The Genesis Plague

55

Randall Stokes’s mind was in a fog as he listened to Crawford’s painful account of a siege staged against the encampment by Al-Zahrani’s supporters. The death toll among the platoon was remarkable, given the fact that the militants who’d come for Al-Zahrani had only guns and RPGs. However, Crawford insisted that the squads assigned to clearing the cave were late to respond to the attack. Had the contract soldiers not commandeered the unit’s Blackhawk and staged a potent counter-attack, Crawford conceded, the entire mission might well have been jeopardized.

Stokes squeezed the phone’s receiver. ‘And where is Al-Zahrani now?’

‘I had him moved, just like you wanted. Problem is I don’t think he’ll make it.’ His next words were tinged with dissension. ‘This isn’t good, Randall. You should have waited to—’

‘Let’s not play the blame game,’ Stokes warned, his voice hoarse. A coughing fit came over him and he held the phone aside until it subsided. During the past three hours, his breathing had become progressively strained and gritty. It felt like his chest had been filled with pebbles.

‘You sound like shit,’ Crawford said.

‘Don’t worry about me. Just don’t make the same mistake as Frank. Don’t lose your backbone. Hear me? We stick to the plan.’

‘Wait … what about Roselli? Did he get cold feet?’

‘You could say that.’ Out the window, he noticed a silver sports sedan winding its way through the parking lot.

‘This plan of yours has gone to shit!’ Crawford blasted. ‘How am I supposed to explain this grand fuckup to the major general? I’m calling for backup.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Stokes said, his tone grave. Another coughing fit came over him, more intense this time. He snatched the square-folded handkerchief from his suit jacket’s breast pocket and held it over his mouth. When he pulled the handkerchief away, he was stunned to see that the crisp white linen was speckled with red dots. As he stared at the blood long and hard, a chilling realization hit him: this was no mere physical response to stress.

‘Randall? You there?’

He pressed the receiver to his ear. ‘Do nothing until that cave is cleared out. Understand?’

‘Let’s be sensible about this. Al-Zahrani’s been infected …’

Infected. The word lingered in Stokes’s mind as he stared at the handkerchief. Infected?

‘So maybe we can use that to our advantage.’

‘After all our preparation and planning, there is no way in hell that I’m going to rely on one catalyst. You heard what Frank told us: rapid transmission is critical. It’s the whole purpose for what we’ve done inside that cave. If Al-Zahrani is isolated, the whole thing fizzles out. There’ll be no back-pedalling now. We’ve come too far for that.’

‘Technically, we have no idea what the real effect might be,’ Crawford challenged indignantly. ‘Remember, none of Frank’s scientists knew how this thing would be used. We have no guarantees. These aren’t lab mice …’

‘Fine. We’re hunting with a shotgun instead of a sniper rifle,’ Stokes quipped. ‘So be it.’

Outside, the driver had just gotten out from the car and was making his way around to the passenger side. Stokes didn’t recognize the man’s face. ‘There’s no such thing as a perfect plan,’ Stokes said. ‘Now scrape your men together and open that tunnel. Anyone asks questions, you tell them you’ve got four more terrorists to pull out of that hole. That’s all anyone needs to know.’

As the female got out from the car, Stokes did a double take. Even from a distance she looked awfully familiar.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Crawford said, exasperated.

The connection went dead.

Growling in frustration, Stokes slammed the receiver back on its base. He glared at the handkerchief again before stuffing it back in his pocket.

When he directed his attention back outside, the couple were out of view. So he spun his chair to a flat screen monitor dedicated to the cathedral’s close circuit security cameras. To the left of the display he referenced a schematic of the first floor and used the mouse to double-click one of the embedded camera icons in the section representing the main lobby.

The camera’s live feed filled the monitor — a straight view that perfectly framed the couple. Stokes worked the zoom controls to get a close-up of the female. He froze the feed, dragged a virtual box over her face then double-clicked the frame to enlarge the image. His eyes went wide. ‘Can’t be,’ he muttered.

He went to his e-mail screen, pulled up the message he’d sent to the Boston assassin and opened its JPEG attachment.

A perfect match.

‘What in God’s name is she doing here?’ It was insult enough that the miserable prick of an assassin had botched his assignment. But this? Having her show up on the doorstep? Now?

He slid open the desk drawer, pulled out his Glock and confirmed that the ammo clip was full. Clicking the safety off, he dropped it into his jacket pocket.

The computer let out a small chirp to alert that a new e-mail message had arrived.

‘Now what?’ he grumbled. When he saw who’d sent the message, his heart faltered. ‘It’s about time, Frank,’ he muttered. He opened the e-mail and read Roselli’s long-awaited message:

Pulse accelerating, Stokes turned over his hand and assessed the raw, inflamed skin on his palm.

Stokes’s shoulders slumped. He crumpled in his chair and turned to the window. On the other side of the glass, a black dove stared in at him.