Point of Contact

65

Jack freed Paul’s other arm and tried to help him to his feet, but the big man’s knees buckled. Paul’s good hand gripped Jack’s forearm like a vise to keep from falling. His hand strength surprised Jack, but he filed that away as he helped Paul lie down on the floor.

Lian bolted back into the room with a medical kit on her shoulder. She dropped down next to Paul and examined each of his wounded fingers. Even though she’d been a cop for several years, the gruesome sight sickened her.

Jack saw the damage, too. The bastard with the pencil mustache had pulled out Paul’s fingernails. Jack felt guilty as hell that he didn’t get there sooner.

“I’m sorry about all of this,” Jack said.

Paul shook his head and moved his mouth but nothing came out.

“I’m worried he might be going into shock,” Lian said, cleaning the wounds and stanching the blood.

Jack flipped the office chair over and raised Paul’s legs, setting them on the support strut about twelve inches off the floor, then pulled off his coat and laid it across his heaving chest. Wind rattled the windows.

“Jack—”

“Buddy, just take it easy.”

Paul’s face beaded with sweat. “We’ve got to stop that virus.”

“How? It’s already loaded.”

Paul pointed his good thumb weakly at his dead torturer. “Chuckles the Clown over there told me it wouldn’t activate until Dalfan stock begins early trading at seven a.m. tomorrow. If we can call the CIO at the Hong Kong exchange before then, he can isolate it, clean it out — at least, not activate it.”

“Phones are down. The storm is beating the hell out of everybody and everything around here until ten a.m. tomorrow, according to the BBC.”

“What about your embassy?” Lian asked, taping Paul’s fingers. “We can try and drive there.”

“Even if we reached it, and if anybody in authority is still there, they probably can’t call out, either.”

“The weather service said the storm was stalling,” Lian said. “There are still flights out of Kuala Lumpur, north of here.”

“Which means Malaysia cell phones and other services are probably still up.” Jack knew there were a U.S. embassy and a CIA station located there. That’s where he needed to go. “How long is the drive?”

“On a normal day? Three and a half hours, four with traffic.”

Jack checked his watch. “There’s just under seven hours left.” He glanced back out the window at the raging storm. “I have to try.”

Lian saw the storm, too. “Of course we have to try.”

“We? There’s no we here,” Jack said. There was a slim chance of making it in weather like this. Maybe even less chance of surviving it.

Lian taped Paul’s last finger. “You must stay here and rest. If you go into shock, you can die.”

“Try and stop me, Ms. Fairchild.” Paul started to rise.

Jack laid a hand on his chest. “I’ve got this.”

Paul batted his hand away. “Forget that. You aren’t the one that got played like a ten-cent kazoo. Besides, look at you.”

Jack’s upper right shirtsleeve was bloody where he’d been hit.

“Let me see that,” Lian said. She pulled a razor-sharp blade out of the medical kit and cut away Jack’s shirtsleeve.

“Not too bad,” she said. “Just a graze. Your skin is torn, but there isn’t any muscle or bone damage. Does it hurt?”

Jack’s adrenaline had worn off. “Feels like someone hit me with a branding iron.”

“Give me a minute.”

Lian swiftly cleaned and dressed Jack’s wound. “Besides the antibiotics, I’m applying a topical analgesic. Hopefully that will help with the pain.”

“It already does. Thanks.”

“We’ll have to keep an eye on it, but I don’t think it will be a problem.” She held up the cut-away sleeve. “Sorry about that.”

Paul handed Jack his coat as he sat up with a grunt. “You’ll need this.”

“I wish you’d stay put,” Jack said, as he helped Paul to his feet.

“I wish a lot of things, Jack.” Paul examined his bandaged fingers. “And right now I wish I had a cup of tea.”

“We don’t have a vehicle,” Lian said.

“Their van was out front. One of these guys must have the keys.”

“I’m gonna find my pistol,” Paul said, referring to the pistol Jack had given him earlier, as he reached into the coat pocket of his torturer. He found the pint-sized Makarov and a diplomatic passport — Bulgarian. It said the man’s name was Petrov. Paul doubted it. He shoved it into his pants pocket anyway. He saw a smart leather satchel standing in the corner but didn’t think to check it. He didn’t know that after he had passed out from the pain, Wolz had made a call on a satellite phone to Zvezdev, and when he finished, put the sat phone back in the satchel.

Jack and Lian searched pockets, too. Jack traded his Makarov for the nine-mil Glock Lian’s man had carried. He checked the mag. Thirteen rounds. Luckily, the man carried a second, fully loaded magazine with another fifteen rounds.

“Found them!” Lian shouted, holding the key ring high.

“Let’s roll.”