Zero-G (35 page)

“That went well,” Quain said.

Roos grunted. “If you say so.” He avoided eye contact.

“I do. Now it's time for you to get to work. I assume this building has wireless connectivity.”

“Of course.”

“It's time for a little online banking, and you're going to do it.”

It took Roos a few moments to catch the man's drift. “You're . . . robbing me?”

“I prefer to think of it as a free-will offering — my will and your offering. You're going to transfer money from your bank accounts to my offshore account.”

“US banks — ”

“Don't trifle with me, Roos. You have six offshore accounts. Don't ask how I know. Money and fear will buy all types of information. You're going to skip all the US laws and transfer funds from your Cayman accounts to mine. Get a laptop and get online. I don't want to spend any more time here than I have to.”

THIRTY-TWO

Tuck's mind spun like a windmill in a tornado. Nothing in his experience, not even the tragedy on
Atlantis
, had prepared him for such a moment. He tried to control his mind and his emotions, but images of Myra, Penny, Gary, and his father flashed on his brain with strobe-light intensity.

“Your family . . . you must save your family.” Tuck could sense the effort required for Lance to utter those words.

“You stay with me, pal. You got that? You think we've had tension in our relationship before; if you die, I promise it will get worse.”

Lance chuckled. “If I die, I'm going to haunt you.”

Hearing Lance suggest that Tuck sacrifice him and the others for his family pulled the rubber band of tension within him to the breaking point. Tears burned his eyes and the ache that began in his stomach now ran from head to sole. “I'm serious, Commander. You are not to die on me. That is an order.”

Lance's head moved from side to side and at first Tuck assumed he was shaking his head, then realized the man was now too weak to hold his head up. Tuck activated the inner ship communication. “This is Tucker. I need to know who is still with me. Ginny?”

“I'm . . . I'm still here. My head hurts so much.” She whimpered. “I'm . . . getting sleepy.”

“Stay awake, Ginny. Do whatever you have to, but stay awake. Mr. Abe?”

Tuck waited for a response but none came.

“Mr. Abe? Can you hear me, Mr. Abe?”

“I think he's out.” The weak voice came from Donnelly. “Same with the secretary.”

“How about you, Donnelly? How are you doing?”

“Not good. I've never felt this bad. Hard to stay awake . . . nausea . . . head pounding . . . feels like something's going to break.” He coughed, then groaned. “What's wrong, Commander? Why are we all sick?”

Tuck thought about feeding him a lie. What good would it do to tell the truth? But the man was dying and deserved the truth of the matter. In his situation, Tuck would want the facts. “Someone has put a biological agent in everyone's flight suit. He's holding Ground Control hostage — he is also holding my family.”

“You don't sound sick. Why aren't you sick?” Ginny's voice sounded a shade weaker than a moment before.

“He didn't poison my suit. He wants me to keep everyone up here until you are all dead.”

Tuck heard Ginny weeping. “I don't want to die. I don't want to die in space. You have to do something . . . it's your job. We trusted you. We trusted you.”

“I know,” Tuck whispered. “I know.”

“Family first. No one will blame you. Do the right thing.” Lance's words were thin.

The right thing?
Exactly what was the right thing? He had one more name to call before finishing his survey. “Mr. Secretary? Mr. Secretary, this is Commander Tucker.” No answer came, nor did Tuck expect one. Burke had been the first to go unconscious.

Tuck closed his eyes, laid his head back, and struggled for words to say to the One who created the space in which he flew. To his surprise, he didn't plead for help, nor did he ask for miracles. Instead, the prayer came in simple words: “God of heaven and earth, grant me wisdom and give me courage. Bless that which I'm about to do. All things rest in Your hands.”

Tuck blinked back tears and took a deep breath. Once again, he looked at the distant stars; once again, he took in the bright, beautiful blue of Earth.

Then he reached to the console before him and flipped the switch that turned off all communications. He began punching commands into the onboard flight computer.

Lance muttered, “No.”

“Lance . . . shut up and relax. That's an order, pal.”

“You . . . you can't.”

“Try and stop me.” .

Verducci's mind chewed through options like an adding machine chewed through numbers and it kept coming up empty. If he were facing a man with a knife or gun, then his options would be clear. If properly done, a trained man could disarm an armed assailant. The dead man's switch was the surest way to ward off such an attack. Even if Verducci could get a clear shot at the man or land a skull-crushing blow, he would be unable to prevent Quain from releasing the button and infecting everyone with whatever biological agent he had created.

He wished Ganzi were present, but the man had not shown and that did not bode well. Over the months, the private investigator had demonstrated endurance and loyalty. Verducci could think of only one reason to explain Ganzi's absence, and he hoped he was wrong.

Glancing around the crowd, Verducci saw that there was little help available. There were the two Secret Service agents who were undoubtedly thinking the same thing as he. But like him, their hands were tied as long as the dead man's switch remained operable. It had crossed Verducci's mind that the dead man's switch was nothing more than a prop and for a few seconds had considered challenging Quain, but common sense reined him in. If he was wrong, then fifty or more people in the hangar would die, and possibly several hundred enthusiasts outside.

For what must have been the one hundredth time, Verducci looked at his boss. Since the arrival of Quain, the old man had not taken his eyes off the intruder, and Verducci knew why.

Pistacchia took a step toward Quain, who remained huddled close to Roos as Roos worked the wireless computer. Verducci took his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. Pistacchia stopped but gave no indication that he was aware of a hand on his elbow.

“I've been waiting for you.” The old man's voice carried farther than Verducci thought it could.

Quain looked up, stared at the old man, then returned his attention to Roos and his activity.

“All these days . . . all these months . . .”

“Signor — this is not wise,” Verducci whispered.

With surprising strength, Pistacchia pulled his arm free of Verducci's grip.

Quain turned his eyes on the old man. “If you know what's good for you, gramps, you'll shut your mouth.”

Pistacchia stopped and took a deep breath, thrusting out his chest. “I am Vincent Pistacchia.”

“Well, good for you, old man. Now shut up.”

The fire that burned in Verducci turned white hot. In any other circumstance, in any other situation, such an insult would be punished. If Pistacchia took the comment as an insult, he didn't show it. Verducci knew his employer well enough to see that his mind was fixed on only one thing: confronting his son's killer.

Pistacchia repeated his words, “I am Vincent
Pistacchia
.”

Quain stood fully erect and his eyes blazed. He raised his gun and said, “I told you to shut — ” Quain tilted his head to the side. “Pistacchia? Vincent Pistacchia . . . Where have I heard that name before?”

“You killed my son. It took me a long time and a great deal of money to find out how and who, but now I know it was you.”

Verducci could almost see Quain's mind working like gears in an old clock. He took a step forward and put an arm on his employer's shoulder.

“Vincent Pistacchia? Vinny Pistacchia? The astronaut? Vinny Pistacchia was your son?”

“He was, he is, he will be forever. You took his life, but you can't take his memory.”

“What are the odds?” Quain laughed.

“No odds, Quain. I've spent close to three million American dollars to track you down.”

Quain's laugh reduced to a smile. “I'm honored. That's a lot of money.”

“I will spend ten times that to see you dead.”

“I would've thought you would have been tracking Commander Tucker.”

“Oh, I did. At first, I blamed him. At first, I hated him, but the more I came to know, the more I came to believe someone else must be behind my son's murder. My investigators learned of MedSys; my investigators learned of you.”

“So what, old man? You are in a group that doesn't give two cents for your sorrow or pain. All they want is for me to let them go. What are you going to do? You going to attack me, pops? You going to make a move? Are you going to be responsible for the death of all those around you and all those people outside?”

“Before I am in my grave, I will see you moldering in the ground. Then you will be God's problem.”

A subtle movement caught Verducci's eye. One of the Secret Service agents had been slowly working his way closer and closer to Quain. He had no idea what the man intended, but he knew that his boss's outburst was distracting Quain, and perhaps some good could come of that.

“You Italians are so poetic; you even make death sound important. Old man, you will be worm food long before I will. I'm not afraid of death, pops. It happens every day. Thirty thousand children die of starvation daily. What have you done about that? I'll tell you what you've done. You've done absolutely nothing. As we speak thousands are dying of cancer, heart disease, and thousands more in civil war.”

“You care nothing about those people.” Pistacchia's words were sharp as nails.

Quain nodded in agreement. “You're right, of course I don't care. That's my point. No one gets out of this life alive; not you, not me, and I don't care. I plan to live as long and as well as I can, and if people die in the process, that's just part of the price. It's not as if they weren't going to die anyway. All I've done is change the date.”

“You make a profit from it,” the old man spat.

Quain shrugged. “Well, there is that.”

Quain spun on a heel, facing the Secret Ser vice agent slowly moving closer. “I told you to stay put.” Without another word, Quain raised the gun.

THIRTY-THREE

J
im Tolson felt the landing gear lock in place one hundred feet above the runway. Moments later, the
Condor
touched down and continued its taxi. As the plane slowed, he had time to look out the cockpit window and see the crowd in the bleachers standing, applauding, and pumping their fists in the air. He gave a polite wave.

He let the craft slow to just a few miles per hour, then turned it and taxied back to the hangar. The plan was for him to exit, spend a few moments waving at the gathered enthusiasts, and then walk to the back of the building to enter a private door to join the VIPs and others at Ground Control.

When he finally brought the plane to a standstill, he exchanged the cockpit for the concrete tarmac and moved toward the hangar. Jim found a guard and a stranger waiting for him. The guard he recognized as being part of the “rent-a-cops” that Roos retained for flight day, but he had never seen the other man before. He was tall, trim, and wore a grim expression.

“Something up?” Jim asked the guard.

“This man thinks so.”

Before Jim could speak again the stranger said, “My name is Alderman, Garrett Alderman.” He retrieved his wallet, and opened it, showing identification. “I own a private investigation business in Chicago. We do business only with large companies.”

Jim frowned. “Sorry, buddy, I don't make those kinds of decisions here. Besides, this is rather an inappropriate time to be drumming up business.”

Alderman didn't move. “I'm not here to drum up business. I need your help and I need it now.”

Jim looked at the guard, who offered only a shrug. “It's all right; I'll talk to the man.”

“Very good, sir,” the guard said, then left to return to his post.

Jim studied the man for a few moments. “This had better be good.”

“I wish it were good, but your security has been breached. I believe a man — a very dangerous man — is inside the main hangar. I further believe that everyone inside may be in great danger.”

“I don't see how that's possible. We have guards everywhere. The place is crawling with them.”

The stranger held his ground. “With all due respect, you have a host of undertrained, part-time mall security guards. None of them is armed and I doubt any of them has received training beyond the basics. Besides, those guards are on the outside of the hangar, not the inside.”