took precautions. The disease wasn’t that easy to spread.”

Karr pulled out his handheld computer. “Would you mind telling me exactly what you did?”

Slowly, the doctor began to tell his story.

Thirty years before, as a young medical volunteer, Kegan had met the love of his life while a volunteer with the World Health Organization. She was killed by one of the rebel groups; he’d told the story many times to Dean.

Over the years, as the fortunes of the group had varied, Kegan had kept track. He’d gone to Thailand several times in fact, to gather more information and to consider how to take revenge. Once he’d even hired a Burmese gangster to make a hit, but by then the leader of the guerrilla group had once more fallen from grace and was in the hills.