The Ares Decision

58

“Stop here,” Smith said, standing so that he could see over the steam coming from the jeep’s radiator. The truck Omidi was driving had turned off for the airport, but then they’d lost sight of him while they were stuck crawling along the congested road.

“Is he up there?” Howell said as he let the vehicle coast to a halt close enough to see the terminal and parking area but not so close as to draw the attention of security. Two beat-up white men driving around in an old army jeep coated in dried blood was bound to generate unwanted attention.

“No,” Smith said, falling back into his seat.

“Then what’s the plan, boss?”

He thought about it for a few moments, but no brilliant ideas presented themselves. Just desperate ones.

“We go into the airport,” he said, using water from their last bottle to try to clean the dirt, soot, and blood from his face and hands.

“You think Omidi’s going to try to get Sarie on a commercial flight?”

Smith passed the bottle. “No, but they may handle private planes here. And even if they don’t, you should be able to find someone who’s familiar with the private airstrips in the area.”

“And what will you be doing while I’m playing detective?”

“Making a phone call.”

Howell frowned at the cryptic answer. “Might I suggest the cavalry?”

They strolled into the airport wearing matching T-shirts silk-screened with the Ugandan flag — the only thing the souvenir vender outside stocked in their size. Smith immediately split off toward a bank of pay phones, smiling casually and smoothing his wet hair as he passed a mildly curious, but extremely well-armed guard. When he reached the phones, he immediately picked one up and pressed it to his ear. No dial tone. Same with the second one he tried. And the third.

“They don’t work.”

The woman was wearing a neatly pressed airport uniform and spoke with a light African accent. “I’m sorry. We had a fire recently and they haven’t been fixed. Apparently, it’s not a priority because so many people carry their own phones now.”

He managed a polite smile. “I really need to contact my family. Are there any phones that do work?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Do you have a phone I could use? I’d be happy to pay you.”

“I do, but it isn’t capable of making international calls. I think your only option would be to buy a cell phone and—”

“Buy a phone,” he interjected. “There’s somewhere I can do that here?”

“Of course. Just follow this corridor to the end and turn left. You can’t miss it.”

The store was right where she said it was, but there was only one person working and five customers in line. Based on the impatient tone of the man in front of the counter and the bored expression of the woman behind it, progress could be stalled for hours.

“Jon?”

He spun and saw Howell at the entrance to the shop, waving him over. They retreated to the terminal’s far wall, out of earshot of the people flowing back and forth.

“We’ve got a problem, mate.”

“What? Are there other airstrips?”

“No. But I found that tall bloke from the cave.”

“The one who infected himself ?”

Howell nodded.

“Where?”

“Going through security. He’s getting on a direct flight to Brussels and he doesn’t look like he’s feeling all that well.”

Smith blinked hard, calculating how long the man had been infected and adding the time it would take to fly to Belgium.

“Even using De Vries’s most optimistic estimate, he’s going to go fully symptomatic on that plane,” Smith said. “When he starts attacking the other passengers, they’ll most likely think he’s a terrorist. There’s no telling how many people he’ll infect before they get control of him.”

“Boarding has already started,” Howell prompted. “We don’t have much time. Can you get in touch with someone who can bring that plane down somewhere safe?”

“He’s a decoy, Peter. Omidi infected someone else and left Dahab here as a diversion.”

“No question. But you have to admit, it’s one hell of a good diversion.”

He was right. Omidi could be anywhere — waiting for his jet to arrive in a private lounge a hundred yards away, on his way to a remote airstrip in a hired helicopter, or heading for the border in an unmarked car full of Iranian security personnel. Their chances of finding him at this point were hovering around zero.

Smith looked at the man still arguing about his phone and the mild interest they were getting from yet another machine-gun-toting guard. Trying to cut in line would be pointless — it wouldn’t get him the phone any faster and would certainly bring airport security down on them. Explaining to the guard that the Sudanese had to be prevented from getting on that flight would likely accomplish nothing but involving an ever-increasing number of supervisors and setting into motion the glacial African bureaucracy.

“Boss?” Howell prompted.

“I’m entertaining suggestions.”

“If we can get into the boarding area fast enough, we may be able to find a way to take him.”

Smith shook his head. “Too much possibility of blood getting thrown around. We’d be killed or arrested, and someone infected could get on that plane or out into Kampala. Are there seats left on the flight?”

“Probably, but I seem to have misplaced my travel documents.”

Smith pulled his, Howell’s, and Sarie’s passports from his pocket. “They were still in the glove box. The one thing a child soldier living in the jungle would have no use for.”

“So we’re going to let him get on a plane to Europe?”

“You see a plane; I see an airtight quarantine with a good international communication system and only a couple hundred people at risk.”

Howell shrugged, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “It’s your party. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Me too,” Smith said, starting for the Brussels Airlines counter.