Covert Action

10 The Pandemic

Judy Burks had returned from her meeting with Ambassador Donald Conrad feeling relieved and vindicated, and a little humbled. The ambassador was quite a man. That afternoon she had taken a long walk around Lusaka. She had found the city mildly disgusting and the people wonderful. Late that afternoon she was back out by the pool, reading a Patricia Cornwell novel. She was there to serve as an official go-between should something go wrong, but until it did, there was really nothing for her to do for the next two or three days but wait. There were any number of tours and side trips that might have been an option, but cell phone coverage — to the embassy or Washington, with the exception of Steven — was iffy outside Lusaka. She was reasonably sure that whatever was going to happen, it would happen the day after tomorrow, though that was nothing more than a guess on her part. After dinner at the hotel dining room, she went back to her room to read, finally putting her book aside and falling asleep a little before midnight. Garrett was with her in the dream, and the two of them were sitting on the patio of a coffee shop in Coronado when suddenly it started to rain. She was trying to get him to come inside, but he insisted it would stop; he just sat there drinking his coffee, soaked to the skin, as the rain fell harder and harder. The rain was so distracting that she never heard the two men slip the lock and move silently into her room. Suddenly, the rain began to choke her. She was awake for only a moment, struggling against the alcohol smell that filled her nose and mouth. The struggle lasted only a moment, and she was back asleep, only it was dark, she was alone, and it was no longer raining.

The two men were dressed like hotel employees, and both were black. They dumped the sleeping Ms. Burks into a linen-hamper cart, bending her double as if she were folded into a loosely strung hammock. They wheeled her to the service elevator, took her straight down to the loading dock, and loaded her, laundry bag and all, into the back seat of a Peugeot driven by an older white man. He handed the two men in hotel-employee uniforms a fist full of rand, and the Peugeot sped off.

Cheetah continued to roam over the Mavuradonha Mountains, reporting everything she saw. The UAV had flawlessly made the transition between daylight and nighttime, keeping her sensors locked onto the Makondo Hotel complex. Sometimes she flew out several miles away and dropped down a few thousand feet for a better angle on the objective, but basically she ran a racetrack pattern overhead. Then she received a command to take an easterly heading, pushed along by a mild tail wind. She complied, and when she was well away from the area, she was ordered back to the target on a westerly bearing. Without being told, Cheetah made minor course adjustments to keep the Makondo square on her nose. About a mile from the center of the complex, the two cylindrical packages under Cheetah’s wings came alive, electrically speaking. The sensors in the nose of each powered up, and in a few nanoseconds, both knew precisely where they were, not just over the Mavuradonha Mountains—exactly where they were on the face of the globe, and their exact altitude. A half mile out, the tail cones of each underwing package dropped away, and the cylinders sprouted fins. As if to flex stiff joints, servo-motors cycled the fins within a narrow range of motion and came back to a neutral position. The program that had sent Cheetah downwind from the target and back released the two packages exactly a half second apart, and they fell away from the UAV into the night. All this was a little disturbing to Cheetah, whose life centered around her sensor suite and an avionics package that demanded precise adherence to altitude and heading. The turbulence caused by the jettisoning of the tail cones and the unannounced, uneven dropping of the packages had forced her to make altitude and heading adjustments. She was much happier now that they were gone.

“Weapons released,” Dodds LeMaster reported.

“Understand weapons released,” AKR echoed.

“Damn, I hope I got those coordinates right,” he replied. It prompted a grim smile from AKR who looked up into the canopy of stars. Death was on its way.

Moments before, he had alerted the teams to stand by for an impact. On the intersquad tactical net he had tried to sound confident and routine, but this was all new to him. He had called in fire before, but not like this, and not so close. The team leaders all acknowledged, coolly and professionally.

LeMaster’s voice startled him. “Ten seconds.”

“Copy ten.” His eyes were locked on those of Tomba, who immediately keyed his intersquad radio. “Five seconds, brothers; five seconds. Tomba out.”

The fourteen men on the ground turned away from the target, put their hands over their ears, closed their eyes, and opened their mouths. Before AKR assumed this position, he made brief eye contact with Tomba. He couldn’t be certain, but in the dim moonlight, he thought he saw a look of amusement cross that man’s handsome features.

WHUMP — WHUMP!

It was almost a single explosion. For those arrayed in a semicircle just outside the perimeter, it was like two rapid, vicious jabs in the kidneys. For those inside, it was much worse. The packages were modified three-hundred-pound, precision-guided bombs. Like their big brothers, the 2,000 JDAMs that had ravaged the Taliban in Afghanistan and the Republican Guard in Iraq, these baby smart bombs, directed by their onboard GPS receivers, struck within a few feet of their aim points. A half-microsecond delay allowed them to penetrate the roof and explode inside the buildings. One detonated just over one of the card tables in the bar-spa, the other in the center of the hallway on the second floor of the hotel barracks wing.

Eight of the Renaud Scouts died instantly in the spa, along with another twelve in the barracks. Seven more in the barracks, most of them in the first floor of the two-story wing, had their internal organs so mauled that they would never regain consciousness. Three crawled from the rubble of the destroyed wing bleeding from their nose and ears, unable to walk. Before the assault had begun, half the security force had been taken out of the fight. Those who were outside or away from the impact points had fared better, but none totally escaped the effects of the blasts. Many were knocked to the ground, and more than a few were temporarily blinded by the flash. Yet most of those left had experienced mortar bombardments and rocket attacks before. They recovered, some more quickly than others, and began to look for a place of safety, if not a place from which to fight.

Elsewhere in the complex, there was shock and confusion. With the exception of an all-night poker game, the clinical staff had been shaken from their beds, a few of them literally. Most thought it was an earthquake, followed by a quick realization that perhaps there was some kind of an explosion in the medical spaces, and that, more than anything else, prompted them to scramble to their feet and to look for a way out. Down in the basement medical facility, the effect was least felt, but nonetheless terrifying. Two technicians were in the process of disassembling the lab equipment, some of the more expensive and portable test equipment for transport, the rest for destruction. The two on duty paused to absorb the shock wave that passed through the medical spaces, exchanged a terrified look, and headed for the stairs. Throughout all this, the lights flickered but remained on. That was quickly taken care of when one of the Africans on the perimeter sorted himself out, shouldered his rocket launcher, and took out the two generators that had weathered the explosions. The two mini-JDAMs had, by design, started no fires. When the complex was plunged into darkness, the assault force pulled on their NVGs and began to move along preassigned routes into the complex. All but two. Joshua Konie and Pascoal Mumba remained in their perches, camped behind the IR sights on their SR-25 Stoner sniper rifles.

“Garrett?”

“Garrett here,”

It was Bill Owens; both Janet Brisco and Dodds LeMaster were glued to the tactical picture. “It appears that the initial strikes were dead on. AKR has initiated the ground assault. The generators are out, and the complex is dark. Time to rock and roll.”

Garrett grinned at that. Owens watched too many war movies. “Roger that, Bill. We’re on our way.”

Garrett caught the pilot’s eye and rotated his index finger in the air as a signal to start turning, but the pilots had heard the transmission and had already started to spool up the single engine of the Jet Ranger. A moment later, the blades began to turn.

“Don’t you think we should wait until the place is secured?” Rosenblatt yelled over the turbine whine.

“And miss all the fun?” Garrett retorted. “Are you nuts?”

As the Jet Ranger lifted from the veld, Garrett and Rosenblatt clung to the aircraft with one hand and held onto their helmets with the other. Once airborne, they got a radio check. Rosenblatt had a single earpiece and could hear only Garrett. By pressing a button on his wrist, Garrett could speak to Rosenblatt, AKR, or both. He noticed that his doctor was starting to look a little pale. He reached over and squeezed his knee.

“Tell you what, buddy. You don’t get me sick, and I won’t get you shot. Deal?”

Rosenblatt managed a grin. “Deal.”

A review of the video tapes later confirmed that the first individual kill during the assault belonged to Dodds LeMaster and Pascoal Mumba. LeMaster picked up an infrared image moving from the guard post on the road back toward the main building.

“Sniper One, this is Control. Can you hear me?”

“This is Mumba, Sniper One. Yes, I hear you very well.”

“There is a man moving up the road toward the large building. He should be in your view any moment.”

“Yes, Control. I see him now. May I shoot?”

“Mumba, Control. You may fire; you may fire, over.”

“Very well, I have him, out.”

Mumba had memorized the ranges from his shooting perch to various points in the compound. He judged it to be about 150 meters, which for the SR-25 was point-blank range. The man’s IR signature was clearly humanoid, but not clearly defined. He decided against a head shot and settled the cross hairs on the center of mass. The gun had been around for a while, but the ammunition had not. It was a new variant of armor-piercing, low-penetration 7.62 match-grade ammo. The round APLP bullet is designed to penetrate steel but not pass through a human torso. When the bullet entered into the flesh of the guard moving along the road, the heavy 192 grain round simply exploded. Mumba’s round caught the guard in the chest and blew off his head and left arm. LeMaster’s mouth fell open as he watched the expanding heat bloom from the scattered flesh. Then squirts of flame registered on his presentation screen as the .50-caliber near the guard shack opened up. They were firing at nothing, because they could see nothing. All they did was attract attention. Both snipers began to send rounds into the gun pit, and a moment later an LAAW rocket slammed into the emplacement, killing anyone still at the heavy machine gun.

Inside, the medical staff began to gather in the halls in various stages of partial dress. A few of them had flashlights. The stairwells and hallways were dimly lit by emergency battery lighting.

“What is it?”

“Are we under attack?”

“Where are the guards?”

Only one of them had any military experience — the Russian, a microbiologist who had worked with the Soviet and Russian bio-weapons effort. He waved the bottle of vodka he had been nursing most of the night, declaiming, “All can all kiss our sorry ass good-bye — All can all kiss our sorry ass good-bye.”

Then Helmut Klan appeared. “I believe we are under attack, but there is nothing we can do. Go back to your rooms. The security force will beat them back, or they will not. We’ll just have to await the outcome. Now go.” Some did as they were told; others didn’t, wanting only to escape the building.

Klan, dressed in his robe and slippers, went to his office and began setting out files for destruction. How he was going to accomplish this, he had no idea, but it seemed the logical thing to do. He was so intent on the task that he failed to notice François Meno enter the office. Meno was smoking a cigarette.

“So here we are in the führer’s bunker, and the Russians are pouring through the gates.” Meno held the cigarette backward in a theatrical Teutonic fashion, palm up, as he took a puff. “So, ve can say, ve vas yoost following orders? Eh? I don’t think so, mein Herr.” He peered carefully from the office window, which was cracked in several places. “I wonder who they are, anyway?”

Klan suddenly realized there was nothing to be done but wait for it to be over. He sat down at the desk and stared at the Frenchman. “If we’re lucky, they are a local African force, and perhaps Renaud and his men can deal with them,” he said to Meno, “but I rather think it is some kind of contract special operations force.” Suddenly remembering there was one thing he could do, he took his cell phone from the drawer and punched in the number for Maurice Baudo on his speed dialer. A single ring was followed immediately by a high-pitched squeal as Cheetah picked up the outgoing call and flooded the frequency with a jamming signal. Then a series of explosions sent them to the floor amid a shower of broken glass and dust.

Claude Renaud had packed his gear, had another belt of gin, and then tumbled into his cot, but had not been able to sleep. He finally gave up and, taking another pull from his flask, decided to return to the spa. After quickly downing another beer at the bar, he had started back to the barracks when the two mini-JDAMs struck. He was immediately blinded by the flash, and the concussion brought him to his knees. Most of the explosive force was absorbed by the structures, leaving him unhurt but unable to see for a few moments. Instinctively, he knew he must get to cover if he were to stay alive. He crawled until he was able to stand up and stagger to a stake truck parked well away from the buildings. Renaud threw himself under it, and from this relatively safe spot watched rocket and small-arms fire pour in from the perimeter. He was enough of a soldier to know that the RPD emplacements and guard posts were well targeted by incoming fire. After just a brief burst from the .50-caliber machine gun, there was little or no return fire from his men. He knew with sudden clarity that this must be the Western special operations force that Klan had warned him about. He also quickly realized that they had not come up the single road to the hotel complex. For a brief moment, Renaud was angered that his force was being so systematically destroyed, but that anger was quickly replaced by his need for self-preservation. He was absolutely certain that his only chance for survival was to get away from the area, which was rapidly becoming a killing field. When there was a lull in the firing, he crabbed his way to the other side of the truck and scurried off into the brush.

When Judy Burks awoke, she was puzzled — at first because she was on top of the bedcovers, not under them, and then because the light was on. Or was it morning sun that seemed to scald her eyes? She distinctly remembered that she had closed the curtains before she undressed for bed. And was that cigarette smoke that she was smelling? This is all wrong, she told herself as she tried to sit up. It was then that she realized that she couldn’t move. Her hands and feet were tied down to the bed. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the light, she could now see that it wasn’t sunlight but a strong, shaded floodlight suspended at the foot of the bed. She took a moment to inventory her situation. Think back to what you last remember, she demanded of herself. As the sleepy fog started to clear, she had the icy realization that it hadn’t been a dream at all. She had been taken from her hotel room, removed from her bed. She didn’t know how or by whom, but she probably had a good idea why. Simultaneously, she was very angry and very scared.

“Okay, jokes over. I got no money, and you’d have to be crazy to harm a United States federal agent. I’d suggest that you might rethink this whole thing and just let me go. We’ll forget that it ever happened.” She raised her head and saw the glow of a cigarette in the shadows behind the light. “Really, I’m not worth the effort. C’mon, talk to me.”

Vadim Karpukhin was from the old school, the old First Directorate to be exact, and he was feeling uneasy about this woman. Karpukhin had been a specialist in foreign operations and foreign internal security affairs. Retired for more than a decade, he now headed a thriving semi-legal corporate security business. On occasion he was contacted by Boris Zhirinon with a special request. Karpukhin was a busy man, and rapidly becoming a wealthy one, but he would never say no to Boris Zhirinon. KBG operatives are often portrayed in the West as thugs or ideologues, but in reality most are principled professionals. Karpukhin took no money for these special requests; it was a matter of honor and respect for what had once been — that and the fact that he occasionally called on Zhirinon for a favor of his own. He had initially been sent to Harare with the ambiguous instructions to look for evidence regarding some kind of Western interventionist force in Zimbabwe. After a few inquiries he had concluded that something was going on in the province of Tonga, but since he was not able to travel there, little more could be learned in Zimbabwe. On his own, he decided to fly to Lusaka and do some probing in the Zambian capital. He found that little was to be gained from the Russian legation. The KGB was gone. None of the old guard, like Karpukhin, trusted the new spies of the Foreign Intelligence Service. And if one of the old KGB hands had in fact been assigned to the Lusaka residence, how good could he be, to have been posted to Lusaka? A little leg-work on his own, a few bribes, and the fact that Vadim Karpukhin was a true pro from the old school quickly produced some results. He soon learned that there had been a brief flurry of activity at hangar B-5 at the airport. Then a hotel clerk tipped him off that there was a female registered at the Intercontinental Hotel with a red official U.S. passport. He had asked himself, Are the two connected? Karpukhin knew that you could no longer just grab a U.S. federal agent off the street, even in some neutral third-world capital, without good reason or as some kind of retaliation. And there really was no cause for such retaliation, since the CIA and KGB called it quits in 1991. The only excuse for such an action was that Vadim Karpukhin didn’t want to disappoint Boris Zhirinon.

“Miss Burks. I’m sorry it was necessary to abduct you like this, but I must have some information. A large transport aircraft and two helicopters arrived and left a deserted hangar at the Lusaka general aviation terminal a few nights ago. It was about the same time you arrived. I believe that these two events are somehow connected. I would like you to enlighten me on this matter.”

Judy Burks’s mind was racing. She could see nothing beyond the white beacon at the foot of the bed except a cloud of cigarette smoke that lazily drifted through the light. She was reasonably sure that she was in some kind of a bedroom; it was air-conditioned, and that meant Western comforts, but she sensed it was not a hotel room. Her interlocutor’s English was practiced, and she could detect an accent that was probably German or Slavic. She was reasonably sure it wasn’t Middle Eastern. The voice wanted information, not money, so it wasn’t ransom. She was still dressed in her nightgown, so it wasn’t sexual, at least not yet. What to do? She could scream, but since he hadn’t gagged her, it probably wouldn’t do any good. Maybe she could get very emotional and break down crying. Not a whole lot of options.

What the hell, she thought. “Eat shit and die, you pervert,” she yelled in a loud voice, proud of herself that it didn’t crack. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. So get these restraints off me and let me the hell out of here. Do you hear me, you asshole?”

Holy Mother of Russia, Vadim Karpukhin said to himself, shaking his head. So she’s not going to make this so easy. He had done the arithmetic; it would take a day for anyone to miss her, and another day for the embassy staff to go on the hunt for her. Bribes in the right place might put them on his trail by the third day. He figured he had a safe forty-eight hours. He had hoped she might turn out to be one of those whiny Western bitches that fall apart when they break a fingernail. So far, that didn’t appear to be the case.

Tomba and AKR watched the systematic dismantling of the Makondo Hotel. All of the known and fixed RPD emplacements were rocketed and raked with well-aimed fire. In a few instances some unfortunate guard managed to shoot back, to be immediately met with lethal counter-fire. After about five minutes, the firing died away, as the men on the perimeter were finding no more targets.

“Dodds, this is AKR. See anything?”

LeMaster had brought Cheetah down to some ten thousand feet over the target — about a mile and a half overhead. Cheetah flew figure eights over the complex, crossing and recrossing, looking for any sign of movement. Now that the firing had stopped, the thermal sensors had began to sort out the picture on the ground.

“Nothing that would…hold on, I have something near grid G-6, over. I’m marking it now.”

“Roger, grid G-6. Wait, out.”

On his notebook display, AKR saw the cursor on his screen float to a single thermal image near a small storage shed behind the hotel. Probably someone walking perimeter patrol at the time of the attack was now trying to slip back into the compound. AKR pointed it out to Tomba, who immediately keyed his radio.

“Joshua, we have a man moving on the south side of the storage shed that is in front of you and to your left. You may have to move to get a shot at him.”

“I understand. I am moving now to a position where I can see him.” Tomba let all know that one of theirs was moving inside the perimeter of the complex. Cheetah zoomed on the drama, and they watched one thermal image move in relation to the other. Then Joshua stopped, and a brief bloom on the scope marked his muzzle flash. He made the shot from about thirty yards, and in a few seconds it was followed by a burst of heat on the scope. They heard the report of an explosion.

“He was carrying a grenade with the pin pulled,” Tomba observed to AKR. “We often do that when close fighting is at hand.” Then on the radio, “Are you all right, Joshua?”

“I am well. I have a piece of shrapnel in my thigh, but it is not deep. I will hold here until the final assault.”

Joshua moved to the modest cover of the storage shed and waited. AKR, with Tomba on his shoulder, watched Cheetah’s view of the complex. Occasionally they looked up, snapping on their nightvision goggles for a ground-level look. Both of them had led raids and assaults; neither had done this with the tools IFOR had placed at their disposal. The technology had given them a great advantage, and as always, surprise is everything, but clearing and securing the facility would be low-tech, basic infantry work.

“What do you think, Akheem?” It was Janet Brisco. She could recommend they move in, but as ground commander, it would be his decision. He glanced at Tomba, who nodded his consent. Once more AKR slowly swept the area with the image intensifiers. There was nothing. But he knew, as well as Tomba, that any guard force remaining who still wanted to fight would have gone to ground and be waiting. Any more delay would not necessarily make moving in any less risky.

“Okay, Janet, we move now. It’s Tomba’s show. Silence on the net unless it’s tactical and it’s critical. AKR out.” Then he turned to Tomba and put a hand on his shoulder. “Awusipe namhla isinkwa, my brother.”

“Victory or death, my brother,” Tomba replied. Then he keyed his radio. “Assault teams, move out. If you leave your assigned corridors as you approach the target, I must know.” He paused while the four team leaders acknowledged the order; then, clutching his rifle, he turned and melted into the bush, moving down and toward the hotel.

It was with some sense of relief that Tomba crept toward the objective. He was back in his element. He eased the earpiece slightly off his ear so as to better listen for enemy movement. Tomba and the four two-man teams began to clear the outlying buildings and guard posts as they closed on the hotel. Twice Dodds LeMaster alerted a team of potential danger, one of them leading to a kill. For the teams with the use of night vision devices, it was like flushing game birds from low grass. If they moved, they were dead. The Africans moved steadily and professionally, calling their shots. Then tragedy struck. An RPD machine gun in the back of a canvas-covered truck had remained hidden from Cheetah and from the attackers until it was too late. As one team moved across the last stretch of ground toward the entrance of the hotel, the RPD caught them in the open.

The truck and the two men manning the machine gun became an instant magnet for automatic-weapons fire and 40mm grenades. Then a rocket slammed into the vehicle and turned it into a burning pyre. In the glow of the fired truck, the complex fell silent. Tomba directed the three remaining teams to security positions around the downed men and went to them. One was dead and the other mortally wounded. Tomba dragged him to safety, checked his wounds, then plunged a morphine syringe into his thigh. The man, a Masai, had taken three of the AK-47–type rounds in his bowel and stomach, and another in the chest. He was in terrible pain, but he did not cry out. It took only a moment for the man’s features to relax from the drug, and he was gone. Tomba took a moment to lightly touch the Masai’s bloodstained face and close his eyes. He then quickly directed his attention to the remaining teams, directing them to close and secure the doors to the hotel. He himself covered the entrance.

“We are in position,” he radioed to AKR. “The hotel is secure. Two men dead, no others wounded.”

“Understood. I will be there in a moment.” AKR wanted to ask which of his men were killed, but this was not the time. “Janet, are you there?”

“Right here, Akheem.”

“Hotel and complex secure for now. We’re ready for Garrett. Two men KIA.”

“Understand two KIA. Stand by for an ETA on the helo.” Her voice was neutral and controlled; this was not the first time she had lost men in an engagement under her tactical control. A moment later she was back to him. “Akheem, Brisco, over.”

“Right here, Janet.”

“The helo will be there in about four minutes. Do you want the helo to remain in air while you check out the hotel?”

AKR thought for a moment. The ambush by the RPD had been a surprise, and there could be others. Even one man with a rifle could wreak havoc on a stationary helo and crew. And they had no seriously wounded men, only dead.

“Negative. Have the helo drop Garrett and the doctor and clear off. Have them return to their refueling site. We’ll call them back when we need them.”

“Understood. They will drop their passengers and wait off-site. Brisco, out.”

They didn’t hear the helo until it was on top of them. The pilots did their military flying with the 1st Special Operations Wing and knew how to fly a tactical approach. They made a downwind approach, flying close to the hardwood canopy and flaring only for the landing at the last moment. The Jet Ranger paused at the helo pad, a small piece of level ground fifty yards from the hotel. They stayed only long enough for the two men in the back to scramble from the cargo bay and pull off their equipment bundles. Garrett and Elvis moved as quickly as possible, limited somewhat by their protection suits and gear. The helo jerked into the air, paused a moment as if to regain its bearings, and rolled away into the safety of the night sky.

Back at the Jeki airstrip Steven Fagan had followed the action from a console in one of the vans. They were air-conditioned for the sake of the equipment, yet he found that a rivulet of sweat was making its way down his temple. It had been a while since he had been this close to a ground action. As a young Special Forces sergeant, he had led a contingent of Montenyard tribesmen on the Plain de Jarres in Laos toward the end of the Vietnam War. That experience had left him with an appreciation of the desperate, fast-moving, life-in-the-balance struggle that is a firefight, even a one-sided one. For Steven, the thermal images and computer-enhanced presentations conveyed emotion. Even without the audio play-by-play, this was much more than a video game. So intently was his focus on the scope that he almost failed to notice the vibration of the sat phone vying for attention in his pocket. Once he became aware of it, he stripped off his headset and flipped open the phone. The caller ID was blank, and that in itself puzzled him. “Yes?” he said, holding the phone to his ear.

“Steven, this is Jim Watson.”

“Sir, what can I do for you?”

“Steven, I can only guess that you are very busy right now, but something has come up in Lusaka that you need to be aware of. I want you to call this number there in Lusaka; are you ready to copy?”

The connection was excellent, but Steven read the number back to him to be sure he had it right. “And who am I to ask for?”

“Only one person will answer,” Watson said. “It will be Ambassador Donald Conrad.”

“AKR, Garrett. We’re on the ground and at the helo pad, over.”

“AKR here. Stay where you are, and I’ll send a couple of the men to bring you down.”

AKR was now with Tomba near the entrance to the hotel. Tomba detailed one of his snipers and one of his rocketeers to bring the two spacemen down. Both Garrett and Rosenblatt carried their helmets. The two Africans who escorted them to the entrance flanked them to either side and kept them well in the shadows. Each shouldered one of Rosenblatt’s packs. Garrett carried an M-4 assault rifle.

“Everything all right?” Garrett asked as he dropped to one knee beside AKR.

“We lost a team — two men. Otherwise it’s gone well.”

“Tough break. Any movement inside?”

“None. If you’re ready, let’s move. I don’t want to give them time to recover.”

AKR nodded to Tomba, who called up one of his men, a Zulu they called Wilson because his tribal name was too difficult for westerners, even Garrett, to pronounce. The two astronauts put on their helmets — they were now ready to battle microbes. AKR and Wilson pulled on gas masks and gauntlet-type gloves that they had brought with them for this purpose. They hadn’t the protection of Garrett or Rosenblatt, but they were there primarily for security support. The four men moved into the foyer and lobby in a diamond formation, Garrett in the lead, flanked by AKR and Wilson. Rosenblatt brought up the rear. Tomba remained outside for external security with the rest of the force. The nine remaining Africans stayed in static positions at observation points around the hotel, all with good fields of fire. Their objective now was to hold and protect the main hotel building and the helo pad just long enough for the men inside to do their job. Above, Cheetah remained on the prowl. The ever-vigilant Dodds LeMaster reported what she saw to Tomba.

Per his instructions, Rosenblatt stepped to one side while the other three men moved quickly through the lobby area and cleared it. They were about to take the stairs to the basement when a disheveled man entered the lobby. His hands were thrust into his bathrobe pockets, and he had obviously been drinking.

“May I ask what you are doing here? This a medical research facility, and—”

Three rifles swung on him, but only AKR spoke. “On the floor, now! Do as you are told or we will shoot to kill!” Helmut Klan went to his knees and eased himself to the floor. “Cross your ankles! Look to your left! Hands behind your back!” Klan did as he was told. Wilson pounced on the prone man, cuffed him, quickly searched him, and jerked him to his feet. Garrett and AKR kept their eyes moving around the room. Wilson unceremoniously dumped Klan into a lobby armchair and took a security position across the lobby. Garrett dropped to one knee in front of Klan, whose eyes were wide with fear even though he had nearly drained a bottle of schnapps while the battle had raged outside. Rosenblatt approached and squatted beside Garrett. He had been briefed to keep his head down when possible, at least no higher than those around him. Garrett put the muzzle of his rifle under Klan’s chin, raising his jaw, but not so high that Garrett couldn’t look at him through the Plexiglas shield of his helmet.

“Who are you, and what is your job here?” Garrett asked in a low voice. He assumed the man was doped up, dazed, or drunk. He pushed on the rifle a little harder; he wanted to see if the man could be controlled by pain. He accomplished that and more. Klan was immediately convinced that the man behind the Plexiglas shield would end his life if provoked or if it pleased him. Yet he had one gambit that he hoped would save his life.

“I–I am the director here or, what I mean to say, I was the director here. Our project is finished. We — we were about to leave.”

Garrett glanced at Rosenblatt, who had taken up a station on the other side of Klan. “You were developing a bio-weapon here,” Rosenblatt said. “Where is it?”

“No, no — you have it wrong, please. We came to develop a drug for AIDS, that is all,” Klan managed, spouting his much-rehearsed story. “And we were successful; we developed a vaccine that has great promise.” Then he played his last card. “We shipped the vaccine out just last night; we were about to close the lab down. I admit that we were using HIV-positive members in the local population for testing. That is why we had a security force here. It — it was not right, but it was in the interest of science. You have to believe that!”

Rosenblatt was now within a few inches of Klan’s face, his heated voice partially fogging the faceplate. “Just another German obeying orders — doing what he was told, is that it?”

“Yes, yes. It was medical research.”

“You’re just another Nazi shit,” Rosenblatt spat. “Your father was probably one of those bastards that made soap out of my relatives.”

“You want me to kill him?” Garrett asked.

“Sure. Blow his fucking head off,” Rosenblatt replied coldly.

Garrett pushed on the barrel of his rifle, causing Klan to gag.

“No, please, it was not me,” he gasped. “I am not a researcher; I am only the facility manager. I did not know what went on in the basement. You must believe me.” And then he fainted, from fear and from the pressure of the muzzle on his carotid artery.

“Damn,” Garrett mumbled, not wanting him to lose consciousness. But then he was suddenly aware of AKR and Wilson moving at the same time. Coming down the staircase was a man in khaki slacks, collared shirt, and a windbreaker.

The newcomer smiled and held his hands out from his sides. “May I join you?”

Garrett glanced at Rosenblatt and nodded. Both of them rose. The man moved across the lobby, still holding his hands out from his sides — still smiling. AKR tracked him with his rifle, while Wilson covered the stairs and the hallways that opened into the lobby. Garrett lifted his weapon, and the man stopped.

“He’s lying, but then you already know that.” The newcomer’s English was good, with only a hint of a Parisian accent. He directed his comments to Garrett, assuming he was the one in charge. “We have in fact developed a bio-weapon, and it’s a bad one — very bad. One might say it borders on the diabolical. I know; I developed it. But our fearless director here”—he looked at the unconscious Klan with a sneer—“was right about one thing. We shipped it out yesterday. I couldn’t tell you where it is right now, but it’s probably somewhere over the Indian Ocean or the Mediterranean by now.”

“So why are you telling us this, Dr. Meno?” Rosenblatt said. “You’ve just admitted to a monstrous crime.”

“Ah, so you know who I am,” Meno said, beaming as he turned to the second astronaut. “This makes it easier. Parlez-vous français?” Rosenblatt did, but shook his head no. “American, no doubt,” Meno replied, his voice dripping with condescension. “A pity. Then let me break it down for you in English. You see, I have developed a pathogen that is like nothing known to man. It is robust, and it is deadly, and it will take months of effort by the best geneticists in the world to develop a vaccine. And more time still to produce it in quantity.” He eyed Rosenblatt closely, now rightly assuming that the smaller of these two was the brains and the other, the muscle. “I have no doubt that your Centers for Disease Control or the bumblers at Johns Hopkins could in time develop such a vaccine,” he continued, but when he mentioned Johns Hopkins, the sneer returned. They had denied him a fellowship. “But I know this germ. Trust me when I say that tens of thousands will die most unpleasantly before you even clear clinical trials. And if this pathogen evolves, as it has the ability to do once established in a large population, many more thousands will die.”

“So what are you saying?” Rosenblatt asked coldly.

“What I’m saying is that for safe passage and ten million of your dollars, I will give you the vaccine. Once I am safely away from here, of course. You see, I developed the vaccine along with the pathogen. It’s much easier, genetically speaking, to design the cure while you design the disease.” The condescension was back, along with a measure of triumph. “It’s not here, if that’s what you were wondering. It has been sent along to a location that is known only to me.” He turned and sat in a nearby armchair. “That’s it, gentlemen. You Americans like analogies, so take your pick. The genie is out of the bottle; Pandora’s box has been thrown open; or it is the time of the locusts.” Meno languidly propped his feet up on a low magazine table and put his hands behind his head. He exuded confidence. “Of course, I know you will need time to talk with your people. Take your time, but remember, the clock has already started.”

Rosenblatt looked at Garrett and, in a tone of voice that Garrett had not heard before, said, “Get this scum away from me.” The look on his face was even more terrible. They had agreed that when it came to handling the medical staff, Rosenblatt was to set the agenda. Garrett and the others would take their cues, if not direct orders, from him. So Garrett swung his rifle up to the port-arms position and cracked Dr. François Meno in the mouth with the barrel, not doing him serious damage but carrying away his front teeth. He took the stunned Frenchman by the collar, dragged him into the cocktail lounge area, and dumped him into one of the Naugahyde chairs. Surprised and stunned, Meno tried to speak. Garrett hit him sharply with an open hand, and he passed out. He cuffed him to a nearby stanchion with nylon snap-ties and returned to the lobby. Rosenblatt was now hovering over Klan. He had found some water and splashed it in Klan’s face. This brought him around, and his eyes again grew wide.

“Whether you live or die depends on what you tell me next, so it better be right. Is the man who was charged with the culturing and manufacturing of this bio-toxin still here?” Klan bobbed his head in the affirmative. “Then take me to him.”

While Garrett Walker had been rearranging François Meno’s dental work, a Citation Encore chartered to a Saudi multinational corporation landed in Nairobi. It had taken the aircraft a little over three hours to make the 1,200-mile trip from Harare. A swarthy man with a briefcase in one hand and a small package in the other disembarked, paid the customs agent a bribe in keeping with the plushness of the small corporate jet, and caught a taxi for the commercial terminal. The Citation’s pilot took on fuel and filed a flight plan for Aden. He was airborne and crossing into Ethiopian airspace as the sun was coming up. The Citation’s single passenger, per his instructions, took the package to the FedEx counter and paid for it to be sent overnight.

“My name is Tamay,” he said to the man at the counter. “I believe you have something for me.”

“Mr. Tamay?” he replied. “Yes, I believe this is for you.”

The counterman, per his instructions, handed over an envelope. It contained a key to one of the airport lockers. Tamay quickly found the locker and removed an even smaller package stuffed with rand. It looked to be all there, but he hadn’t the time to count it; he had to hurry to catch his flight to Dubai. The briefcase held medical samples and nonpointed instruments, in keeping with his documentation as a pharmaceutical rep. In the false side of the case, entombed between two thin sheets of padding, was a row of syringes with the needles removed. Security was lax at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, but then he would have also passed unchallenged through the TSA maize at JFK.

Vadim Karpukhin was not having a good time of it. He was a professional, and he knew from experience that his best course of action was to use the least amount of physical force to achieve the desired result. This meant disorientation, bondage, sensory deprivation and/or overload, and the threat of mutilation, but no real bodily harm. Failing that, there were drugs, but he had left Moscow on short notice, and he had no drugs available. He had been dispatched quickly and neglected to prepare the vials of thiopental sodium for travel. It was not difficult; he only had to prepare the needles and serum to appear to be the medication of a diabetic. But he had not taken the time, and now he wished that he had. In most cases, especially with westerners, only one in ten even needed to be drugged. When he first saw her at the hotel pool, oiling her body and repeatedly turning herself in the sunshine, like some ripe female rotisserie, he was certain that there would be no need for drugs. He went so far as to speculate that with a few hours’ work, this slip of a girl would quickly tell him what he needed to know. Then he could make his phone call and be on his way back to St. Petersburg. But so far it had not worked out that way.

Karpukhin looked at his watch. He had used just about every trick he knew — all his skill and technique. Had he the drugs, he would now be rolling her onto her stomach and stabbing her skinny tush with a hypo. Why, he wondered, did American men seem to want their women to be so thin? And why did the women starve themselves for their men? He peered at her from behind the light without emotion. He lit a cigarette and considered how to proceed; he hadn’t much time left in the two days he had allotted to complete his job. Then the odor of excrement hit him.

“You sonovabitch! Damn it, I couldn’t hold it any longer, so I just shit the damn bed. You fuckin’ pervert! I may have to lay in it, but you, you asshole, have got to smell it!”

He drew heavily on the cigarette, sucking the acrid smoke deep into his lungs. Vadim Karpukhin was becoming concerned. Not all people responded to torture, and this little lady might just be one of them. Well, he had one more thing to try before he had to get rough; it might work, and again, it might not. But he had no choice; failing Zhirinon was not something he cared to think about. He rose, took a last draw on the butt, and dropped it to the floor, grinding it out with the sole of his shoe. Then he snapped off the light and moved toward the bed.

Pavel Zelinkow knew the Citation had made the flight from Harare to Nairobi without incident; the pilot had called an exchange and left a message that he had delivered his passenger and was out of Kenya. He also knew that the courier, presumably with his lethal cargo, was now on a flight from Nairobi en route to the Saudi capital. Pavel Zelinkow was totally unaware, however, that the courier had agreed, for a very generous gratuity from someone else, to carry the package from Harare to Nairobi and deliver that package to the FedEx counter at Jomo Kenyatta International. Feeling confident and close to success, Pavel pushed himself away from his desk and went to the side counter for a second cup of espresso. This morning, in celebration of the product having been safely shipped, he poured a bit of anisette into the strong brew and, selecting one of his better Dominicans, went out onto the balcony. It was a warm morning, and he was quite comfortable in his fleece-lined slippers, pajamas, and robe.

From the compound of some fundamentalist cleric near Riyadh, Zelinkow mused, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi would put his plan into action — and what a fiendish plan it was. As horrible as the projected outcome of this venture was to be, Zelinkow could only marvel at the simplicity of al-Zarqawi’s plan, now that the bio-weapon was, or soon would be, in his hands. In Saudi Arabia, there waited a dozen young men who would be injected with the deadly virus. They would become biological suicide bombers. These lethal individuals would then fly to Paris and London, and then on to the United States, each to a major city — New York and Los Angeles had been targeted for two each. Upon arrival in their target cities, they would draw large sums of money and indulge themselves. Zelinkow drew thoughtfully on his cigar and reflected on the irony of it. Most suicide bombers were promised forty virgins if they gave their life for the cause, but their reward was in the next life. These dozen men in America would, as the Americans were fond of saying, be able to have their cake and eat it as well. These highly contagious young men were to take their large bankrolls and buy as much sex on the American market as their libido could stand. Their instructions were to literally screw themselves to death, and in doing so, they would figuratively screw America.

He tapped the ash from his cigar and watched the Eternal City bask in the early-morning sun. When the pathogen reached Riyadh and was safely in the hands of an al-Zarqawi agent, he would be finished with this business. All that remained were a few housekeeping chores in Zimbabwe — unpleasant chores, but housekeeping nonetheless. He glanced at his watch. Perhaps it was time for Mr. Frémaux to call Claude Renaud to see how that end of the business was going. Renaud would be one of those loose ends that usually followed an undertaking of this kind, but that couldn’t be helped. If he carried out his instructions at the Makondo Hotel, he would be the only loose end. Zelinkow fully expected Renaud to start talking once he went through his money, but who would listen? Who would he implicate?

Zelinkow suddenly felt a chill. The morning, though spectacular in promise, was not yet as warm as he had imagined. He set the Dominican in a stone ashtray to burn out and went back inside. Knowing that Renaud, if he had not yet completed his final task at the Makondo, might need some prompting, Zelinkow dialed Renaud’s cell, the one with a dedicated line to the mercenary leader. He dialed twice but got only static — no ringing, and no indication of the absence of a signal. Strange, Zelinkow thought; he had spared no cost in making sure that the cell coverage that supported his operations was both secure and reliable. Very strange indeed.

A terrified Lyman Hotch led Elvis Rosenblatt and Garrett Walker down the corridor of the basement lab. The explosion in the far wing of the hotel had not visibly disturbed the lab, but a fine coating of dust had been jarred loose from the structure as the shock wave passed through the building. They were still in their sealed suits. It was possible that some of the pathogen or dangerous materials in the lab spaces could have been released by the blast.

“I cannot help you,” Hotch wailed. “It is all gone.” He turned to plead his case, but Rosenblatt pushed him down the corridor. Both he and Garrett had powerful lanterns.

“I want to see where you made the stuff. Keep moving.”

Hotch led them to a laboratory space that was set up to culture viruses. To Garrett it looked like something from a TV commercial for a pharmaceutical company. Rosenblatt walked over to the desk, which was littered with Swedish pornographic magazines. He began to rifle the drawers. Suddenly he whirled on Hotch.

“Your notes? Where are your notes?”

“I told you, it’s all gone. We were told to destroy everything. I burned my ledgers and doused all the culture mediums and laboratory plumbing with bleach. We were told to leave no evidence behind. I told you, there is nothing left.”

With this declaration, Hotch slumped down a wall and lowered himself to the floor. Rosenblatt sat on a lab stool, lost in thought.

“I can see what they did and how they were accomplishing it. With his help and some time, I could probably replicate the process. Maybe reverse-engineer how they produced it to come up with a vaccine.”

“But if that Frog is right, Elvis,” Garrett said, “time is something we may not have.”

Rosenblatt went back to searching the lab. “There has to be something they left behind, some clue.” He was beginning to sound a little desperate. “Could you have someone bring down my equipment? I’m going to need it.” Then he added, “I think it’s safe enough, but have them wear a mask.”

Garrett was about to call up to AKR when his voice came over the circuit. “Garrett, AKR. Can you hear me?”

“Garrett here, what is it?”

“I need you up here now. Something’s come up. I’m sending Wilson down to be with the doctor.”

Garrett didn’t question him. “The doc needs his equipment; have Wilson bring it. I’ll be up as soon as he gets here.”

Moments later, Garrett saw Wilson struggling down the dimly lit corridor with the equipment bundles. He helped unburden him, then was off at a jog to find AKR. He found him waiting in the lobby.

“Steven will be here in a few minutes in the other Jet Ranger. He wants you waiting at the pad. Something’s happened, but he didn’t say what. He just said for you to be waiting when he sets down.” Garrett nodded and headed for the front entrance. Once outside, he was met by Mohammed Senagal.

“Where is Tomba?” he asked, removing the helmet of his suit.

“There was a matter that needed his attention,” Senagal answered neutrally.

Garrett was about to question him further, but he heard the rotor beat of an approaching helicopter. He raced toward the helo pad. The Jet Ranger touched down, and Steven appeared in the doorway. He motioned Garrett aboard. Garrett hesitated, wondering what could be so urgent that he was being called away. Then he realized that he was not in command of the operations; that was AKR’s job. He vaulted onto the helo, and they lifted immediately into the air.

In the basement of the lab, Dr. Elvis Rosenblatt was unpacking his test equipment, a small but highly effective spectrometer, a portable electron microscope, and several pieces of metered test equipment. Perhaps, he thought, I can find some residue of the virus on one of the ampoules. Even a dead virus might give him the clue he needed. It was a long shot, but there seemed no other way.

“Nkosi,” Wilson said, “there is someone coming down the corridor.”

The newcomer approached with his hands at his sides. There was a sense of purpose as well as a resignation that made him unafraid. He gently pushed the barrel of Wilson’s weapon aside and entered the lab.

“My name is Johann Mitchell,” he said in a barely audible voice, “and I helped to create this monster. Perhaps I can be of service.”

In the road that led from the main compound, a solitary figure was moving slowly and carefully through a grove of mopane trees. There was a Toyota 4x4 parked just below the now-destroyed sentry post that had guarded the access road to the complex. It might still be serviceable; if he could reach it, he could make his escape.

Claude Renaud had watched the systematic destruction of his force by the invaders. They were obviously a disciplined, Western military force. When he saw two of them illuminated by an explosion, he was surprised that they were both black. He saw them only briefly, but there was something familiar about them. No matter, he had to get away. His force had been beaten, and beaten almost without a fight. He clearly heard the distinctive chatter of an RPD, but it was quickly silenced by a volley of fire and an explosion. Instead of using this brief stand of resistance to rally his men, Renaud had taken the advantage of the exchange to scurry away from the complex to safety. So much for the completion bonus, he thought, but there were still the funds that had been building up in his Maputo bank account. All that mattered at this moment was to use the remaining darkness to make his escape.

Renaud managed to work his way past the rubble of the guard shack. There were two charred bodies, but only one was recognizable. He stepped past them without emotion, peering into the darkness for the dim outline of the Toyota. As he moved along the side of the road away from the complex, his heart almost sang as he caught a glint of the setting moon off a windshield. Renaud plunged toward the vehicle, praying that it would run. The pickup was parked on an incline, so he could allow it to roll for perhaps a hundred yards before he had to start the engine.

Reaching the truck, he leaned through the driver’s side window, releasing the brake and taking it out of gear. He braced his shoulder against the window post, and the Toyota began to move. He had hoped to leave the Makondo in the comfort of his Land Rover at the head of a column of his scouts — the Renaud Scouts — but obviously that was not to be. At least he would be leaving with his life, perhaps the only one of his force to do so. Then his head seemed to explode, and he was thrown to the dirt and scrub of the valley floor. Dazed, he managed to raise his head and watched helplessly as the Toyota rolled across the road and slowly nosed into a deep ditch on the far side. He felt the pistol in his belt holster being jerked away. Then he was aware of a tall form standing over him.

“W-what the hell is going on? Who are you?” The waning moon was full on the man’s face, and his features were vaguely familiar. It must be one of his blacks — or was it? The blow he had taken to the side of his head was now beginning to swell, threatening to close one eye. Then the man squatted and looked him full in the face.

“You do not remember me?” Renaud looked at him, fighting through the throbbing pain in his head to try and bring the man into focus. Yes, he did know this man, but he could not quite recall the time or place.

“Think back to your last day as a Selous Scout.”

The realization exploded over him. “You!” he exclaimed.

A cold hatred instantly overtook him. He had not thought it possible after so long a time. It had been over twenty years. But squatting there beside him was the same Selous Scout warrant officer who had beaten him in front of the other men and then watched as he was dismissed from the Scouts. His hate for this man knew no bounds; it now overwhelmed his pain and his judgment.

“You black bastard! Go ahead and do whatever it is you’re going to do! You were a bloody kaffir then, and you’re still a bloody kaffir.” Renaud immediately regretted the words, but they had come from deep within his soul.

Tomba regarded Renaud for a long moment. “I will not only do with you what I please, but I will tell you about it.” He paused while he took a length of duct tape and wrapped it around Renaud’s mouth and head to effectively gag him. “I’m going to drag you back into that thicket of blackthorn trees, far enough so no one can see or hear you from the road. I’m going to tie you to a tree and hamstring you. Then I’m going to castrate you. You will bleed to death, but probably not before the hyenas and bushpigs find you.”

And that’s what he did.

Garrett struggled out of his anti-exposure suit as the Jet Ranger sped over the Mavuradonha Mountains toward the Zambezi and Lusaka.

“What’s up?” he yelled over the whine of the turbine. He could tell from experience that the helo was making its best speed, which was close to 140 knots.

Steven helped him pull the suit from his legs. Garrett was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers underneath the chem-bio suit.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it appears that Judy Burks was kidnapped from her hotel room.”

“What! When?”

“Two nights ago. It seems that she was abducted in the early-morning hours and taken to a private residence outside Lusaka. The good news is that we have the home under surveillance.”

“Under surveillance! And nothing’s been done! How long have you known about this?”

Steven placed a hand on his arm. “I just found out. Now sit back, and I’ll bring you up-to-date. As you know, Judy was waiting out the operation in Lusaka in the event she was needed in a liaison capacity. She briefed our ambassador that an operation was being launched from Zambia, but gave no specifics. Nor was State brought into the picture with any detail. Fortunately, the ambassador put her under surveillance as a precaution. Once she was taken, he really had no option but to report the event back up the chain of command. It took two days for it to get from State to the CIA. Once the Director was made aware of what had taken place, Jim Watson called me direct. That was about an hour ago.”

“So what are we going to do?”

Steven grinned. “Get her back, of course. Our embassy in Lusaka is thinly staffed, and there is no station or CIA presence in Zambia. But I’m given to believe that they can and will help us.”

“Help us how?”

Again, Steven grinned. “You’re not going to believe this, but they’re going to provide some muscle.”

François Meno had recovered somewhat, but he was still shaken. He was seated in a lounge chair with his back to a stout wooden post that was there as much for decor as for support. His hands were strapped behind him and around the post. He was now starting to lose the feeling in his arms. Meno had grown up with affluence and privilege. It was the first time in his life that he had been in a situation over which he had no control. And it was also the first time in his life that he had been struck. Typical American ruffians! Not long ago he had paid to have his teeth straightened and whitened. Now his mouth was ruined. The tall man in the chem-bio suit was nothing but a vicious bully. Meno salved his anger and fear with the revenge he would demand for this insult and personal attack. These people, he seethed, clearly did not know who or what they were dealing with.

Bottom line, they needed him. Without the vaccine, perhaps hundreds of thousands would die, and only he had the antidote. These bastards, he vowed, would pay! Thanks to the rough stuff, the price for the vaccine had just gone to $20 million.

Suddenly a man in a chem-bio suit walked briskly into the lounge. A stab of fear gripped Meno until he realized that it was not the one with the rifle who had dealt him the cowardly blow. He had removed the helmet, so Meno had a clear look at his face. His hair was matted with sweat, and he wore clear-framed glasses set slightly askew on his thin face. He looked like another of the faceless lab rats who populated research facilities around the world. One of the nobodies who scurried about it — white coats doing menial tasks.

“So you have inspected the laboratory spaces?” Meno said, trying to control the lisp he now had by virtue of broken teeth and swollen lips. “And as you can see, there is nothing for you to learn there. And if there were, there is nothing that you could do about it. You must do business with me, or many, many thousands will die. Only thanks to your brutal friend, the price of my vaccine is going to be much higher.”

“So you have the vaccine?” Rosenblatt asked.

“I do. I have a small quantity that I manufactured myself, and the detailed process by which more can be made. But it is in a safe place — somewhere known only to me.”

“And you’re sure it is an effective vaccine?”

Meno managed to wipe his mouth on his shoulder and give Rosenblatt a look of pure disdain. “I developed it myself. It’s as effective in managing this pathogen as are the vaccines for variola major smallpox or polio.”

“Well, I certainly hope so, for your own sake,” Rosenblatt replied. He wore surgical rubber gloves and held up a hypodermic syringe at eye level, the needle pointed up. “Because you’re going to need it.”

Rosenblatt shoved a knee into Meno’s groin, pinning him to the chair. Meno tried to resist, but there was little he could do. He watched in horror as Rosenblatt plunged the needle through his jacket and into his arm, feeling the knot of serum disperse into the muscle tissue of his shoulder. When Rosenblatt removed the needle and stepped back, Meno saw Mitchell for the first time.

“Johann?”

“Yes, it’s me, François. And no, not all of the pathogen produced by Lyman was given to you or destroyed. I kept back a small amount, just in case.” Mitchell closed his eyes a moment and took a breath. “This was a terrible thing we did, François. I didn’t realize how wrong until I watched those wretches in the isolation cells suffer from this pox. Now I will do all in my power to undo the damage and prevent a pandemic from taking place.”

“And how long will it be before he becomes contagious?” Rosenblatt said, assuming a clinical tone.

“About forty-eight hours, give or take,” Mitchell replied, standing well back from Meno. “Then he will be quite contagious, and perhaps beyond help for his vaccine. Once this pathogen takes hold, the outcome is quite irreversible.”

“Then we mustn’t delay,” Rosenblatt said, holding up a vial of amber liquid. “We have an active strain of the virus, Dr. Meno, so that should give us a start on replicating your vaccine. It will probably be too late for you. I doubt even my colleagues at the CDC, even with a total effort, can save you from the fate of those poor devils you put to death here.” He turned from Meno to Mitchell. “We must get him to an isolation facility before he becomes infectious. With your help, using him as a test subject, we will learn something of the progress of this virus as it spreads through a host.”

“No!” Meno screamed. “You can’t do this to me!” He began to struggle wildly, causing the nylon snap-ties to bite into his wrists. The cut on his lip opened and again began to stream blood down his chin.

“What about his blood? Now that he has the virus, is his blood particularly dangerous?”

“I–I really don’t know,” Mitchell managed. “We were interested in the airborne spread of the virus, not the contaminating effects of blood.”

“Hmmm.” Rosenblatt carefully turned the matter over. “He’s a little smaller than me, but we can put him in my suit while we’re en route, to be on the safe side. With any luck at all we can have him in an isolation facility in fifteen hours. And the sooner, the better. We want to prolong his life as long as possible to study the evolution of the virus.”

“No!” Meno screamed as Rosenblatt and Mitchell left the lounge. “NOOOOOO!”

Rosenblatt found AKR and gave him some very specific instructions, making the point that there was no time to lose. Meno continued to scream, but the screams soon dissolved into sobs and pleas for mercy. His voice grew hoarse and barely intelligible, what with the broken teeth, and he spoke in French, so Rosenblatt could catch only a word here and there. He continued with his pleas until he passed out from exhaustion.