Biowar

82

Lia was led to a library inside the low-slung building that sat in a compound owned by Umar Ibn Umar, a cousin once removed from the Syrian President. Umar was seated on a leather club chair, pretending to be absorbed in a book. He dawdled over a page for several minutes, nodded to himself, then finally rose, rolling a thick cigar in his fingers.

“I’m glad you could come,” Umar told her.

If there was one thing that Lia hated — hated — it was cigars. Especially when they were smoked by slick-haired fat boys who wore pinkie rings and thought they were James Bond.

“I had nothing better to do,” said Lia. “Apparently the beach isn’t very close to my hotel.”

“Beach?”

“False advertising.”

He gave her a faint, token smile. “Would you like a cigar?”

“Only to break it in half.”

“Very good cigars. From Cuba.”

“I’m sure Fidel rolled it himself.”

“So what precisely is it that you’d like to buy?” asked the Syrian.

“Disease,” said Lia. She saw no point in playing this with any degree of finesse, despite the advice Rubens and Telach had given her last night.

The Syrian laughed. “You can pick that up in any slum.”

“I’m looking for a very specific type,” she said. “The kind that comes from rats.”

“Interestingly enough, we are in the market for that ourselves,” said the Syrian. He went to a sideboard and took the top off a crystal bottle filled with what looked like whiskey. “A drink?”

“Does that come from Cuba, too?”

“America, actually. Jack Daniel’s. The Americans know how to make bourbon particularly well.”

“They have to get something right.”

He filled the glass nearly halfway, then took a very tiny sip.

“I understand you’ve dealt with my Austrian friends,” said Lia.

“You keep calling them Austrian. I don’t know anyone from Austria.”

“Radoslaw Dlugsko. UKD,” whispered Rockman. “He’s Polish; the company is allegedly based in the Ukraine. Austria was just a convenient stop.”

Lia wanted to reach up through the satellite and slap the runner.

“I know them from Austria,” Lia told the Syrian. “Actually, the principal I met with was Greek.”

Umar Ibn Umar took a long, thoughtful pull on his cigar. “Why aren’t you dealing with them?”

“The Austrian police put them out of business two days ago. Very inconveniently, since I have a buyer lined up. An important buyer. I feel an obligation to carry through with my arrangement.”

“Austria is not familiar to me,” Umar Ibn Umar said, waving his hand as if dismissing the existence of UFOs or unicorns.

“And UKD?”

He shook his head.

“Oh, well,” she said, calling his bluff. “I’ll be off.”

She got to the hallway before he called her back.

“Perhaps we can deal with your client directly,” said the Syrian.

“Not possible.”

He frowned. Before he could say anything else, the phone rang. The Syrian picked it up, but there was no one on the other end.

“Sorry about that,” whispered Rockman. “We got to it a second too late.”

Well, just peachy, she thought to herself.

“We’re moving to get more backup,” added Rockman. “You’ll be all right.”

Even more peachy.

The Syrian gave the phone a quizzical look, then hung up. “As I was saying, perhaps we can deal with them ourselves.”

“The people I’m dealing with aren’t as free to move around as you and I,” said Lia. “It’ll be much easier for all concerned if you simply sell the bacteria to me. You’ve probably grown twenty pounds of it already.”

“Hardly.” He considered his cigar ash. “What do you know about the disease?”

“It’s a type of rat-bite fever that has no cure,” said Lia. “It’s the perfect assassination weapon.”

Umar Ibn Umar smiled. “Perfect for many things. But there is a cure. We’ve been promised it.”

“What? Penicillin?”

“No, it’s supposedly resistant. However, we have questions about the potency of the bacteria. It doesn’t seem to actually work.”

“Doesn’t work?”

“No.” A second phone began to ring — it was a cell phone.

“Jam it,” said Lia, talking to the Art Room.

Umar Ibn Umar gave her an odd look as he took the phone from his pocket and put it to his ear.

“Interesting,” he said. “Why would my phones stop working?”

“Why doesn’t the disease work?” asked Lia.

“Your Israeli masters haven’t told you?” Umar Ibn Umar took a pensive puff. “I would have thought you were high-ranking enough to be in on their secret.”

“Guards behind you,” whispered Rockman. “Their guns are out.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” she said.