Patient Zero

Chapter Ninety-Three

The DMS Warehouse, Baltimore / Saturday, July 4; 6:44 A.M.

WE TOOK TWO cars, a pair of brand-new DMS SUVs-BMW X6s that were equipped like James Bond cars with hidden compartments, armor plating, front and rear video, spy-satellite downlinks, and even fore-and-aft machine guns hidden behind faux foglamps. Church really loved his toys.

“No ejector seats?” I asked Grace as we climbed into the lead vehicle.

“You joke, but we have a Porsche Cayenne with an ejector option for driver or passenger.”

“Really?” I grinned and switched to my best Sean Connery. “My name is Ledger. Joe Ledger.”

She gave me an icy stare. “So help me God, if you call me Pussy Galore or Holly Goodhead, I’ll shoot you and leave you by the side of the road.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, and then under my breath added, “Miss Moneypenny.”

“I’m serious. Dead in a ditch.”

I mimed zipping my mouth shut. We were all dressed in dark suits, red ties, and white shirts, with little American flags on our lapels and wires behind our ears. Pretty damn impressive for twelve hours’ work. I mean, I can wear off the rack but Bunny is a moose. I marveled at Church’s network of contacts. It must be nice to have so many friends in so many “industries.” One of these days I was going to have to find out who the hell Church was.

For hardware I had my old familiar.45 with me, snugged against my ribs, with two extra magazines clipped to my belt. Around my right ankle was a sweet little Smith Wesson Model 642 Airweight Centennial, a hammerless.38 revolver that is one of the most practical backup guns around. I also had a Rapid Response Folder, a tactical knife that could sit in a pocket clip and with a snap of the wrist would produce a 3.375-inch blade that, although short, was more than enough in the hands of a good knife fighter. I’m a very good knife fighter and I prefer speed over blade length any time. With all that I felt that I was a bit overdressed for the party, considering that we were going to interrogate government officials not storm the Bastille, but I’m one of those guys who believes that the Boy Scout motto is one of the most useful pieces of advice ever given: Be Prepared.

Grace looked very nice in a tailored suit that was a good balance of weapon concealment and curve revealment. No way that this was off the rack. She had on a light touch of makeup and a very enticing pink lipstick. The makeup was within professional guidelines, but the lipstick-I’m pretty damn sure-was a personal choice with a different agenda and I hoped that it wasn’t my male ego or wishful thinking at work here.

All I said was, “You clean up pretty good, Major.” I gave her my best smile as I said it. The one that puts the crinkles around my eyes. Grace, however, did not pull around to the back of the warehouse and immediately undress. Her fortitude was commendable in the light of that smile.

She said, “Buckle up for safety,” and inflected it in such a way as to convey about fifty separate possible meanings.

Just as we were heading toward the main Warehouse doors I saw a figure step into our path: Rudy, and he was also dressed like a Secret Service agent. Grace slowed and when she stopped Rudy opened the back door and climbed in.

I turned around to look at him. “Halloween’s not till October.”

“You’re hilarious,” he growled as he thrust an ID wallet into my hands. I opened it.

“Rudolfo Ernesto Sanchez y Martinez, MD. Special Agent, United States Secret Service,” I read. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“If it is then Mr. Church is the only one who knows the punch line.”

Grace smiled. “Mr. Church is impressed with you, Doctor.”

“Rudy,” he corrected.

“Sorry. He told me you grilled him pretty thoroughly the other day.”

I was surprised. “He admitted that?”

“He didn’t go into details, but he gave the impression that you got a good read on him.”

“Interesting,” said Rudy. “Joe he wants me with you when you do the interviews.”

“I’m okay with that, Rude, but if we get into anything today ” I let it hang.

“Then I’ll run and hide, don’t worry, cowboy. I’m a lover not a fighter.”

Grace turned and gave him an appraising stare. “I’ll bet you could handle yourself.” And again there were a lot of ways to interpret that. Rudy gave her an elegant incline of the head and settled back in his seat.

“Are you carrying a gun?” I asked him. At his request I’d taught Rudy to shoot a couple of years ago, shortly after he started working as a police psychiatrist. He thought it would help him with his patients if he more fully understood the power-both real and imagined-of a gun.

“You’ve seen me shoot, cowboy. Am I qualified to carry a handgun in public?”

“It would not be in the best interests of public safety.”

“Then there you go.”

Grace put the car in gear and we rolled out of the Warehouse with Echo Team behind us. When we were on I-95 heading north toward Philly, Rudy asked, “Won’t the real Secret Service know that we’re fakes?”

Grace shrugged. “Only if we tell them, and it will be need-to-know. Our credentials are real, authorized by the President himself.”

Rudy said, “Wow.” He hadn’t voted for the President but the office and what it represented was bigger, and held more meaning, than any single person who had held it. Maybe more than all of them put together. A certain degree of respect was appropriate no matter what your personal political views were. “That’s a lot of power.”

“Mr. Church knows-” she started to say but Rudy cut her off.

“No, it’s a lot of power to give us. Our team.” He paused. “The eight of us.” When I turned to him he went on, “We still have a traitor in the DMS, and that means that one of the men in the car behind us could be a spy or assassin. Or worse, a terrorist sympathizer.” He waggled the ID case. “And this is an all-access pass to the President’s wife and half of Congress. Is that wise?”

Grace smiled at him in the rearview. “Mr. Church has confidence that we’ll stay in control of the situation.”

All Rudy said in reply was, “Room Twelve.”