Biowar

81

“What is this?” insisted Dean, looking down at Ahmed’s pistol.

“You are an Israeli agent.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Through that door there, and then down the stairs,” said Ahmed. “Come on.”

“Men coming down the hallway,” warned Rockman.

Ahmed started to grab him. Dean threw his forearm into the young man’s neck; in the same breath Dean smashed his heel into Ahmed’s foot and then kneed him. The gun clattered away. Dean pushed the sniffer he’d been holding in his hand over Ahmed’s nose, giving him a dose of a quick-acting Demerol derivative; the drug would make a 150-pound man sleep like a baby for four hours.

Dean grabbed the pistol and aimed it point-blank at the doorway just as the two guards entered.

He fired, once, twice, three times — the pistol just clicked helplessly, its magazine empty: Ahmed had obviously been under orders not to harm him.

For a moment, Dean and the guards exchanged looks of shock, compounded by awe. Then Dean threw himself into the closest man, bowling him and his companion over onto the floor, Dean grabbed at one of the rifles, managing to wrest it free and drive the barrel into the man’s neck and chin. Then Dean rolled free, slamming the butt end of the gun into the side of the man’s head.

Dean was just getting up when he heard the click-clunk of an automatic weapon being locked and loaded.

The other guard was holding his gun perhaps five inches from Dean’s head and jabbering something.

“Okay,” said Dean, letting go of the other rifle. He held his hands out, then started to cough. “Okay.”

The man motioned with his gun for Dean to step back. Dean coughed again, then pointed to the inhaler on the floor. He motioned that he needed it.

The man was unmoved.

“The word,” said Dean. “Inhaler. Jesus.”

The Art Room translator responded, “Inhaler.”

The English word served in Arabic as well.

Dean was dubious but kept pointing and repeating the word. Finally, the guard stepped to it and kicked it at him.

“Thank you,” said Dean. He picked it up and fiddled with it, then took a breath — and began coughing even more uncontrollably. The guard poked him with his rifle, prodding him toward the door.

Dean pressed the button on the inhaler, sending a spray of the Demerol solution flying about ten feet — in the wrong direction. Poked again, he cursed and coughed and then got the spray in the man’s face, grabbing for the rifle at the same time. The guard pushed hard enough to knock him down — but then the drug took over, and he fell to the ground.

“Inhaler’s the right word?” said Dean, grabbing the rifle.

“I wasn’t sure, so I guessed,” replied the translator. “A lot of medical terms come straight over.”

“You guessed?”

“It worked, right?”

“Okay, Charlie, back across the hall,” said Rockman. “There’s a door at the far end of the music room. Combination lock — we’ve already defeated it. Don’t worry; we’re inside their computers. We have a good handle on this.”

“That why you let the guards nearly kill me?”

“Their brains aren’t wired into the system,” said the runner dryly.

Dean pushed into the room, running past the collection of instruments, a rifle in each hand. The stocks folded up along the bodies of the guns, making them look and feel more like large pistols than assault rifles.

He slapped the door open and went into the hallway. The network of security cameras didn’t extend past the classroom wing, which meant he could proceed easily without being detected. On the other hand, it also meant that the Art Room couldn’t tell him where any other guards were.

“Take the right hallway to the end, into the vestibule,” said Rockman. “Go downstairs. Ready with the grenade. We’re locking the doors behind you. It’ll only slow them down, so keep moving.”

“No kidding.”

The door opened into a hallway flanked by laboratories on either side. The door was metal; Dean stopped outside and took out an inch-thick disk from his jacket, putting it against the panel. But before he could push the slider on the back and activate the unit’s radar, the door began to open. Dean stepped back, then grabbed the person and threw him down as he came through.

Her down. It was a woman. He clamped the inhaler over her nose before she could scream.

“Radar,” said Rockman.

“We don’t have time to screw around,” said Dean, jumping up.

“Radar. Stay with the program, Charlie Dean. We need to see inside that wing.”

Dean pushed the radar on and waited for the Art Room to analyze the inputs.

“Clear. Go.”

“Charlie,” said Telach, breaking in. “Walk calmly to the very end of the hall; throw your grenade into the room at the right. Just stand there and wait.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Charlie, we need you to follow directions.”

“I’m doing it.”

“Then go.”

Two of the rooms were open, and Charlie could hear the scientists inside talking. But no one noticed him as he passed, or at least no one had time to react before he reached the end of the hall. The door was open; he rolled the grenade inside and stood back.

There was a shout and some yelling. Something crashed inside.

“Wait sixty more seconds or it will knock you out, too,” warned Telach.

“Heads up!” warned Rockman.

Dean pulled the rifle up as someone in a lab coat came out of one of the labs he’d passed. A burst of rifle fire sent him back into the room.

“Go, Charlie. Go,” said Rockman.

Dean spun into the room, stepping over two bodies in lab coats. He moved around a bench stacked with autoclaves but found his way blocked by a row of minirefrigerators that reached nearly to the ceiling. He had to backtrack and move down the row to the right.

“The petri dishes at the far end of the room,” said Telach. “On the right. Your sniffer’s got a good hit. This is it.”

Dean reached the bench, where what looked like a strange knickknack cabinet held about fifty small, round dishes used to grow bacteria or other organisms. The cabinet had climate controls and a set of locks.

“Charlie, drill through the glass. We’ve compromised the alarms and the explosives,” said Telach.

“Explosives?”

“We’ll explain later. Just go.”

Dean took his pocketknife out and held it against the glass. When he pressed the Swiss insignia on the side, a diamond-tipped drill began to revolve at high speed. It whined; the glass cracked before the drill made it all the way through.

“Now what?” asked Dean.

“You’re okay. Tape the crack, then put the gas in. Go,” said Telach.

Dean pulled off his sport coat and stripped the cartridge from beneath the armpit, pulling the long bladder of poison gas out with it. He had trouble getting the stopper set right around the cartridge opening and finally jammed it in.

“Get away from there now, Charles,” warned Telach. One by one the fans on the petri holder began revving at high speed, their instructions commandeered from the Art Room. “On the other side of the room.”

Dean got behind the counter. The chlorine gas would kill any bacteria on the outside of the dishes. While he was waiting, Dean stripped out the containment bags from the lining of his coat, along with a set of gloves.

“Go. Don’t breathe too deeply,” said Telach. “You can break the glass. Be expeditious.”

Yes, thought Dean, expeditious.

When Charlie had the dishes in the bag, Rockman directed him to put them in a small carrier at the far end of the room. The unit looked like a small musical instrument case; it was lined with insulation.

“Good. You have exactly three minutes before the Mossad people arrive,” said Rockman.

“That much? I can hear the helicopter already.”

“The second door on your left is an emergency staircase to the rear of the building. Take it. The car’s waiting on the other side of the wall.”