“Go where?”
“A bar, my man. A dark, inconspicuous, everybody-minds-his-own-business bar. Last one in buys.”
nine
The car was too close to the building for Despesorio Vero to open his own door, so he brushed away pellets of glass and clambered out the driver’s side, staying high to avoid the crimson-drenched seat. Lots of blood, smelling like raw meat.
He got out of the car in time to see Donnelley disappear into the building. When Vero followed, he entered an office-cum-storage room. Boxes marked pretzels, Margarita mix, and napkins formed makeshift half-walls between steel shelves, file cabinets, and a desk barely visible under a heap of papers and magazines. Donnelley was apologizing to a man in a filthy smock and pushing through another door with a porthole window.
Vero caught the door swinging shut and saw another door closing on his right. A dingy emblem on the door depicted the silhouette of a little boy peeing into a pot. The rest of the bar was equally drab and tasteless. Dim bulbs behind red-tasseled lamp shades barely illuminated each of a dozen maroon vinyl booths, which marched along one wall toward the murky front windows. Chipped Formica tables anchored the booths in place. Opposite the row of booths was a long, scarred wooden bar with uncomfortable-looking stools. Behind the bar, sitting on glass shelves in front of a cloudy mirror, were endless rows of bottles, each looking as forlorn as the folks for whom they waited.
He caught the strong odors of liquor and tobacco smoke, and the weaker scents of cleaning chemicals and vomit. In one of the booths, two heads bobbed with the movement of mug-clenching fists. A scrawny bartender with droopy eyelids picked his teeth with a swizzle stick and chatted quietly with a woman seated at the bar. Otherwise, the place was empty.
Vero walked into the bathroom. Donnelley was lifting his shirt away from the torn flesh in his side. He was cranked around, trying to assess the damage in the muck-spotted mirror. To Vero, he looked like an expressionist painting in which all the objects were the same color of too-vivid red: the shirt, the hands holding the shirt, the belt passing through pant loops. At the center of it all was the thing that corrupted its surroundings with its own gruesome color—a wound. The cut was crescent-shaped, its edges smooth. The flesh around it swelled before tucking into a finger-sized hole. While Vero watched, blood gushed out, flowed to the lip of the pants, and pooled for a moment before seeping in and dripping down.
“Oh,” Donnelley groaned. “This is a bad one.”
He pushed his index finger into the wound up to the first knuckle and growled through gritted teeth. When he pulled his finger out, it made a wet, popping noise. He fell to one knee, threw his head back, and sucked in air. Vero could hear the man’s teeth grinding. Above the crimson mess, Donnelley’s face was white as bleached bones.
He gripped the sink to pull himself up. Vero helped him. Donnelley turned on the water, doused his hand, then studied it. His thumb flicked at something on the tip of the finger he’d used to probe the wound. A long and deep cut. Blood welled up within its borders, then spilled out.
“That wasn’t there a minute ago,” Donnelley said.
Vero leaned closer. “Something’s inside you? Something that slices like that?”
“Reckon so. Get me some TP.”
Vero didn’t understand but followed Donnelley’s pointing finger to the tissue roll by the exposed toilet. He unraveled a wad. He leaned in to apply it to the wound.
“No,” Donnelley said, stopping him. “Give it to me.”
He stuck the wad in his mouth and bit down. He reached back with his left hand and jabbed the tips of his index finger and thumb into the hole, wiggling them to make room. He groaned, coughed, fell to his knees. His probing fingers wiggled farther in.
Vero held Donnelley’s shoulders and stared in disbelief.
Donnelley yanked his hand back, holding something solid. He spit out the wad of tissue. His panting echoed against the walls of the small room. Perspiration coated his face in fat, runny droplets. Vero gently pressed another wad of tissue against the wound; in seconds, he was holding a blood-soaked clump. He tossed it into the trash and spun off another handful.
With groaning effort Donnelley stood, one arm propped against the sink, eyes closed, his head hanging down. Sweat dripped off the tip of his nose and strands of hair. The rhythm of his heaving chest gradually slowed. He raised his face and stared into the mirror. He looked down at the object in his palm.
Vero tried to identify it, but a pool of gore obscured its shape. “A piece of the car door?”
Donnelley shook his head. He stuck the object under the flow of water. Pink bubbles churned in the basin and vanished. He turned off the water, shoved a clump of tissue into the drain, and dropped the object into the sink. It made a metal clink! then rattled thinly before sliding to a stop against the tissue.
It was black steel, the size of a dime. From its outside edge, three grooves spiraled slightly inward, forming three sharp teeth. A small hole pierced its center.
“What is that?” Vero asked.
“A flechette,” Donnelley said matter-of-factly, his voice raspy. He spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ve read about ‘em. Soldiers used something like it for trench warfare.”
“Those killers had these in their guns?” Vero was more angry than astonished.
“Probably—” Donnelley’s breath hitched, his face contracted in pain.
The man’s ability to behave in an almost normal fashion despite the gaping wound in his side was astonishing.
“Probably had a dozen or so packed into each shotgun shell. They’d tear a man to shreds. The car door slowed this one down before it hit me.” He rolled his head in a circle, took a deep breath. “At the Academy,” he said, “the first thing you learn about a penetrating injury is ‘leave it alone.’ Arrow, knife, bullet—don’t try to take it out; leave it for the docs, who can clamp the artery that gets severed when it’s removed, or take care of whatever complications arise.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t wait. That thing was tearing me up inside.”
The two stared at the black disk in the sink as if it were a new species of poisonous insect.
“Tore you up bad.”
“Tore me up good. Could have been worse, I guess. Let me have your jacket.”
He put the disk in an outside pocket of Vero’s jacket and slipped into it. It covered most of the bloodstain on his pants. He pushed his own bloody jacket into the wastepaper basket and tossed handfuls of tissue over it. The effort obviously pained him, but he held strong. He then reached up under his shirt and yanked something out. Donnelley examined a small box with a wire that abruptly ended. He reached under his shirt again and removed a steel disk with a short wire tail.
“The body mike broke,” Donnelley said, seemingly to himself. “I thought I felt it ripping loose. Piece of garbage.” He pushed it into a jacket pocket. To Vero he said, “Let’s sit down and wait for my partner. I really need a drink.”
Julia Matheson’s heart pounded in her breast, a fist wanting out. She had periodically listened for Goody’s body mike and called for him on the radio. Her mobile phone lay in her lap, useless. It had rung several times, the word Private popping up on the caller ID screen. She had ignored the calls; Goody would have used the code they had devised. And she wanted to avoid Molland until Goody filled her in on his suspicions. The idea of LED involvement in the hit was ludicrous, but he had been clear about not involving anyone. She wasn’t about to violate his confidence now.
She’d driven as far as Chattanooga without seeing another sign of him. She wanted to find solace in that, but it would not come. Just past the junction of I-75 and I-24, she’d turned around. Now she was heading back toward Atlanta, still looking and offering up silent prayers …
In a car on a quiet street off Brainerd Road, two men inspected their weapons: the driver with a NeoStead combat shotgun, the passenger with a Mini Uzi.
Mr. Uzi put the weapon in his lap and dropped down his visor. In the mirror,
he examined his nose, swollen to twice its normal size and mottled in blue and red and even green—green! A fat gash like a little mouth right on the bridge. He touched it gently and flinched. “I can’t wait to blow that dude away!”
The driver said nothing, just rubbed a silicone cloth over the shotgun’s twin tubular magazines above the barrel.
The passenger watched him for a moment, then said, “I can’t believe I lost my shotgun. I loved that thing.” He watched a few more seconds’. “We gotta go back and—”
“Don’t even think about it, Launy,” the driver said without looking.
“I meant after all this is—”
The driver turned. “Did you hear what I said? It’s gone. We’re not going back for it.” He set the cloth on the seat and pivoted the magazines up at the rear. “Local PD probably got it now, anyway. Get another’n.”
Launy slapped up his visor. “I was just saying …” He touched the side of his nose again and hissed. “What was that guy doing with a gun anyway? I thought he was CDC.”
“He wasn’t CDC. FBI.”
“That would have been nice to know up front. How do you know?”
“I seen him before.”
“Well, ain’t that just dandy.” Launy yanked a thirty-two-round magazine from the bottom of the Uzi’s handgrip, tipped it to see the two topmost rounds, and shoved it back in. He was silent, then he held up the Uzi. “Now this is a fine weapon.”
“No. I’m using the shotgun. Now shut up.” The driver began dropping heavy shells into the magazine tubes until he’d loaded the NeoStead with twelve rounds.
They did their work in a green, late-model Chrysler, stolen from the outer edge of a mall lot where employees parked. They planned on being long gone before anyone discovered the theft, or the black Maxima—which they had hot-wired in Atlanta—stashed behind a tall clump of bushes.
A satellite phone on the seat chirped. Tethered to the phone was a CopyTele Triple DES cryptography device.
“‘Bout time,” Launy said.
“Shut up. Nobody wants to hear your whining.” He punched five numbers into the keypad on the CopyTel, then answered the phone. He listened, said, “Yeah, got it,” and disconnected.
He turned a strip of metal protruding from the ignition switch, and the car roared to life. He eyed his partner. “Now listen. We’re getting nice change for this and we don’t have to sweat getting busted, not with these guys we’re working for. It’s a sweet gig. So be happy you got it, okay?” He paused. “You ready?”
Launy smiled like a dog showing its teeth. “Oh yeah.”
The Chrysler pulled away from the curb and turned onto Brainerd.
ten
Donnelley looked at his watch. “She should have been here by now.”
“You haven’t talked to anyone,” Vero said. “How will your partner find us?”
Donnelley downed a shot of Jack Daniels and set the glass beside two empty ones on the table in front of him. He had poured one over the hole in his side. It had burned at first but felt better now. He wasn’t worried about how the alcohol would affect his ability to out-maneuver his opponents; its dulling effect was less inhibiting than the pain, making him feel even more quick-witted than before the drinks. Besides, it would take a lot more than two shots to counteract the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
He nodded and canted to his right, squeezing a hand into his pants pocket. “My turn to share.”
He held up what looked like a fat, black dime. A small slot in its side pointed at a 1 stamped into the black plastic case. Rotating the slot ninety degrees would leave it pointing at the numeral 0. “I was going to attach this to your clothes sometime during our meeting. It would have allowed us to find you if you got cold feet and disappeared.”
“I came to you.”
“And look what happened. We could have been separated. They could have taken you. Never hurts to have one of these.” He held it out to Vero. “Take it.”
Vero thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, it’s not me that’s important. Not anymore. You have the memory chip. You keep it.”
Donnelley turned the transmitter over and peeled away a bit of paper. He retrieved the chip. After pressing the transmitter against it, he returned it to his pocket. The round paper he had pulled from the transmitter sat on the table. He tapped it with his fingernail. “The latest and greatest technology, tracking drug dealers and heads of state, and it all relies on two cents of adhesive.”
Vero picked up a shot glass. Surprised to find it empty, he set it mouth-down on the table. “It has always fascinated me,” he said, “that bombs get so much effort and attention, but hardly anyone thinks about the most important part, the delivery system. If it can’t reach its target, what good is it?” He studied Donnelley’s face. “This very issue held up my employer’s plans for months.”
“Plans for a bomb?”
“A virus.”
“What plans, Vero? What does he want to do with this virus?”
“Kill people.” He lowered his head, to Donnelley looking very much like a shamed child. “Lots of people, women and children.”
“Is he still … only planning?” Vero’s head moved: no.
“What is it? What’s happening?” It dawned on Donnelley. “People,” he said. “People make the perfect delivery system for viruses, right? It’s you, isn’t it?” He covered his mouth and nose. He thought of the time he’d spent with this man, in the car, here, and the ridiculousness of using his hand like a biofiltering mask. Hadn’t he learned anything at the CDC? He let it drop back into his lap.
“I told you I’m not contagious,” Vero said. He slid the upside-down shot glass in front of him from one hand to the other and back again. Quietly he said, “But I had a lot to do with all this. I worked on the project. I ran field tests, mostly in Africa.”
“Africa? Is that where you worked?”
“The lab is far from there, that’s the point. You shouldn’t play with fire in your own backyard.” He smiled thinly. “Plus, there’s a lot of apathy about Africa. Westerners like to say that’s not true, but it is. Deception is easier when people don’t care.”
“So why didn’t you go to one of the CDC’s offices in Africa? Or the European Center for Disease Control and Prevention in Sweden? It’s much closer, and if time is a factor—”
“We only field tested in Africa. I was here … to release it… the germ.”
His head dropped farther, until it nearly touched the shot glass. His shoulders hitched, and Donnelley realized the man was fighting back tears.
Vero said, “Que Deus me perdoe.” He lifted a wet cocktail napkin and wiped his face. He raised his gaze to Donnelley, as though seeking absolution.
“Wait a minute.” Donnelley reached across the table and grabbed his shoulder. “Are you saying now, here? That’s what you were doing here?”
Vero nodded, lowered his gaze once more.
“Where? What exactly is it?”
“I came down the coast,” he said. “There were four of us, working each time zone. I got Boston, New York, DC. In each city, I picked up a package at a mail center. A canister. I’d go to a mall, sit on a bench with a coat covering it. Turn the valve.”
“You exposed thousands of people to a deadly virus?”
He seemed to be intensely studying something on the bottom of the shot glass. “Rhinovirus, most of them. Most common of common colds. Spreads fast, though.”
“You’re not talking about a common cold.”
“Remember what I said about delivery systems.” He shot his gaze around, checking for eavesdroppers. He scratched the inside of his ear and looked at the blood on his fingertip—some red and fresh, some brown and flaky. “When I got sick, I thought something had gone wrong. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I called Karl. He—”
“Karl?”
“Karl Litt, my boss. A monster.” He said it with conviction “Karl he sounded concerned, said, ‘Oh no, Despesorio. Hurry, fini
sh the job and come home.’ But I know him too well. I heard it in his voice There had been no mistake. But I should have kept my big mouth shut “
He punched himself in the cheek. Hard. Donnelley flinched but said nothing, could say nothing.
“I thought I could buy my way back, threaten my way home. I told him about my insurance policy.”
“The memory chip.”
“Instead of bargaining with me, he laughed. He said the list of targets had already gone out.”
“Already gone out?”
“Made public. That way people would know it was planned, not just some act of God or biological accident. I told him I had more than that list. I had details about our field tests, the capabilities of our lab … He hung up on me. That’s when I called the CDC I thought… I thought…”
He shook his head, a slow, painful movement.—
“Listen, you’ve got to—” Donnelley let the thought die. What Vero had come to reveal was big. He didn’t want to blow it by saying the wrong thing, pushing the wrong button. Vero needed to be interrogated someplace safe, with one of the Bureau’s interrogation teams—psychologists, mostly—and at least a few CDC scientists who would know the virologist’s vernacular and the implications of his words.
He felt shaky, as though he’d been given a glimpse of the future and it wasn’t pretty. He shifted on the bench seat and saw the bartender watching him. When they’d first sat down, the man had come around the bar to take their drink order. Assessing them, he’d said, “Get you—dudes something … beer, well drink, an ambulance?”
Donnelley said they had just walked away from a detox program
“Feelin’ a li’l thin, ya know?” That seemed to satisfy him, but he’d been keeping an eye on them just the same.
Vero mumbled, and Donnelley leaned in. His words came in stuttering whispers, part confession, part rant. Donnelley listened, afraid to ask questions, afraid to disrupt what may have been the fevered speech of a sick man who didn’t know he was talking. After a while—it could have been minutes or hours, Donnelley was so lost in the words—Vero grew silent. His body jerked, as if startling awake from trance or sleep. Donnelley thought it had to do with his illness.
Germ Page 4
