The Dark Hour

by Robin Burcell

  “Where the hell is Sydney?” Griffin demanded, once the nurse stepped out.

  “Monsieur Griffin. You should not agitate yourself or you will send the doctors running when they see your blood pressure,” he said, walking up to the equipment, peering at the numbers beeping on the screen. “And right now we need the time to come up with your cover story.”

  “Did you know?”

  “Know?”

  “What they said. About my wife.”

  Dumas leaned down, one brow raised in a sardonic arch, saying softly, “Which wife are we talking about? The woman posing as your wife in the lobby who saved your life or the other one?”

  “My real wife, you god—”

  “Tsk, tsk.” Dumas reached out, tapped the monitor, shaking his head. “You must calm yourself, Monsieur Griffin. This is not good for your blood pressure.” He pulled up a chair, taking a seat next to Griffin’s bed. “As I explained before, up until the moment that Tex telephoned me, asking if I could assist you with this case, I knew what you knew. I saw what you saw. And I believed what you believed. My conversation with Tex was brief, and as of yet, I still don’t know the particulars regarding Becca. Is she alive?”

  Griffin stared into the priest’s dark eyes, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. He didn’t always trust Dumas, but at the moment he had no reason not to believe him. “You said Sydney is in the lobby?”

  “She is being questioned by the police. Which is why we must quickly talk. They will be coming in to question you as soon as the doctor allows it.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She is fine. But my contact in the French intelligence here tells me something is going to transpire at Monsieur Luc Montel’s winery, the sale of the information we seek regarding Hilliard, and having you locked up could endanger countless lives.”

  “Sale of what?”

  “We haven’t the time to go into it now. Suffice it to say that your cover story, your recollection, must match Sydney’s to avoid any delays or questions about your identities if the two of you hope to get out of here and continue with what you were doing. She gave them your alias on your passport that you picked up in Winterswijk. She also had to move some evidence around in order to get you to the hospital and not have either of you considered a suspect in any way or endanger your mission.”

  Griffin desperately tried to remember what happened, but everything after he entered the room was a blank. “I’m listening.”

  “You and your wife argued. She booked the room next door. While she packed her belongings, you went for a walk. This stranger, whom you have never seen before tonight, took you at gunpoint, forced you to your room to rob you. He did not expect to see your wife standing by the balcony window and he shot at her but missed. You and he struggled for the weapon and you managed to knock it from his hands, at which time he jabbed a syringe of some drug into . . . ?” Dumas looked at Griffin in question.

  “My thigh.”

  “Your thigh. When he came after your wife with the syringe, she grabbed his weapon from the floor, fired twice, killing him. You fell to the ground unconscious, and remember nothing else.”

  “And what really happened?”

  Dumas was about to tell him when there was a knock at the door. He quickly stood, placed his hand on Griffin’s, then raising his other in the air, made the sign of the cross as the door opened, saying, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  A nurse stood in the door, next to a man in his late thirties, wearing a dark suit. The police inspector, undoubtedly. Griffin turned to Dumas, said, “Thank you for the prayer, Father.”

  “Bless you, my son.” And Dumas and the nurse left, leaving Griffin with the investigator.

  Chapter 54

  December 12

  Paris, France

  Sydney paced the small lobby area, waiting while the police questioned Griffin. This death investigation was her fault. She should have waited until morning to tell Griffin about his wife. Thank God for Father Dumas. The moment Sydney called him, told him what happened, he came straightaway.

  And more importantly, he didn’t judge her.

  Looking down the hall, she saw the priest and the nurse approaching from Griffin’s room. As expected, Dumas pretended not to know Sydney, saying, “Are you the wife?”

  “Yes,” she said, looking from him to the nurse. “Is he okay?”

  The nurse smiled. “He is doing much better, madame.”

  “Then he will be released soon?”

  The nurse’s smile turned sympathetic. “Unfortunately, no. Once the naloxone wears off, it may need to be administered again to counteract the effects of the morphine. As such, your husband must remain under close observation.”

  And Dumas said, “Perhaps you would like to say a prayer for his continued improvement?”

  “I would,” Sydney said, and he took her hands in his, as the nurse excused herself and walked off.

  When she was out of earshot, Dumas said, “He really is fine. How are you?”

  “Worried.”

  “And I expect you have had no sleep?”

  “None.”

  “A dangerous mix. Lack of sleep and trying to deal with the Network.”

  “Griffin doesn’t believe she could be a double agent.”

  “Two years ago, he thought he buried his very patriotic wife, and if I understand the situation correctly, he only just learned she was alive,” Dumas replied, holding his hand out, indicating that she should follow him down the corridor to the exit. “Asking him to change his mind about her loyalties in so short a time without benefit of seeing the evidence would be hard for anyone to accept. I think the bigger question we should be asking is whether or not she is truly alive or is this all an elaborate ruse?”

  “From what this Luc said in the lab about our ambush being a setup, I’d guess the latter.”

  He waited until two nurses making their rounds passed them in the hall before answering. “So it would seem. In the meantime, Tex informs me that the CIA is now cooperating, and will be forwarding their case files on LockeStarr.”

  “Including the files on Griffin’s wife?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Chapter 55

  December 12

  ATLAS Headquarters

  Washington, D.C.

  Early the next morning, Tex sat in his office reading the report on Miles Cavanaugh’s cell phone records, trying to pinpoint specifically whom Cavanaugh had been in contact with. Tex never thought the man had orchestrated this entire witch hunt for Griffin on his own, and now that they had confirmation that LockeStarr, therefore the Network, was behind Cavanaugh, it would be nice to pinpoint some of the key players. But other than the one call received from Bose when he’d had Griffin drugged, the other numbers on Cavanaugh’s phone came back to prepaid throwaway cell phones. They were monitoring those numbers now. Unfortunately there had been no further activity, and Tex figured they’d been abandoned the moment Cavanaugh was murdered, undoubtedly to avoid further scrutiny.

  Someone knocked on his office door. “Come in,” he said.

  Tony Carillo walked in, carrying a file box. He kicked the door closed behind him, crossed the room, then dropped the box on Tex’s desk. “In case you run out of reading material. You look like hell, by the way.”

  “Not so chipper yourself.”

  “Yeah. I was looking for an intravenous line for my coffeepot, but they haven’t invented one yet.”

  “I’m sure it will come as an app for your phone real soon. What’s this?”

  “My files on Grogan’s homicide. Figured we could cross-reference them to your LockeStarr mess and Cavanaugh’s records, maybe see what matches, what doesn’t. You get the files from CIA?”

  Tex nodded to the boxes in front of the credenza, wondering how
they were going to cover everything. “Might as well pour yourself a cup. We’ll be here awhile.”

  “What’d your boss have to say about last night’s activities?” Carillo asked, walking over to the coffeepot.

  “He wasn’t too happy to find out Griffin had been ambushed. We find who set him up, we probably find who’s behind LockeStarr.”

  “I think we need more coffee,” Carillo said, eyeing all the boxes. “Definitely more space. You got a conference room, something with a bigger table?”

  “There’s one down the hall.”

  After he and Carillo finished carting the files to the other room, they set to work sorting the paperwork, trying to find something that stood out.

  Tex refilled his coffee cup, then opened another folder and started reading. What he discovered was that a lot of the documents seemed to go over what they already knew. Overlapping but separate investigations run by different agencies on the same entity. “Nothing like a little mutual cooperation,” Tex said. “Imagine what would happen if we all worked together.”

  “Don’t even get me started,” Carillo said, pulling out several of the folders from the CIA box, and spreading them out on the table. “Then again, I’m impressed that Thorndike even turned these files over to us.”

  “You know damned well he redacted everything he thought was too far above us.”

  Carillo examined the folders, his eye catching on one in the middle. He opened it and read the single sheet within. “Either he’s turned a new leaf, or he missed one.”

  “Thorndike?”

  “See for yourself.” Carillo slid the sheet toward Tex. “That, my friend, is the contact info for a CIA handler.”

  “Handler for who?”

  He pointed to the name at the bottom. “Griffin’s wife.”

  Chapter 56

  December 12

  Paris, France

  Griffin felt out of it, as though he’d been at some drunken party the night before, tired as all get-out, and needing a shower. He looked around the room, trying to remember what had happened and where he was. Hospital. France. Drug injection. Police questioning.

  He pressed the button for the nurse. A tall, brown-haired woman entered about two minutes later. Apparently a shift change. He didn’t recognize her. Didn’t care. “I’d like to leave now.”

  “The doctor has not yet released you.”

  “Regardless, I’m ready.”

  “But monsieur, you should remain here, rest.”

  “Where’s my wife?”

  “I heard her say something about a meeting. She would be back afterward.”

  Which meant Sydney was out investigating something she shouldn’t. He flung the covers off, sat up.

  “Monsieur, your IV. You must be careful.”

  “Will I die if you release me?”

  “I will get the doctor immediately.”

  “Thank you.” Only then did he sit back, deciding he could wait a few minutes more. But apparently the nurse’s idea of immediate differed from his.

  Almost an hour later, the doctor showed up, taking his time reading the chart, listening to Griffin’s lungs, and checking the reaction of his pupils before deciding that he would allow Griffin to be released.

  The only problem Griffin failed to foresee was that he had no transportation, and even if he did, he had no idea where he should go. The hotel had been compromised, for one, never mind it was probably off limits due to the police investigation.

  He sat on the bed for several minutes after he showered and dressed, until he thought to check his belongings for his cell phone. Opening the plastic bag, he saw only his wallet and some change. He’d forgotten that the phone had been confiscated by the guards last night. It was disposable, prepaid, no great loss, and he looked at the telephone by the side of the bed, trying to remember Sydney’s number, feeling as though his brain was wrapped in a fog. He couldn’t remember the number and had no choice but to wait.

  Eventually the nurse appeared at the door, knocking, asking if he was dressed. He told her to come in. She opened the door, revealing a wheelchair, saying, “Your wife is here, monsieur. Waiting in the lobby.”

  Griffin refused the wheelchair, ignoring the nurse’s protests as he left his room on his own two feet.

  Sydney stood when he walked into the waiting area, holding up a large cup of coffee. “You are an expensive date,” she said. “Do you realize how much your little jaunt last night racked up on my credit card?”

  “Just be glad it’s coming out of Tex’s budget, not yours,” he said, taking the coffee, grateful for the caffeine. When they were in the parking lot, he said, “Where have you been and where’s Dumas?”

  “Out and waiting elsewhere. We couldn’t very well have him hanging about if we aren’t supposed to have met him. Hope you’re feeling back to your old self.”

  He looked over at her, figured she knew something. “Why?”

  “We’re making a little side trip. Visiting your wife’s handler.”

  Chapter 57

  December 12

  ATLAS Headquarters

  Washington, D.C.

  Tex looked up from his paperwork as Carillo walked into the room, a box of donuts in one hand, a large coffee in the other. “How’s the kid doing?” Tex asked. Another ATLAS agent had brought Izzy back to HQ this morning to continue working on the computer files he’d downloaded from the Paris lab computer, and Carillo had gone up to check on him after making a donut run.

  “He’s doing fine,” Carillo said. “But for a computer nerd, he brought up a good point. Which, in my mind, means we’ve got a problem.”

  “Bigger than backtracking two years of investigation on LockeStarr because the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing?”

  “How about the fact that Cavanaugh was in charge of overseeing the security for the global summit? Perfect place to mount a terrorist attack.” Carillo dropped the pastry box on the table, and opened it. “Sure you don’t want one?”

  Tex ignored the donuts, thinking about the implications. The summit started in two days. The president was supposed to make an appearance and the vice president would be attending, along with the heads of state from a number of countries in the Western world.

  Not only would chaos ensue should the heads of state of other countries perish while visiting the U.S., but the residual worldwide political upheaval was bound to have a dire impact on foreign relations. A number of visiting dignitaries were from countries at tentative peace with the U.S. Wobbler nations, Tex called them. Anything might set them off, and the loss of their leaders, combined with the current teetering global economy, the loss of jobs, the civil unrest, would certainly redirect that blame squarely on the shoulders of the United States. And that didn’t count the countries that weren’t wobbling, countries that were squarely against the U.S., and waiting like vultures for the first sign of weakness in order to strike a blow. Their joining forces with the wobbler nations would be devastating to the free world.

  He called McNiel, who said, “I want you and Carillo to go over everything with this kid. A full report, and I want it and the kid ready to brief the security task force within the hour. Lisette’s already on her way to brief them on what she and Marc found.”

  “We’ll be ready,” Tex said. He hung up the phone, looked outside, staring at the dull gray clouds, trying to gather his thoughts. A terrorist attack while the summit was in session could start a global crisis beyond anything that they’d ever imagined.

  An hour later, McNiel was seated at the head of the room, Thorndike on one side, Pearson on another. Careful screening, with the knowledge that there might still be a mole even though Cavanaugh was dead, led to the inclusion of the Secret Service, as well as the military, all men handpicked by McNiel and Thorndike. Tex took a seat just as Lisette appeared in the doorway, sporting several red b
umps on her face, undoubtedly mosquito bites left over from her trek in the jungle.

  “Gentleman,” McNiel said, as she walked into the room. “Dr. Lisette Perrault.”

  They all stood, and General Livingston said, “I’m assuming you can shed a little light on this virus situation?”

  “I’ll try,” she replied, then took a seat next to McNiel. The others sat as well.

  “How are you doing?” McNiel asked quietly.

  “A little itchy,” she said. She looked over at Tex, smiled, then turned her attention to the men at the table. “What we’re dealing with, General, is a chimera virus. The WHO team have identified it as a cross between blackpox and an as yet unknown virus that was cultivated from the deep sea hydrothermal vent off the Cayman Trough. It’s why the AUV was stolen.”

  “Why modify or cross them at all?” Thorndike asked. “Isn’t blackpox already a modified virus?”

  “To put it quite simply, stability, predictability and the all important dispersal methods when weaponized. Not that this virus is stable, but that’s why the attempt was made.” She opened a file folder, passed out sheets around the table. “As I’m sure most of you know, the majority of bioweapons have failed due to inadequate dispersal methods. For instance, the heat from a bomb would kill the virus, and render it useless. Or the sun’s rays would neutralize the matter within hours before it could do much harm. Assuming this is what they used on the freighter to kill the crew, whatever they crossed this with, it allowed them to control its dispersal to the crew, then rendered it harmless after so many hours, once the host is dead. We’re analyzing it in the lab and comparing the results with the vial recovered in Holland, and the remnants of the destroyed virus found at the compound.”

  “Forgive me if this sounds ignorant, Dr. Perrault,” the general said. “But if we can’t do anything about it, how the hell is this going to help us?”

  “Because there’s still a vial outstanding. This way at least we open our eyes to the increased threat, whether a dirty bomb, powder, aerosol, or something we haven’t yet discovered. We should be watching for anything suspicious that could include any of these means. We don’t know the method of dispersal on the Zenobia, since all we found is a vial, which was lost during the mission. Regardless, you should cancel the summit until the threat is resolved.”