True Evil

by Greg Iles

  Will was waiting for Alex when she arrived at the park behind the Governor’s Mansion. She got out of the Corolla, locked it, and climbed into the passenger seat of his Explorer.

  “What’s the deal with this clinic?” Will asked.

  “It’s owned by a doctor from UMC. Eldon Tarver. I got a funny feeling when I talked to him.”

  Will’s eyes crinkled with interest. “What kind of feeling?”

  “You know what kind.”

  “I gotcha.”

  “Tarver’s wife died of cancer years ago, and he inherited a lot of money. He opened up this place in memory of her. He treats a lot of poor people for AIDS, herpes, stuff like that. But I think he might be doing more. He’s a cancer specialist, and this would be a perfect front for him. He could give those patients any kind of virus or toxin he wanted to, then monitor them when they come back for free medicine.”

  “A freako, then.”

  “Maybe.” Alex bit her bottom lip. “Or maybe he’s just a Good Samaritan.”

  Will barked a mocking laugh. “Haven’t met too many of those in my time. They may look like angels, but they’re usually getting something out of what they’re doing, some way or other.”

  “We’re about to find out, I hope. Let’s go.”

  Will put the Explorer in gear and started driving. “I wish I knew what kind of car he drives.”

  “Kaiser should be able to tell us soon. I already gave him Tarver’s name.”

  “I’ll do my own check, just in case. Nothing against the FBI, you understand. Spell the name.”

  Alex did.

  “Got it,” said Will, jotting in the small notebook he carried at all times. “Hey, where’s Dr. Shepard?”

  “The Cabot Lodge.”

  Kilmer’s eyes asked a silent question.

  She laid her hand on the detective’s arm. “He’s sick, Will. Bad. But it’s not your fault, okay?”

  “Bullshit, it ain’t. Goddamn it. Sleeping at my post. They used to shoot us for that.”

  “You were drugged. All three of you. Now, let go of that and get your mind on the game. I need you.”

  Will rubbed his wrinkled face between both hands and sighed. “You taking your piece in with you?”

  She shook her head. “Not this time.”

  “Shit.” Will reached into the glove box and brought out a short-barreled .357 magnum. “I’m gonna be close, then.”

  “That’s where I like you, partner.”

  The renovated Pullo’s restaurant possessed little of its former personality. The only things Alex recognized were some curiously shaped light fixtures hanging above where the old buffet used to stand. Apart from these, the building had been gutted.

  Just inside the door sat a receptionist, her coffee-colored elbows resting on a scarred metal desk. To her right was a large group of chairs, several of which were occupied by emaciated men who smelled of alcohol, cigarettes, and body odor. A narrow corridor led deeper into the building, but Alex learned nothing by glancing down it. An opaque window looked onto the waiting room from the back wall, and Alex got the feeling it was used to covertly study the patients.

  “Can I help you?” asked the receptionist.

  “I hope so. I was just speaking to Dr. Tarver over at the medical center. He asked me something I didn’t know the answer to, but now I’ve found out for him. I wanted to tell him in person.”

  The receptionist eyed Alex up and down, trying to read her. Well-dressed Caucasian women were clearly not usual visitors at the clinic.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Alexandra Morse.”

  “Well, the doctor’s not here. But let me go back and talk to somebody. He may be coming in soon.”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

  The woman got up as though she were doing Alex a huge favor and walked slowly down the corridor. Alex stepped closer to the desk and read everything she could off its surface. There were bills addressed to the Tarver Free Clinic, and one to Eldon Tarver, MD. A half-hidden magazine lay open under the appointment book: Jet. Written on a lined pad in an almost illegible scrawl were the words Entergy bill late—Noel D. Traver, DVM. Beneath this was a number: 09365974. Alex was memorizing the number when the receptionist returned.

  “He ain’t coming in today,” she said, giving Alex a territorial glare.

  “Not at all?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  The receptionist sat down and opened her magazine, as though she had done her duty and now intended to forget that Alex existed. Alex started to ask her to take a message, then thought better of it. Turning to leave, Alex almost bumped into a man wearing what had to be a $2,000 business suit.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  The newcomer had close-cropped gray hair and steel-blue eyes. His face triggered something in her mind. But what? He reminded her of some senior Bureau agents who had entered the FBI after leaving the army CID or the navy JAG corps.

  “Not a problem, miss,” the man said with the slightest of smiles.

  He stepped wide for her to pass, and Alex did, despite a desire to ask what the hell the guy was doing in a dump like this. Maybe he thought it was still a restaurant. In its heyday, Pullo’s had drawn some very rich men for breakfast.

  Outside, Alex looked back and saw the stranger in conversation with the receptionist. He seemed to be having about as much luck as she had. Scanning the street for Will, she walked past a dark sedan that had parked in front of the clinic, then strode down to Will’s Explorer and got into the passenger seat. A moment later, Will climbed behind the wheel.

  “Any luck?” he asked.

  “Nothing good.”

  He nodded. “You see that guy who just went in?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “I know his type. Soldier.”

  “That’s the vibe I got, too.”

  “Good girl. And check this out.” Will pulled into the street and let the Explorer idle forward. With the slightest inclination of his head, he prompted Alex to look to her left. When she did, she saw a young man wearing an army uniform sitting behind the wheel of the sedan she had just walked past. She registered sergeant’s stripes on his shoulder, and then they were past him.

  “He drove the sharp-dressed guy here?”

  “Yep. Did you see the door?”

  “The car door?”

  “U.S. GOVERNMENT. Printed in black.”

  “What the hell?”

  Will drove down the block and turned toward the spot where Alex’s Corolla was parked. “They sure as shit ain’t the IRS.”

  “Who are they?”

  Will grinned. “I’ve got that same feeling you were talking about before.”

  Alex was thinking about the electric bill. “You ever hear of a vet named Noel Traver?”

  “A military vet?”

  “No, a veterinarian.”

  “Can’t say I have. But Traver is pretty damn close to Tarver, ain’t it?”

  Alex pictured the notepad in her mind, substituting letters—“Shit! It’s an anagram.”

  “Eldon Tarver and Noel Traver?”

  “Noel D. Traver, I should have said. There was a note on a desk in there about a late electric bill.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.” Will’s eyes flashed. “A cancer doctor with an alias. That make sense to you?”

  “Not unless he’s married to two women,” Alex thought aloud. “Something like that.”

  “Or tax evasion,” Will suggested with a laugh. “Maybe those guys were with the IRS.”

  “I think it’s time to find out.”

  He grinned. “You want to go back and see how long that guy stays inside the clinic?”

  “Yeah. Make the block. I wish I had my computer.”

  “If he’s still there, maybe Tarver is inside with him.”

  Will hit the gas and made the block, not even stopping for a red light. The instant they turned back onto Jefferson Street, Ale
x saw that the dark sedan was gone.

  “If I had to guess,” said Will, “I’d say he’s headed for the interstate.”

  “Let me out here. I’ll jog to my car.”

  Will slammed on the brakes, and Alex jumped onto the pavement. When the detective floored it, the door slammed shut by itself.

  CHAPTER 44

  “Describe her to me,” said Dr. Tarver.

  Edward Biddle pursed his lips and looked around the spartan office. Dr. Tarver knew Biddle was wondering if this was the place were the “groundbreaking” research had been done. “About five-eight,” Biddle said. “Dark hair, pretty, scars on the right side of her face. Almost like shrapnel scars.”

  Dr. Tarver tried to keep his face impassive, but Biddle could not be deceived.

  “Who is she, Eldon? Another of your obsessions?”

  Dr. Tarver had almost forgotten what it was like to be in the company of someone who knew his private predilections. “She’s an FBI agent. She’s working alone, though, no support from the Bureau.”

  He expected to see anxiety in Biddle’s eyes, but he saw only displeasure. “An FBI agent?”

  “She’s not a problem, Edward. That’s an unrelated matter. Is your car still out there?”

  Biddle waved his hand as though making the car vanish with his gesture. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. What have you got?”

  Five minutes ago, Dr. Tarver had been pumped and ready to make his pitch; then Alexandra Morse had walked through the front door. “I need to take care of something first. Give me just one minute.”

  Biddle wasn’t accustomed to waiting, but he raised his hand in assent.

  Eldon left the office and walked into his private restroom down the hall. The door said PHLEBOTOMIST. He wasn’t about to share a toilet seat with the scuzziest 5 percent of the population of Jackson, Mississippi. Even excluding the viruses he had given them, many of the clinic’s patients carried most of the nastiest bugs resident in the American population. He closed the door and leaned back against it, his heart thudding in his chest.

  A few minutes ago he had been focused on the terms of his negotiation with Biddle. Now Alex Morse had put the whole deal in jeopardy. If she weren’t so goddamned observant, her visit might have meant little. But she was. If Morse could look at a photo of this clinic for a few seconds and make the connection to Pullo’s restaurant, then she would eventually realize that the army major in the VCP photo she had noticed in his office was the same man she had seen walking into the clinic this afternoon. Thirty years had passed since their VCP days, but Biddle looked essentially the same. His hair was gray now, but he still had his hair, the son of a bitch. And not only had Morse seen Biddle enter the clinic—she had exchanged words with him. Yes, she would remember him, all right. And once she did, she would quickly uncover the true nature of the VCP. And that would allow her to track Eldon Tarver from his old life to his new one.

  Eldon couldn’t take that chance. He could not take on his new identity until Alex Morse was dead.

  He was lucky that Pearson had called to warn him that Morse might show up. She made a big deal about the restaurant, Eldon, and she’s the type to come down and make a nuisance of herself. I probably said too much, but Chris Shepard is a highly reputable internist from Natchez. I just wanted you to know, so you wouldn’t be blindsided by the girl.

  “Blindsided,” Dr. Tarver murmured. “FUBAB, more like.”

  Killing an FBI agent was risky. If you did that, you were asking to be hounded to the ends of the earth for as long as you lived. In the carport he had acted on instinct. He would have to give it careful thought. Right now he had business to take care of: the biggest deal of his life. He flushed the toilet for cover, then walked back into his office, sat behind his desk, and folded his hands Buddha-style over his stomach.

  “You want to know what I’ve got, Edward?”

  Biddle’s pale blue eyes were those of a man who had handled many critical negotiations. Bullshit did not fly in the rooms he worked. “You know me, Eldon. Straight to business.”

  Dr. Tarver leaned back in his chair. “I’ve got exactly what you were looking for all those years ago.”

  “Which is?”

  “The Holy Grail.”

  Biddle just stared.

  “The perfect weapon.”

  “Perfect is a mighty big word, Eldon.”

  Dr. Tarver smiled. He doubted they ever said “mighty big” at Yale, which was where Biddle had gone to college. He must have picked it up at Detrick.

  “How about a weapon that is one hundred percent lethal, yet which no one could ever prove was a weapon at all? It makes BW agents like anthrax or even smallpox relics of the Dark Ages. Wasn’t it you who spoke of the Holy Grail at Detrick, Edward? A weapon that couldn’t be perceived as a weapon?”

  “Yes. But every scientist who ever worked for me helped prove that it was impossible.”

  “Oh, it’s possible. It already exists.” Eldon opened his desk drawer and took out a small vial filled with brownish liquid. “Here it is.”

  “What is it?”

  “A retrovirus.”

  Biddle sniffed. “Source?”

  “Simian, of course, as we always suspected. And as AIDS proved viable.”

  “What do you call it?”

  Dr. Tarver smiled. “Kryptonite.”

  Biddle wasn’t laughing. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s just a working name. The actual viral pedigree must remain my proprietary secret, for now. But if you decide to—”

  “Buy it?”

  “Just so. If you decide to buy it, then you can look behind the curtain and you can call it whatever you wish.”

  Biddle rubbed his hands together with a dry, grainy sound. “Tell me what else makes this Kryptonite a perfect weapon.”

  “First, it has a long incubation period. Ten to twelve months right now, with death following in an average of sixteen months.”

  “Death from what?”

  “Cancer.”

  Biddle tilted his head to one side. “Our old friend.”

  “Yes.”

  “The retrovirus induces it directly? Or is there immune breakdown first?”

  “Selective breakdown. Only the necessary steps. It switches off the cellular death mechanism, granting immortality. It disguises itself from killer T cells. It begins producing its own growth factor. All the best viral strategies.”

  Biddle was already thinking about the larger implications. “Eldon, the indiscriminate nature of that kind of weapon renders it unusable on a large scale. You know that.”

  Tarver leaned forward. “I’ve solved that problem.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve already created a vaccine. I grow it in horses.”

  Biddle pursed his lips. “So we’d have to vaccinate all our forces prior to using the weapon.”

  “Yes, yes, but we already do that. You could do it under cover of any other immunization.”

  Biddle was frowning now, suspicious that his time was being wasted. “But what about the general population? If we vaccinated the general population, it would set off all sorts of alarms. And don’t tell me we could do it under the guise of avian flu vaccine or something. You could never keep it a secret—not in this day and age.”

  Eldon could hardly contain himself. “I can also sabotage the virus after infection, during the early stages of replication. Before oncogenesis occurs.”

  Biddle’s poker face finally slipped. “You can kill the virus after infection?”

  “I can wipe it out.”

  “No one can kill a virus once it’s established in the body.”

  Dr. Tarver settled back in his chair, his confidence unshakable. “I created this virus, Edward. And I can destroy it.”

  Biddle was shaking his head, but Eldon saw the excitement in his eyes.

  “After about three weeks,” Eldon went on, “there’s no stopping the cascade. But during that window, I can short-circuit the infection.”
>
  “So what you’re telling me is—”

  “I have your weapon for China.”

  Biddle’s lips parted. He had the look of a man whose mind has just been read, and read accurately.

  “I know you, Edward,” Tarver said with a sly smile. “I know that’s why you’re here. I see what’s happening in the world. I know the limits of oil reserves and strategic metals. I know where those reserves are flowing, where the heavy manufacturing is going. I’m no geopolitician, but I see the tide turning. The new cold war can’t be more than twenty years off. Maybe less.”

  Biddle chose not to comment.

  “I know the capabilities of Chinese nuclear submarines,” Tarver went on. “I know about their missile program. And even high school students know the size of their standing army. Almost three million strong, and growing. The real strength of that number lies in the fact that life is cheap there, Edward. Casualties mean nothing—unlike the country we happen to be sitting in.”

  Biddle shifted in his seat and spoke softly. “Your point being?”

  “The Chinese aren’t the Russians. You won’t be able to spend them into oblivion. They already keep our economy afloat. If they decide to pull the plug now, we’ll only have one option. Going nuclear.”

  Biddle nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “And we won’t do that,” Tarver asserted. “You know we won’t, because we won’t be able to. The yellow men can afford to lose half a billion people. We can’t. More important, they’re willing to lose them. And we’re not.”

  Biddle’s eyes were half-closed. He was probably put off by the amateur strategizing, but Eldon knew he had made his point, however clumsily.

  “Is this Kryptonite sexually transmissible?” Biddle asked quietly.

  “One variant is, and one is not.”

  A tight smile. “That’s convenient.”

  “You won’t believe what I’ve accomplished, Edward. You want deniable political assassination? Give me one tube of blood from your target. I’ll induce cancer in vitro, then you can reinject the blood into him. He’ll be dead of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma eighteen months later.”