Germ

by Robert Liparulo

  “Here we go,” Goody said under his breath. Another voice, breathy and raw: “Sweeney? Are you Sweeney?” Goody: “Are you all right? You don’t look so good.” The other voice: “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Hold on. I am worried about it. Waitress, some water, please! Let me take you to the hospital. We can talk there.”

  “Look, I want to go to your office. Why did we have to meet—?” The transmitter conveyed the piercing sound of smashing glass Down! Down!” It was Goody. A volley of booming explosions followed—shotgun blasts, judging by their deep resonance. Six pistol shots rang out in quick succession: Goody’s return fire

  Julia simultaneously unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door She was about to leap out when she heard Goody address her: “Julia! Pull up—.” More gunfire. “Pull up out front. I got Vero. We’re coming out.”

  She started the car, cranked the wheel, and jammed her foot on the accelerator. Her half-opened door swung out, smashed into the corner of the car parked in front of her, and slammed shut. A car screeched to a halt inches from he, Her car vaulted across three lanes of downtown traffic toward the hotel’s canopied entrance

  “Get down! Get down! Everybody down!” Goody shouted through the wireless microphone.

  Two shotgun blasts, close together—too close to have come from a single weapon.

  Just as Julia’s car bounded onto the sidewalk directly in front of the hotel doors, valets and pedestrians leaping aside, she heard Goody.

  “Can’t get there, Julia! Get out of here! We’re heading for my car in the parking garage. You go! Go!”

  She cranked the wheel left to shoot back into the street. She drove two blocks, turned two corners, and pulled to the curb. She was facing the hotel again on the street that ran past the rear entrance—and the parking garage exit. The wireless conveyed mostly static now. Then: “—Julia? .. . hear me? I’m on … McGill … west… right on my tail!”

  McGill! She was on the same street. He was driving away from her. She made a squealing U-turn.

  “Listen to me,” Goody said. The reception was clearer now. “I recognized one of the shooters. James something. Satratori—something like that. Almost busted him a few years back. Serpico for DEA at the time, as far as I could figure. They got him out of my custody faster than—sit down!”

  He berated Vero for getting in his way.

  Julia bit her lip. Serpico meant he was a deep-undercover agent.

  “Don’t call in backup,” Goody continued. “Not till we figure out why a fed’s on the hit team. Got it?”

  There was silence and the rustling of Goody’s shirt over the microphone. He was probably maneuvering through traffic. She could hear Vero rambling in the background.

  “As soon as I lose these guys, we’ll meet and decide on a plan,” Goody said. “But for now, it’s just us, okay?” More silence, then: “Gettin’ on the highway. Hear me? I-75 north.”

  That was only minutes ago, twenty at most. Now, as she barreled down I-75 somewhere behind Goody, only static filled her ear. Goody’s frantic movements must have dislodged the transmitter’s wires, or he had finally traveled out of range. She plucked out the ear-phone and glanced at the laptop. The glowing red dot indicated that her partner was about two miles ahead. Her foot muscles flexed harder against the accelerator.

  Julia realized with sudden terror that the knot of cars in front of her was stopped. She slammed on the brakes. As the smell of burnt rubber washed over her, she saw the glass and bits of plastic that littered the roadway. Paint the color of Goody’s car clung in long streaks to the crushed guardrail. On the SATD display, the red dot was moving away fast. She laid on the horn. From the car in front of her, a hand with an upraised finger shot out of the driver’s window.

  “Suit yourself,” she said and stepped on the gas.

  four

  The man in the pilot’s seat of the Cessna CJ2 was obsessed with serving his clients well. He believed in quick responses and promptness, so much so that he hadn’t given a second thought to purchasing the jet, or the one before it or the one before that. He believed in confidentiality, so he piloted the plane himself, and he had no staff, just a series of electronic telephone relays that ultimately dumped inquiries into a voice mailbox in Amsterdam. He didn’t buy the currently voguish axiom “Underpromise/overdeliver.” He listened to his clients’ needs; they agreed to an action plan and when that plan would be completed; and he carried it out on time. Enough said.

  Take his last job. The client had been a stockbroker, entangled in an SEC investigation. His defense’s weak link had been his assistant, whom he’d foolishly allowed to know more than he should have. The pilot had visited the assistant’s apartment and shot the man twice in the head. Problem solved. As usual, he had charged a staggering sum for his services, but the fee had barely made a dent in the broker’s annual bonus. And now the broker would be cashing next year’s bonus check as well, instead of cleaning toilets at Danbury. He had made a wise investment.

  One client had said he’d heard the assassin was the best in his field. He didn’t know about that. He didn’t care. He did his job. Period.

  That’s not to say he was dispassionate about it. He loved his job, which allowed him to do it without comparing his performance to others’. He loved the economics of death: hastening a person’s passage into the afterlife not only provided him with a good living; it gave work to coroners, beat cops, detectives, crime scene technicians, the people who made fingerprint powder and luminol and other sundry chemicals and devices—not to mention firearm, ammunition, coffin, and tissue manufacturers—obituary writers, crime reporters, novelists. He’d spent an evening once enumerating the occupations that owed their existence, either wholly or in part, to murder—seventy-eight—and the economic impact of homicide—more than $23 billion, trumping the recording, motion picture, and video game industries.

  He loved that he was able to remedy a critical life problem as quickly and easily as a plumber unclogs a drain or a mechanic tunes an engine. Who else could make that claim? Not attorneys, accountants, or doctors. Not homebuilders, psychiatrists, or priests. He’d considered hanging around after a kill to covertly watch his client happily get on with his life, to derive that extra pleasure of witnessing the benefits of his service to them. But that would be unprofessional and unwise.

  He held a glass of club soda and lime in his hand and watched the autopilot gently maneuver the control stick. The sky outside was bright and blue and clear. He closed his eyes.

  Another thing he loved: being part of a mysterious and fearful force of nature. The ways people personified death fascinated him— the stereotypic hooded, faceless Reaper, harvesting souls with the snap of a gleaming scythe; Hemingway’s stealthy beast that consumed the illfated adventurer in the shadow of Kilimanjaro; the beautiful woman, whose kiss bore eternal consequences, in the movie All That Jazz. He felt them all dwelling within.

  Even his name, the only name he had ever known, fit the lexicon of death. Atropos. The ancient Greeks depicted Fate as three stern old sisters, goddesses though they were. Clotho, the Spinner, spun the thread of life; Lachesis, the Dispenser of Lots, decided the thread’s span and assigned to each person his or her destiny; and Atropos, the Inexorable, carried the dreaded shears that cut the thread of life at the proper time, which was often determined by her whim. This third sister’s role was his. He gladly accepted the mantle and the name.

  Death was a release from this world’s problems. He had seen serenity in his victims’ eyes as they focused on something invisible to the living. In his experience, all humans lived in a constant state of terror; but in death, peace engulfed them. No more fear, no more worries. Just peace. That was his gift to them.

  Blessed are the peacemakers. He liked the idea of being blessed. A drop of moisture slid down the glass and pooled on his finger. Then another and another. A single bead of cold condensation trickled over his knuckles.

  His eyes flicked open.

 
He’d almost drifted off. He took a sip from the glass and placed it in a cup holder, then he rolled sideways out of the pilot’s seat and stood, staying low to slip out of the cockpit. Even in the cabin, he walked stooped over. His six-foot-four frame was ill-suited for the cabin’s five-foot height. For the thousandth time, he yearned for a Gulfstream G500. But as pricey as the Cessna was, the Gulfstream cost ten times more. He couldn’t justify the expenditure. Not yet.

  The Cessna’s cabin had been converted to accommodate a galley, a plush chair that folded flat for sleeping, video and stereo equipment, a hanging martial arts heavy bag, and a workout bench with fastened down weights. In the back wall, a door serviced a room with a shower, sink, and commode. For better or worse, this was home, as much as anywhere.

  He bent lower to peer into a mirror. His thick black hair was cut short, but not short enough to keep it from standing up on one side and spiking on the other. He ran his fingers back through it, which failed to alter the design. He had green eyes behind thick-framed glasses that made him look like either a geek—despite his muscular build—or a trendy filmmaker. A strong, straight nose, square jaw, and—when he smiled—deep dimples that made charming the ladies relatively easy—a skill he often tapped to keep a store clerk from chasing him off as he staked out a nearby target or to get a waitress to divulge her knowledge of a target. He shaved twice a day, but still his stubble was heavy, accentuating a long hairline furrow on his left cheek where nothing grew.

  Acquiring that scar had taught him to appreciate the speed at which a human could produce and use a previously undetected weapon. Prior to that incident, he had killed exclusively by hand. Well, technically, by gauntlet, a weapon he’d had custom-made. It allowed him to be near his targets when he released them from life’s burdens, to feel the physicality of the release. But his own release wasn’t part of the deal, so he’d also taken to using a pistol when he thought it would be prudent. Life was about adjusting, fine-tuning, and being forced to amend his killing style to include both gauntlet and gun was so perfect, it felt to him like divine guidance.

  He picked up the television remote and pushed a button. Two forty-two-inch plasma screens—one at each end of the cabin—sprang to life, showing blue screens and the words locking in satellite reception. Then an image appeared, a woman slapping a man … The image changed to a kid eating cereal … and changed again to a black-and-white western—Shane, the assassin thought—then it changed again … and again …

  The channel-changing button had been permanently depressed with a toothpick. It was the way the assassin liked it. Frenetic and active, never still. Flip, flip, flip …

  “… never thought I’d see anything like …”

  “… act now and we’ll throw in these …”

  [the low grieving sound of a violin]

  “… what was it like playing an animal…”

  [engines revving, tires screeching]

  [static]

  “… because I know you did it. I know …”

  Yeah. He felt his synapses picking up speed, trying to catch up with the information cycling past. Before long, he’d be able to start and finish the sentences whose fragments each channel spat out with blinding speed. The chances of his guesses being the actual sentences were slim, but they made sense, and that alone meant his mind was clicking, and clicking fast.

  A beep sounded from the cockpit. He returned to the pilot’s seat and checked the laptop strapped into the copilot’s seat. His new client had fed updated coordinates into the mapping software he had provided upon retaining Atropos’s services. The target was on the move. The man’s current trajectory warranted a change in destination airports. He found the new airport coordinates in a GPS unit and punched them into the autopilot. The cockpit brightened as the plane banked toward the sun.

  five

  “We have a lock on the SATD signal.”

  The man who spoke did not take his eyes off the three flat-panel displays arranged before him. One showed a twenty-five-square-mile section of Atlanta, with a thick vein running diagonally through it. Small letters next to the vein identified it as I-75. A red dot moved steadily northwest along the highway.

  An old man in a wheelchair turned from surveying the bucolic landscape beyond a wall of windows. The chair buzzed across an expanse of hardwood floor and edged up next to the technician.

  “Can we seize the signal completely?” the old man asked.

  “You mean cut the CDC agent out of the loop, so only we have it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Will anybody—the FBI, CIA, CDC, anybody—be able to intercept it once we take it?”

  “No, sir. Nobody.”

  “Will they be able to trace it back to us?”

  “We are completely cloaked, sir.”

  “Will this CDC woman be able to reconnect or disrupt our use of it?”

  “If she tries, the program itself will block her out. She’ll just keep getting error messages on her computer.”

  “Then do it.”

  The technician typed a command and hit ENTER. The image flicked once. “Done.”

  Wheeling away, the old man said, “Now tell our men to back off.”

  He shook his head. You always tried to hire professionals for jobs like this, but with freelancers you never knew what you’d get: someone calm and competent or a complete nut job. These two had come highly recommended, and look: They didn’t seem to care who they blew away in their quest to capture the target. They’d destroyed a restaurant and were now engaged in a high-speed gun battle with a federal agent. Not exactly the discretion he’d hoped for.

  “Keep them close, but not too close,” he instructed. “Let’s give ‘em a chance to calm down.”

  Julia’s Taurus rammed into the space between the concrete median and the car ahead. The force knocked the other car only partially out of the way; its bumper screeched along the entire length of the sedan. Then her car popped free, and Julia roared toward her partner.

  The SATD showed her partner at least five miles ahead of Tier now, the assailants all over him, no doubt.

  Hang in there, Goody. I’m coming.

  As she watched, the red dot sputtered and blinked out. Then the map switched off, leaving only faint gridlines. She slammed on the brakes and stopped in the center lane of the momentarily empty highway. She stared at the screen, dumbfounded.

  Her hands flashed to the keyboard. She punched in command after command. Nothing. She checked the connections at the antenna, at the box on the floor, at the back of the computer. The screen remained blank.

  She snatched the radio mike and keyed the talk button. “Goody! What’s happened? Goody!”

  She grabbed the wire connected to the receiver for Goody’s body mike and slid her hand up to the earplug. She jammed it into her ear. Static. She ripped it out again.

  With a last futile look at the computer monitor, she hit the accelerator and plunged ahead, blind.

  Donnelley was about to take another shot at the Maxima when it swerved out of sight behind him.

  Vero yelled out in surprise and pointed. “Look!”

  In the rearview Donnelley saw the Maxima fly off the shoulder and down an embankment, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  “You beat ‘em!” Vero laughed, almost giddy.

  Donnelley wasn’t so sure, but he set his gun on the seat. He felt as though he’d been kicked hard in the side. He touched the pain, and his hand came back drenched in blood.

  Vero stared. He gripped Donnelley’s shoulder. “I should drive.”

  Donnelley eyed him. “I don’t think so.”

  Vero himself looked terrible: oily sweat glistened on his face and arms and plastered his curly brown hair to his skull. His lips, cracked and bleeding, quivered constantly. His eyes bulged, held in place, it seemed, by the red vessels fanning out from each corner. Blood was crusted around the opening of his ear.

  Registering Donnelley’s quick assessment, he said, �
�I’m not as bad as I look. Not yet. Pull over.”

  “No. Sit back” Flicking his attention between the road ahead and the rearview mirrors, Donnelley clutched the wheel with his bloody fist. His face hardened with purpose.

  six

  She’d lost them. Goody and Vero had simply vanished.

  Julia had long ago passed the place they had been when the SATD malfunctioned. Surely they could not have continued their fierce battle with the assailants this long. One of them would have triumphed, the other beaten too hard to carry on. Yet she had not come across wreckage—of car or man—other than a periodic scattering of glass, plastic, and paint.

  Three state patrol cruisers, cherry-tops blazing, had sailed by in the other direction miles ago, suggesting that the troopers had not spotted two feuding vehicles up ahead. They apparently thought the trouble lay in the stalled and battered traffic behind her. It wouldn’t be long before they realized their error and started combing ahead for the culprits. She had to find Goody before they did.

  She swept the hair back from her forehead and realized that tension was contracting every muscle in her body: her abs burned, her forearms bulged in crisp definition from gripping the wheel so tightly, even her face ached. She inhaled deeply through her nose, then let the air escape slowly through her mouth.

  She had known Goody for six years, ever since her assignment to the FBI’s Denver field office. He’d been an office hotshot with a reputation for cracking the toughest cases and collaring the most elusive criminals. Twenty-five years old and fresh from the Academy, she was consigned to grunt work and rarely had occasion to watch the great Goodwin Donnelley in action.

  For eight months the Denver SAC had her handling background investigations of people applying for sensitive government jobs. This was a choice assignment in DC, where the subject might be a potential Superior Court judge or congressional aide. But in Denver it amounted to drudgery, especially for an eager young agent with a master’s degree in criminology.