The Widow's Strike: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  I asked for a manager and stated I was conducting an investigation, using a phony badge provided by the Taskforce. In fine print it said something stupid like “Investigator of the Paranormal.” Well, not that bad, but it wouldn’t stand up to any scrutiny.

  Luckily, the badge did its job. I got the staff into a room and passed the sketch around, giving a story about trying to find a runaway.

  Nobody recognized the drawing. I said, “She would have checked in during the last week. We know she was here two days ago.”

  The manager said, “This sketch isn’t that great. We see hundreds of people a day. Do you have a name?”

  “No. Believe me, I wish I did, but I don’t. I have no idea what name she’s using. She has an accent, though. Sounds like an Eastern European.”

  He laughed. “Do you know how many foreigners come through here? We make our money on cruise ship stopovers. We get more foreigners here than Washington, DC.” My face went sour, and he said, “Hey, you can hang around for another twenty minutes. The other shift will come on and maybe they’ll have seen her, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  I left the hotel and found Jennifer on the phone. I said, “Who are you talking to?”

  She held up a finger, saying, “Yes, alpha, six, alpha. That’s right.”

  I patiently waited, and she started writing in the air. I looked at her like she’d lost her mind and she hissed, “Get me a something to write with!”

  Ripping through the seat cushions of our rental, I found a broken pencil and handed it to her, along with a napkin from our last stop. She scribbled something down and hung up.

  “What was that all about?”

  “I got sick of waiting around in the car, so I trolled the parking lot. I found five cars with New York license plates. One is from a rental car company at JFK driven by a woman from Latvia. Named Elina Maskhadov.”

  When I didn’t respond, Jennifer said, “You trying to catch flies with that open mouth? It wasn’t rocket science. The car in question is hidden by a Dumpster.”

  I snapped my mouth closed, then said, “Holy shit, you are the heat! That’s the smartest thing I’ve seen in years! So we know she’s still here, and we have a name.”

  Her eyes widened at my accolades, completely oblivious that what she had done was outside the box and something very few would have thought of. But only for a second. She grinned and said, “Don’t get worked up. Me being the heat doesn’t get you any closer to the flame. You want to go back in and see if this helps?”

  I felt an irrational pull to lean in and kiss her. I didn’t. Maybe, given what was coming, it would have helped, but at that moment I was sure it was the wrong time and wrong place. I was never a good judge of that.

  I snatched the name out of her hand and said, “Get a beacon out of our kit and put it on the car. If this doesn’t pan out, we might get something from tracking its movements.”

  I jogged back into the hotel lobby, getting the manager. He had already passed my sketch to the oncoming crew, who were now talking among themselves. The manager ran the name, and sure enough, it came up; she had checked out two days ago.

  I said, “But her car is still here. Why would that be?”

  Before the manager could answer, one woman on the new shift said, “I think I know who this is. She had a strong accent, but she didn’t spend any time walking around. Stayed in her room for most of her stay. She didn’t really use the bar or pool.”

  “You’re sure that’s the girl?”

  “No. I can’t be sure. The eyes are right, and she did have an accent, but the woman I’m thinking of always wore a mask. You know, like a doctor’s mask?”

  Bingo.

  “You remember her checking out?”

  “Yeah, sure. She left with everyone else on the cruise.”

  70

  Elina was shocked at the number of people trying to leave the ship, all at the same time. She was on the eighth deck, and each of the six elevators had shown up full, packed with kids and parents moving to the lobby.

  She patiently waited, then crammed into the small elevator with six other people, wanting to hold her breath. Since boarding, she’d spent just about every waking moment inside her cubicle, living on room service and only traveling out during darkness, when the decks were much less crowded. She steered clear of any of the onboard entertainment, such as the casino, because she’d taken to not wearing the hospital mask.

  Initially after boarding, walking to her berth, she’d been questioned by a crew member who happened to work in the infirmary, and the encounter had not been pleasant. Apparently, sickness on board was something they continually fought, and they didn’t want anyone contagious mingling with the other passengers. It had almost come to her ordering Elina to the infirmary for tests.

  Eventually the woman had relented, but Elina had left the mask behind after that. Now, crammed together with a thousand other people all waiting to exit the massive ship, she struggled to avoid personal contact.

  Not that she was sure it mattered. Today was the meeting with Malik, which surely meant an endgame. If somebody got infected now it would just mean they were ahead of the curve by hours.

  She shuffled forward, watching the procedures for leaving the ship. Apparently, it only consisted of showing the identification card she’d been issued upon boarding. The crew member slid it through a magnetic reader and handed it back.

  She saw signs saying all bags would be searched upon reentry and listing the proscriptions against bringing unauthorized alcohol on board. With gallows humor, she reflected that it didn’t say anything about explosives. She had no bag to be searched and was wearing a loose-fitting sundress/shawl combination that would camouflage the vest.

  Ahead of her, someone shouted, “Hey! Hey you!” Several people turned to see who was yelling, including Elina. She instantly wished she hadn’t.

  It was the obese man from the hotel bar, and he was waving at her.

  “Where you been? I haven’t seen you the entire cruise.”

  She smiled weakly but said nothing. He reached the crew member taking IDs and said, “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  He disappeared through the gangway, and she began looking for some other exit. Some way to get off the boat without going by him. She saw it was futile. There was only one line and one gangway.

  Now what? I can’t have him follow me.

  She passed through the portal and saw him standing on the dock wearing a pair of board shorts that ended just above the knees and a T-shirt from the Atlantis resort in the Bahamas, the first place the cruise had stopped.

  She reached him and he said, “What are you doing this morning? My buddies are going on a snorkeling trip to the French side of the island later this afternoon, but right now they’re sleeping off a hangover.”

  She said, “Look, I’m just doing some souvenir shopping. I don’t have any plans.”

  “Hey, me too! I’m killing time until those deadbeats wake up. We have to meet our snorkeling boat right here at eleven. Want some company?”

  Despite herself, she found him charming in a bumbling sort of way and didn’t want to hurt him. “No. I really don’t. I took this cruise to get away, not to socialize. I’m sorry.”

  His face fell, and he said, “Okay. I get it.”

  He turned to walk away, and for reasons she couldn’t explain, she said, “Maybe we can have lunch or dinner. What’s your room number? I’ll call you.”

  He brightened and said, “Twenty-three sixty-three. In the bowels of the ship. What’s yours?”

  She smiled and said, “I’ll call you, not the other way around.”

  He nodded over and over, like a puppy, and she walked away, wondering why she had done that. She tried to convince herself that she needed someone knowledgeable about the ship. Someone who could tell her where it was most crowded and at what time, so she could infect the greatest number possible. But she knew it wasn’t true.

  She simply wanted a touch of human co
mpanionship before she blew herself apart. One last chance to talk to another person who wasn’t out to kill her or directing her to kill others.

  She walked through the small customs facility, showing her cruise identification and getting waved past. Immediately assaulted by taxi drivers, she ignored them and continued walking out of the cruise terminal, replete with a plethora of souvenir shops, until she reached the road fronting the port.

  As instructed, she traveled north on the narrow, cracked sidewalk until she passed a marina called Dock Maarten.

  First checkpoint.

  Relieved to see the sign, now confident, she picked up her pace. She passed a restaurant called Chesterfields and turned left, heading toward the bay and the sailboats anchored there. She walked past an empty customs house and onto the docks, searching for her signal.

  She saw it two docks over. A Chechen-separatist flag, green with red and white stripes, floating in the breeze aboard what looked like a sportfishing boat.

  She went to it, unsure how to proceed. She settled on saying, “Hello?”

  A man she didn’t know poked his head out, then disappeared just as quickly. She waited, then heard a voice she recognized.

  “Come in, Widow, come in.”

  Malik.

  She went down the steps into the galley and saw him sitting on a makeshift bed, his back against the bulkhead. And he looked awful. For a horrible moment, she thought he’d contracted the virus.

  “What happened to you?”

  He barked a short laugh devoid of humor and said, “It appears the ocean and I don’t get along. Nothing to worry about. Have a seat.”

  While she did, he brought out a box.

  “Open it.”

  Inside was her method of destruction. A vest laced with explosives. She looked closer and saw it was different from the other vests she’d trained with. For one, there was much less explosive. For another, the charges seemed to spiral down the vest, like a Slinky, with what looked like a sleeve of sausage hanging off the bottom.

  Malik said, “It fits just under your chest and goes to just above your pelvis. That last piece goes between your legs and fastens in the back. The explosive charge is designed to cut.”

  She looked him in the eye and said, “You mean cut me. Slice me into pieces and fling me out.”

  She spat it as a statement, not a question. Malik, originally proud of the construction, realized the callousness of what he had said.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I just wanted to ensure you wore it correctly. I didn’t mean to belittle your sacrifice.”

  She said nothing.

  He continued. “You’ll need to wear it to get back on the boat, but you shouldn’t have any trouble. Sint Maarten is your last stop, yes? You head back to the United States tonight?”

  “Yes. We have two full days at sea.”

  “Do not conduct the mission until tomorrow midday at the earliest. Midnight at the latest. We need to hit a balance where we have enough time for the virus to spread but the ship is far enough out to sea that it will continue on instead of turning back.”

  “Because of my explosion?”

  “Yes. They won’t know what to make of it, and I want them to simply clean it up and decide to proceed, allowing everyone on board the chance to become infected. To that end, it would be helpful if you executed near a food-serving area.”

  She nodded, the final plan becoming clear. “And once we—I mean they—dock in America, they’ll travel back to wherever they came from, not showing signs of the illness for another day or two. So you get your multiple infection points. Multiple outbreaks all over the United States.”

  “Exactly.”

  She changed the subject. “You don’t appear too worried about catching the virus. I expected to talk to you through a wall.”

  His answer surprised her. “I’m afraid that I’m a martyr too. By passing you this vest, I have sealed my fate. Truthfully, the virus might be an easier way to go.”

  She thought to ask what he meant but let it lie, assuming the Americans were closing in. The fact that he was willing to die for this mission meant a great deal to her. Gave her strength about the path she was on.

  She stood up, removed the shawl, and dropped the sundress to her feet. He recoiled, his eyes growing wide. “What are you doing?”

  “Putting on the vest.”

  He leapt up, the image of her standing in nothing but a bra and panties causing his face to turn crimson. “Let me give you privacy.”

  Elina laughed. “You have no fear of the virus but run at the sight of my body? Why? I’m nothing more than a tool. Just like the vest in that box.”

  He turned his back, saying, “Make this fast, please.”

  She cinched the vest in place, bringing it just below the swell of her breasts before affixing the Velcro in front, then sliding the tail of explosives between her legs, contacting the Velcro on her back. She tucked the two wire leads, connected to a blasting cap on her waist, into the Velcro. Lastly, she pulled the detonator out of the box, a simple one-button affair about the size of a pack of gum, and tucked it into the Velcro on the opposite side.

  She pulled up her sundress and said, “How does it look?”

  He turned around and studied her for a moment, then said, “There are some lumps, but not too bad.”

  She unfurled the shawl and laid it across her shoulders so it draped in back, the two ends hanging down the front.

  “Better?”

  “Much better. Now get back to the boat. Remember what I said. No earlier than noon tomorrow.”

  She was halfway up the steps when Malik said, “Elina?”

  She looked at him and saw sadness on his face.

  “You are very, very brave. You will be remembered for eternity. You are not a tool to be used. Don’t ever think that.”

  She felt tears well up in her eyes. She nodded and continued up the stairs, marching to her destiny.

  71

  We bounced into the runway and then were jerked forward as the MC-130’s turboprops reversed. After a brief taxi, the engines shut down and the ramp began to lower, the humid breath of Puerto Rico competing with the stale air from the blowers of the aircraft AC, causing fog to stream out of the vents. The sun had just crested the horizon, and it would have looked like a vacation photo, with the palm trees waving around and the ocean in the distance. Would have except for the loadmaster in an Air Force flight suit and the Coast Guard pilot on the tarmac waving us off, a not-so-subtle reminder of why we were here.

  Vacation photo from Stephen King.

  Knuckles pulled out his earplugs and said, “If I knew I’d be getting dropped into a ship full of walking dead, I would have just left you locked up.”

  One of the doctors heard him and looked like he was going to throw up.

  I said, “Cut the chatter. They’re nervous enough as it is. Get the kit offloaded. I’m going to find the coastie in charge of our helicopters.”

  Decoy, Retro, and the rest of the team began offloading black bags that looked exactly like the bags of the five-man team from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. As far as the Air Force and Coast Guard knew, we were all members of the CDC. They’d get a shock if they opened one of our team bags, though. Probably would want to know what an H&K submachine gun had to do with viruses.

  Everyone involved in this charade thought we were investigating some strange disease on a cruise ship. Including the crew of the ship itself. Nobody knew of the terrorist aboard, except for my team, the captain of the ship, and the real CDC crew, which is why they were nervous. From what I’d been told, each one of them had accomplished some pretty heroic stuff, from fighting Marburg and Ebola in Africa to the avian flu in Thailand, Indonesia, and Hong Kong, but mention a terrorist and everyone gets skittish.

  After discovering the name of the carrier, it had taken very little work for Kurt to locate which cruise she was on, but we were still too late for the easy fix of simply telling the boat to wait for our arriva
l at the island of Sint Maarten.

  It had left last night and had spent the last twelve hours steaming home to America, putting it out in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. From the captain we’d learned that nobody had become sick—yet—which had us breathing a sigh of relief. Analyzing what the carrier was trying to accomplish, it appeared she wanted to get the whole damn boat infected, but it wouldn’t do any good to have anyone showing the illness before it reached American shores. From what the CDC said, they’d never let it dock. So, she was waiting, knowing it took three days for the virus to appear. Which meant she was probably sneezing in the salad line right this very moment. Something that gave everyone pause, and why Knuckles had made the comment about “walking dead.”

  Unless, of course, she’d been spitting in everyone’s food since she’d hit American shores and it hadn’t infected anyone. The doctors were arguing like crazy over how communicable she was, with some saying the vaccine was a hoax and she was just as deadly as anyone who contracted the disease, and others saying sneezing and spitting wouldn’t cut it—that she’d have to really slobber over something you put directly into your mouth for her to be contagious.

  There was evidence supporting both sides, with six dead in New York after we knew she had been there, but nobody else sick even though she’d driven the length of the Eastern Seaboard. Truthfully, I was shocked at the two sides, figuring this would have been a little bit of an open-and-shut discussion, like gravity. Drop a rock, and it falls to earth. Apparently, viruses don’t work that way, and doctors spend a great deal of time trying to find the reason as to why some become pandemics and others fade away. In the end, nobody knew what the truth was, so my team, along with our intrepid CDC crew, had been given my favorite order: Go figure it out.

  I found the guy who’d been waving us off the MC-130 and was surprised to see he was a full colonel—or captain, in people-who-deal-with-water speak.