by Ted Dekker
“So you would just fall asleep and wake up and never dream of any of this again? It would just . . . disappear?”
“Yes, I think it would.”
“Well, don’t you dare turn off your dreams, Thomas. You don’t know what would happen. What else did you learn?”
The rest of his dream came to him in a barrage of images that ended with Rachelle telling him where she would like to be rescued.
He turned to her, wide-eyed. “That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“It’s a map. Is Raison awake?” He ran toward the doors. “A map, Kara!” he said, turning. “We have to find a map.”
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
“I think she told me where to find Monique. Is Jacques awake?”
“Yes.” Kara ran after him through the door. She followed him straight to the office. “Who told you?”
“Rachelle!”
“How would Rachelle know?”
“I don’t know. She just made it up. Maybe she doesn’t know.” Tom ran past a stunned guard and threw the door open. The old man sat at his desk, dark circles prominent under his eyes. He spoke urgently into his phone.
“I think I may have it!” Tom shouted.
Raison dropped the phone into its cradle. “You know where Monique is?”
“Maybe. Yes, I think maybe I do. I need a map and someone who knows this area.”
“How could you know?”
“Rachelle told me. In my dreams.”
The man’s face sagged noticeably. “That’s very encouraging.”
Tom felt his patience slip. “Well, it should be. For all I know, you’re the dream!” He jabbed his finger at Jacques. “You ever consider that? Don’t be so . . . so stuck up.” He’d been better with the diplomacy last night.
“Now I’m a dream,” Raison said. “Very, very encouraging. Mr. Hunter, if you think I will—”
“I don’t think you will do anything. Except help me find your daughter. What if I’m right?”
“The what-ifs again.”
“I know where Monique is!” he shouted.
Kara stepped forward. “I would listen to him, Mr. Raison. I don’t think he’s been wrong yet.”
“Of course, the big sister speaks. My daughter’s kidnappers-turned-saviors have spoken. The little people in their dreams have told them where my daughter is. Then let’s warm up the helicopter and scoop her up, shall we?”
Tom stared, dumbfounded at Raison’s arrogance. Jacques was stressed out. He needed a shock to his system.
He spun around and strode for the door. “Fine. We’ll let her rot in the cell she’s in.”
Kara delivered one last salvo. “How dare you mock me, you walking ox! You have no idea what a terrible mistake you’re making.”
They got to the door before he spoke.
“I’m sorry. Wait.”
“Wait?” Tom said, turning. “Now you want to sit around and wait?”
“You made your point. Tell me where you think she is.”
Tom hesitated. He had the upper hand; he intended to keep it. Telling the man that Monique was in a—what was it, a great white cave full of bottles where a river and the forest meet, a day’s walk to the east? Wouldn’t do.
“Get me a map and someone who knows southern Thailand. And then I want Deputy Secretary Merton Gains on the line. Then I’ll tell you where Monique is.”
“You’re making demands again? Just tell—”
“The map, Jacques! Now.”
They had a large map of Thailand and the gulf countries on the conference table. Jacques insisted that he knew the region well enough, but Tom wanted a local. The bulky Thai guard who limped into the room was none other than one of Tom’s security guard casualties.
Muta Wonashti was his name. Tom stretched out his hand. “Taga saan ka?” Where are you from?
The man paused at Tom’s use of his language. “Penang.”
“Welcome to the team. Sorry about the other day.”
The man seemed to straighten. He walked up to the map, limp now gone.
Jacques glared. “Satisfied?”
“Is Gains on the line?”
Nancy stepped forward with a phone. “He’s waiting.”
“You have no idea how embarrassing this will be if you are wrong,” Jacques said. “I’ve expended considerable equity on you.”
“Not on me, Jacques. On your daughter.” Tom took the phone.
“Secretary Gains?”
“Speaking,” Gains’s familiar voice said. “I understand that you have some new information.”
“That’s correct,” Tom said. “I really can’t keep trying to prove myself at every turn, Mr. Gains. It’s slowing us down.”
There was a pause.
“You see? You still don’t know whether or not to believe me. I’m not saying I blame you; it’s not every day someone tells you a virus is about to wipe out the world, and they know so because they’ve dreamed it.”
“I will remind you that I did hear you out,” Gains said. “And I did mention the situation to the president. In this world, that’s sticking my neck out for you, son. I’m sticking my neck out for a kidnapper who’s having crazy dreams.”
“Which is why I’m calling. To the point: I’ve had a dream and in this dream, I’ve learned where they’re keeping Monique de Raison. In front of me I have a map. I want you to begin to accept me on my terms if it turns out that I’m right about where Monique is. Fair enough?”
Gains thought about it.
“If I’m right, Mr. Secretary, and there is a virus, we’ll need a few believers. I need someone on the inside.”
“And that would be me.”
“No one else is volunteering at the moment.”
“You say you found out where they have Monique from your dreams. No other information?”
“Bona fide, 100 percent dream. Not a hint of any other intelligence.”
“So if you actually find her, you think it proves that your dreams are valid and should be taken seriously,” Gains said.
“It won’t be the first time I’m right. I need an ally.”
“Okay, son, you have a deal. Put Mr. Raison on the line.”
“I don’t suppose you could get me a team of Rangers or Navy SEALs?” Tom asked.
“Not a chance. But the Thai have good people. I’m sure they’ll cooperate.”
“They still think I’m the kidnapper,” Tom said. “Cooperation isn’t exactly flowing over here.”
“I’ll see if I can’t get them to ease up.”
“Thank you, sir, you won’t regret this.” He handed the phone to an impatient Raison, who listened and ended the call with a polite salutation.
“Now, please tell me. I’ve done everything You’ve asked.”
Tom leaned over the map. “A great white cave full of bottles a day’s walk to the east where a river and the forest meet,” he said. “Where is that?”
“What’s that?”
Tom looked up. “That’s where she is. We just have to figure out what that means.”
The man’s face lightened a shade. “That’s your . . . that’s what this is all about? A white cave full of bottles?”
“Yes, but Rachelle wouldn’t know what a laboratory looked like. A white cave full of bottles has to be a laboratory, right? They took her to an underground laboratory a day’s walk to the east where a river meets the forest. That’s about twenty miles.”
“How many kilometers?” the tracker asked.
“Roughly thirty.”
“The Phan Tu River cross plain here.” The squatty fighter drew his finger along a blue river line on the map. “It end here at the jungle. Thirty kilometer east. No lab. Concrete. No longer in use.”
Tom stared at the man. “A concrete plant? Right there?”
“Yes.”
Jacques de Raison ran both hands through his hair. “How do you know this is accurate? And how—”
“You have a helicopter,
Mr. Raison,” Tom said. “Is your pilot here?”
“Yes, but surely this is a matter for the authorities. You can expect—”
“I can expect that whoever attacked us in that hotel room is smarter than any team the Thai military can throw together on a moment’s notice. I can expect that they will expect a possible rescue mission by the Thai government and are thoroughly prepared. And I can expect you would do anything, Mr. Raison, anything at all to see your daughter alive again. Am I missing something here?”
He responded momentarily. “You’re right.”
“Send me in with a radio and a guide, say Muta here, drop us off a few miles out, and we can at least locate her, maybe do more. At this point, we’re operating on one of my dreams, not enough to bring out the U.S. Marines. But if we can get something on the ground, we have a whole new story.”
The man paced, squinting and scratching at his head. “And you think you’re the one to go in?”
“I know a few new tricks.”
Kara raised her brow. “He does indeed.”
“And I practically grew up in the jungle.”
“You’re under house arrest. This is just not feasible—”
Tom slapped the map. “Nothing is feasible, Mr. Raison. Nothing! Not my dreams, not the virus, not your daughter’s kidnapping. We’re running out of time here. If anyone can rescue your daughter, I can. Trust me. I’m supposed to rescue your daughter.”
27
Carlos patiently led Svensson down the concrete steps. His bad leg made stairs nearly impossible. The Swiss had flown into Bangkok during the night and arrived at the old lab an hour earlier. Carlos had never seen the kind of rabid intensity that had emerged in him.
“Open it,” he said at the steel door.
Carlos slid the latch and shoved the door open. The white lab gleamed under two rows of bare fluorescent bulbs. Svensson had built or converted two dozen similar labs throughout the world for an eventuality like this one. The discovery of a possible virus. If a virus presented itself in South Africa, they needed to be in South Africa. Ultimately they would return to the much larger labs and production facilities of the Alps, of course, but only when they had what they needed firmly secured and the environment it came from thoroughly analyzed.
Here, in Southeast Asia, they had six labs. Raison Pharmaceutical’s move from France to Thailand precipitated the building of this particular one. And now it was paying its dividends.
The lab was equipped with all the equipment expected of any medium-sized industrial lab, including refrigeration and heating capabilities. Monique sat in the corner, gagged with duct tape and bound to a gray chair. Carlos hadn’t hurt her. Yet. But he’d talked to her at length. The fact that she refused to engage him with more than a grunt convinced him he would have to hurt her soon.
“So, this is the woman the world is screaming about,” Svensson said, moving slowly over the white tile floor. He stopped three feet from Monique. “The one who’s chosen not to see the light yet?”
Carlos stood with his hands clasped in front of him. He didn’t answer. Wasn’t expected to answer. Wouldn’t have anyway. He’d done his part; now it was time for Svensson to do his part.
The Swiss’s big bony hand flashed out and slapped loudly against Monique’s cheek. The woman’s head jerked to the side and her face flushed red, but she didn’t breathe a sound.
Svensson smiled. “You’ve seen me. And you obviously recognize me. I believe we even met once, at the Hong Kong drug symposium two years ago. Your father and I are practically bosom buddies, if you stretch things a bit. Do you see the problem in this?”
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t .
“Remove it, Carlos.”
Carlos stepped forward, ripped the gray duct tape from her mouth.
“The problem is that I’ve committed myself to you,” Svensson said. “You can now finger me. Until the time comes when I no longer care if I’m identified by you, I have to keep you under lock and key. Then, depending on how you treat me now, I will either let you live or have you killed. Does this make any sense to you?”
She drilled his face with a stare and said nothing.
“A strong woman. I may be able to use you when this is over. Soon, very soon.” Svensson stroked his mustache and paced in front of her. “Do you know what happens to your Raison Vaccine when it’s heated to 179.47 degrees and held at that temperature for two hours?”
Her eyes narrowed for a brief moment. Carlos didn’t think she knew. In fact, they didn’t know for sure.
“No, of course you don’t ,” Svensson said. “You’ve never tested the vaccine under such adverse conditions; there’d be no need to. So let me make a suggestion: When you apply this specific heat to your miraculous drug, it mutates. You do know it’s capable of mutating, because according to our internal sources, it also mutates at a lower heat, but the mutations never could sustain themselves for more than a generation or two.”
Monique’s eyes widened briefly. She’d just learned there was a spy in her own lab. Perhaps now she would take them seriously. Carlos was surprised that Svensson told her so much. Clearly he didn’t expect her to live to tell.
“Yes, that’s right, we are quite resourceful. We know about the mutations and we also know that other, much more dangerous mutations hold under more intense heat. Your Raison Vaccine becomes my Raison Strain, a highly infectious, airborne virus with a three-week incubation period.” He smiled. “The whole world could have the disease before the first person showed any symptoms. Imagine the possibilities for the man who controlled the antivirus.”
A tremble took Monique’s face. It was the kind of response that undoubtedly had Svensson’s heart pounding like a fist. He’d called her bluff, suggested an incredible possibility they’d only just pieced together themselves. And she was responding with terror.
Monique de Raison’s face was screaming her answer. And no other answer could have been better. She, too, knew all of this. Or at least suspected it with enough conviction to drain the blood from her face. She’d spent a few hours alone with Thomas Hunter, the dreamer, and she’d come away somehow convinced that her vaccine did indeed pose a real risk.
“Yes, the vaccine to the AIDS virus has 375,200 base pairs . . . isn’t that what this Hunter told you? And he was right. So much information for a simpleton from America. It’s too bad we don’t have him as well. Unfortunately, he’s dead.”
Svensson turned and started to walk toward the door.
“I hope Daddy loves his daughter, Monique. I really do. We’re going to do some wonderful things in the days to come, and we would like you to help us.”
He limped slowly, right foot clacking on the concrete. Svensson was in his game.
Carlos pulled out the transmitter. “Don’t forget the explosive in your belly,” he said. “I can detonate it by pressing this button, as I’ve told you. But it will detonate on its own if it loses a signal past fifty meters. Think of it as your ball and chain. Don’t think anyone will come for you. If they do, they will only kill you.”
She closed her eyes.
Perhaps he wouldn’t have to hurt her after all. Better that way.
The helicopter was a standby, an old bubble job that held four and ran on pistons. Tom and the guide dropped into a rice paddy three miles south of the concrete plant and angled for the jungle to their right. The banger lifted and banked for home. They were now dependent on the radios, Muta’s nose, and Tom’s tricks.
They slogged through the water to high ground, then followed the tree line at an easy jog. Both carried machetes, and Muta carried a 9-millimeter on his hip. The foliage slowed them down, forcing them to hack their way through vines and underbrush. Three miles took them a full hour.
“There!” Muta thrust his machete out at the clearing ahead. Half a dozen concrete buildings in various degrees of deterioration. An overgrown parking lot with large tufts of grass growing between the concrete slabs. A rusted conveyor nosing into thin air.
He’d made bold statements and fired off thundering salvos, but standing here on the edge of the jungle, with cicadas screeching all around and the hot afternoon sun beating on his shoulders, the notion that the genesis of a worldwide virus attack lay hidden in this abandoned concrete plant struck him as ludicrous.
What if he was wrong? The question had dogged him since the helicopter had abandoned them an hour earlier. But now it went from question to haunting certainty in one giant leap. He was wrong. This was nothing more than an abandoned concrete plant.
“It is abandoned?” Muta said.
He knows it too.
“You get behind the shed,” Tom said, pointing to a small structure thirty feet from the entrance to the main building. “Cover me with your gun. You can shoot that thing straight, right?”
Muta tsked in offense. “You kick so good; I shoot better. In military I shoot many gun. Nobody shoot so good as me!”
“Keep it down!” Tom whispered. “I believe you. Can you hit a man at the door from this distance?”
The man eyed the door a hundred yards off. “Too far.”
Good. He was honest, then.
“Okay, you cover me. As soon as I clear the entry, you run up and follow me in.” He looked at the machete in his hand. Most of his fighting skills consisted of fist- and footwork, but what good would hand-to-hand combat do him in a place like this? True, he did have some tricks, but his main trick was falling asleep and coming back healthy. A very cool trick, to be sure, but not exactly a knockout blow in a fight.
“Ready?”
Muta released the clip from his pistol, checked it once, and slammed it home in a show of weapon-handling prowess. “You go; I follow.”
Not exactly a raid by U.S. Rangers.
“Go!”
He jumped over the berm and ran low to the ground, machete extended. Muta ran behind, feet thudding on the earth.
Tom was halfway to the door when the doubts began to pile up in earnest. If the man he’d fought in the hotel room was inside this building, he’d be firing bullets. A machete might be less useful than a wet noodle. But hand-to-hand was out of the question; the man was much too skilled and powerful.
