Pandemic (52 page)

Réthymno, Crete

‘Are their rooms likely to be kept guarded?’ Ross asked. The two men had moved further down the street and were now standing about a hundred yards away from
the hotel.

‘There’s no reason why they should be,’ Richter said. ‘My guess is that we found one of the three already shot by his companions after he’d completed the diving for
them, and another is dying in the hospital in Chaniá. That just leaves contestant number three, the guy who gave his name as Richard Watson at the hospital, and who’s probably shitting
himself in case he might be infected with the same bug that’s killing Curtis. So my guess is that guarding his room will be the last thing on his mind. He’ll be looking for a way off
this island really fast, and it’s even possible that he may already have left.’

‘So you reckon we can just walk in?’

‘I hope so,’ Richter muttered.

‘OK. I’ll go up first and inspect the lock. Unless there’s a problem, I’ll open the door and check out the room. You’d better stay in the hotel lobby as a
look-out.’

‘Fine with me,’ Richter said.

‘And we’re looking for what, exactly?’ Ross let the question hang in the air.

‘That,’ Richter confessed, ‘is the awkward bit. I really don’t know. And there may be nothing there to find anyway if our third man has already legged it. Whatever it is,
it’s got to be reasonably small if it can be pulled out of a submerged plane wreck and carried to the surface by a solo diver. So it’s probably a small box or chest, and possibly
they’ve already put it in a briefcase or suitcase, that kind of thing.’

‘OK,’ Ross said grimly, ‘let’s do it.’

Chaniá, Crete

Shrill alarms from the cardiac and EEG monitors echoed along the hospital corridor as Krywald’s heart stopped beating. Hardin span back towards the door of the ward
and wrenched it open. He registered instantly the flat lines running across both ECG and EEG displays and knew immediately that the patient was dead. There was obviously no point in considering
resuscitation, so Hardin walked across to the left of the bed and switched off the equipment. Instantly the alarms fell silent.

Though expecting it since he’d first stepped into the patient’s room, it was, like every other death he’d witnessed in his career, still something of a shock to him. He stepped
closer to the bed and stared down at Curtis’s body. On looking more closely, he spotted the two open wounds in the left side of the patient’s chest. Bullet wounds were something he
rarely saw, but Hardin had not the slightest trouble identifying them.

He swung round as quickly as the space suit would let him, searching for the assailant who he suspected, for an instant, might still be hidden somewhere in the ward with them. Then he saw the
two rings of broken glass in the window with the bullet-holes in the centre of them, and realized that the killer had struck from outside.

He stepped across to the window and cautiously peered through it, but the grassy quadrangle was deserted. Whoever had killed the mysterious Curtis had already made good his escape.

Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

‘Is that Mr Westwood?’

‘Yes, Dr Grant,’ Westwood recognized the voice immediately. ‘You’ve got the autopsy results already?’

‘No, no. The procedure won’t be completed for another half-hour or so, and then we’ll have to wait for the toxicology results. But I thought you’d be interested to know
that you were right. Henry Butcher was murdered.’

Westwood’s reply didn’t sound even slightly surprised. ‘But how do you know that if the autopsy isn’t finished?’

‘Simple,’ Grant replied. ‘After we last talked, I made a point of examining Mr Butcher’s room and the equipment contained in it. As you probably noticed, he was receiving
saline solution through an intravenous drip, and I noticed a tiny discolouration in the bottle. Saline solution is, of course, completely clear. So I checked the seal on the bottle and found a
puncture, the kind that could be made by a hypodermic needle. I immediately had the contents analysed, and the lab found traces of a vegetable alkaloid.’ Grant paused, as if in triumph.

‘Thank you, Dr Grant,’ Westwood said. ‘I’d like to hear the final analysis result when you have it, but my guess is that you’ll find Butcher was killed by a dose of
coniine. That seems to be our mystery man’s preferred modus operandi.’

Réthymno, Crete

Richard Stein had decided on two things. First, he wasn’t going to wait around any longer than necessary in the hotel at Réthymno, which meant he had to sneak
out the back way, climb into his hire car and, as they say in the old westerns, get out of town. He was reasonably certain that neither McCready nor anybody else could have linked the Seat to him,
because he’d paid for it using cash, and the credit card that the hire company had swiped as security had come from the private stash of documents that he always carried with him.

The second priority was to make a final check of any emails waiting for him on the server in America, just in case there was anything he could use. Just moments after he logged on, he sat
reading an email from McCready with an escalating feeling of disbelief.

It didn’t exactly say
come home: all is forgiven
, but it certainly sounded like the next best thing. The message specified a route for him off Crete, courtesy of the US Navy, or at
least a US Navy frigate that was even then approaching the island from the west, after a helicopter pick-up from the coast the following afternoon. McCready expressed his brief regrets about
Krywald, then reiterated that the steel case should remain sealed for Stein’s own protection. Stein had no problem with that request, but he was surprised that McCready had apparently decided
not to eliminate him immediately. And he reckoned he’d be safe enough on a US Navy vessel – McCready surely couldn’t have suborned the entire crew – and if he felt unhappy
about things once he got on board, he would probably have the chance to leave the ship and get himself ashore somewhere in Europe.

The trick, however, would be climbing into that helicopter without getting his brains blown out. Stein wasn’t stupid, so he realized immediately that McCready’s arrangement meant
that the following afternoon his location would be both known and fixed, giving an ideal opportunity for a sniper to take him down. Clearly he would have to take extreme precautions in checking out
the rendezvous well before the chopper arrived.

In the meantime, there was nothing to stop him getting out of this hotel and finding somewhere else to spend his last night on Crete.

Ross and Richter entered the hotel at more or less the same instant that Richard Stein shut down his laptop computer. Richter turned left and walked into the coffee shop where
he found a vacant seat that offered a good view of the lobby, lifts and stairs. He watched as Ross strode across to the two adjacent elevators. As he waited for the lift to arrive, Ross dialled a
number on his mobile phone and then slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Richter’s phone rang – a new unit supplied by Ross for the duration of this operation. He picked it up and answered it. ‘Richter.’

‘Ross. Loud and clear.’

His voice
was
exceptionally clear through the lightweight hands-free headset that he had donned just before entering the hotel. It would allow him to keep in constant contact with
Richter, while leaving both hands free to carry out his searches.

Just then the lift arrived, and Ross stepped inside. Richter watched as the doors slid closed. ‘Going up,’ Ross muttered, and seconds later Richter clearly heard the sound of the
elevator doors sliding open. ‘Third floor,’ Ross said. ‘I’ll start with 301.’

The hotel booking computer system had shown the three American guests as occupying one single room on the third floor, number 301, and on the other side of the corridor two adjoining rooms with
connecting doors, numbers 306 and 308.

‘Roger.’ Richter glanced around the lobby. ‘Clear at this end.’

The hotel doors had key-locks, rather than the more modern, and more difficult to crack, electronic card-locks. Ross knocked firmly on the door of 301, calling out ‘Room Service’ in
Greek, but received no response. He checked up and down the corridor, then knelt beside the door and studied the lock. ‘Standard three-lever, by the looks of it,’ he murmured into the
headset microphone. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

He took a small leather pouch out of his jacket pocket, unzipped it and extracted two thin stainless-steel tools. He slipped one into the lock and exerted slight turning pressure on the barrel
with his left hand, then slid the other, L-shaped tool inside and began probing for the tumblers. After a few moments there were three faint but distinct clicks, and suddenly the lock began to
turn.

Ross opened the door a crack, again checked the corridor in both directions, then slipped into the room. ‘I’m in,’ he announced. In the lobby below, Richter heaved a sigh of
relief. ‘It looks like the occupant is still booked into the hotel,’ Ross continued. ‘The room’s tidy and the bed’s been made up, but there are clothes folded over the
back of the chair and’ – Richter faintly heard the sound of a door opening – ‘in the wardrobe as well. Also, there’s an empty overnight case on the suitcase
stand.’

‘Any idea whose room it is?’ Richter asked.

‘There’s nothing on the overnight case,’ Ross replied. ‘No labels apart from the airline baggage reclaim chits. Oh, hang on. There’s a book here on the bedside
table. Yes. This room appears to be occupied by David Elias. He’s obviously paranoid about people nicking his paperbacks, so he’s stuck a label on the inside front cover: David H.
Elias, with an address in Virginia. Likely a Company man, eh?’

‘Almost certainly,’ Richter said, ‘but my guess is Mr Elias is no longer with us. He’s probably the diver they brought over to plant the explosives, and what’s left
of him is now helping the Cretan police force with its inquiries.’

‘Makes sense,’ Ross said. ‘The two professionals would logically be the ones to take the adjoining rooms.’

‘This third man,’ Richter observed, ‘was probably never considered a full member of the team. He was just some poor sod who got sucked into this mission because he happened to
be a qualified diver.’

‘Bit of a cliché, the third man, especially bearing in mind who we both work for,’ Ross replied. ‘Right, that means I’m probably wasting my time hunting for your
case in here. I’ll now try number 306.’

‘Just be careful.’ Richter resumed his scrutiny of the lobby.

Decision now made, Stein had spent ten minutes stuffing his clothes and other personal gear into his carry-on overnight bag, and the computer, its accessories and the file into
his briefcase. Then he shrugged on his lightweight jacket, picked up the SIG P226 and tucked it, the silencer still attached, into the rear waistband of his trousers.

He picked up his carry-on bag with his left hand – he wanted his right hand free in case he needed to use the SIG, which meant he was going to have to make two journeys to carry down both
his overnight bag and the briefcase. He walked across to the door and listened carefully. Then he opened it, looked swiftly up and down the corridor, pulled it closed and set off towards the rear
stairs leading to the car park.

Almost immediately after Stein had vanished down the back stairs, Ross shut the door of room 301 behind him. He stopped outside number 306, knocked firmly and again announced
himself as Room Service. When he got no reply he pulled his lock-picking kit out of his pocket and got busy. Two minutes later he was inside.

‘More or less the same story in here,’ he reported. ‘The room’s obviously been recently occupied, though there don’t seem to be any clothes or personal effects. But
there’s a briefcase still sitting on the end of the bed.’

‘That might be it,’ Richter said. ‘Better check it out.’

For a few seconds Richter heard nothing, then two faint clicks. ‘Right,’ Ross said, ‘the briefcase wasn’t locked. I’ve just opened it and lifted the lid. Inside
there’s a laptop computer, a red file marked – oh, that’s interesting.’

‘What?’ Richter demanded.

‘The file is classified “Ultra”. I’ve never seen an Ultra before.’

‘Neither have I,’ Richter murmured. ‘What’s the filename?’

‘No name, just the initials “CAIP” – that’s Charlie Alpha India Papa. There’s also a mobile phone, various leads and cables, and a small vacuum
flask.’

‘What, for his coffee?’

‘No.’ Ross sounded preoccupied. ‘This one’s small and light, and it’s been very heavily sealed.’

‘Shit,’ Richter said. ‘Charles, is the seal broken? Please check very carefully.’

There was a silence that seemed to stretch into minutes. ‘No,’ Ross finally replied, ‘the seal’s intact. The top’s covered first with red wax and that’s got a
tight-fitting wire mesh securing it.’

‘OK, whatever you do, don’t break that seal. The chances are that flask contains the same stuff as the one the Greek diver cut open in Kandíra. It killed both him and his
nephew.’

‘No problem there,’ Ross muttered. ‘I’m putting it back in the case right now.’

‘Before you do, are there any letters or numbers or symbols on the flask itself?’

‘Yes,’ Ross replied, holding up the flask and peering at it carefully. ‘It’s got a plain white label with “CAIP” written on it, and below that a figure
ten.’

‘CAIP again? What the hell does it mean?’

‘No idea,’ Ross replied, his full attention now concentrated on the contents of the briefcase. He didn’t hear Stein slide his key into the lock, or the faint noise as the
American turned the door handle.

Richard Stein stepped into his hotel room, intent on simply picking up the remainder of his stuff and getting the hell out of Réthymno. The first thing he saw as he
entered was a stranger bent over his briefcase and pawing through its contents.

When Ross heard the sound of the door behind him, he stood up and spun round to face the interruption. Stein took in the scene before him in an instant. The sight of an intruder, already
ransacking his briefcase, wearing a headset obviously linking him to an accomplice somewhere outside, added up to only one thing: this man had to be a member of the clean-up squad McCready had sent
to Crete to eliminate him.