Hybrid
Page 20
Pushkin found the broken and bandaged Reisch in an Amsterdam hospital a month later. “I see nothing in you to justify my eight-hour flight,” he said after appraising the young man. “You are a common criminal unworthy of my time or assistance.”
“Then why are you bothering me? Can’t you see I have things to do?” Reisch waved a shackled and casted arm.
Pushkin laughed only for an instant and then became deadly serious. “I am here to take you away, which will fulfill a promise I made a long time ago. Before that happens, however, you must understand one thing: you mean nothing to me. Your life is mine, and if I, for what ever reason decide to take it, I will.” Reisch drove the back roads of Colorado wondering who his real benefactor had been.
Twenty minutes later, the unbroken fields of snow began to give way to small tracts of homes as he approached a small town. Streetlights and sidewalks appeared next, and then a red light forced him to stop for the first time in two hours. Three of the four street corners had houses on them, but at the fourth corner, there was a convenience store with gas pumps. A police cruiser sat empty just in front of the doors. For an instant, Reisch wondered if Colorado had enough resources to stake out every gas station in the state. It was a ridiculous thought, but the unaccustomed fear rising in his chest somehow made it sound reasonable.
The light changed, and he slowly drove through the intersection. He brushed up against the mind of the officer inside the store, but the contact was so brief that he couldn’t be sure they weren’t looking for him.
The residential area gradually became industrial. Silos and railway cars lined the highway. He drove two more miles and suddenly realized that he was outside the town limits. The streetlights and sidewalks had disappeared, and vacant wheat fields stretched before him. He slowed the SUV and then turned it back towards town.
He made the first left he came to, and the industrial landscape quickly changed to commercial. A large supermarket appeared to his left and a Walmart to his right. The usual complement of fast-food restaurants and video stores came next, and among them, he found a busy gas station. He swung the Mercedes in and coasted in front of one of the sixteen pumps. As he climbed out of the truck, he was happy to see that his right leg was almost back to normal. He fumbled with his wallet, since his right hand was still clumsy, but he managed to pass the attendant two twenty-dollar bills without calling too much attention to himself. It took him several minutes to fill the tank and not a soul noticed him. He began to relax slightly. He was just another mindless American filling up his oversized foreign car with overpriced foreign gas.
Just before climbing back in, he let his mind open up. Dozens of dull, undisciplined minds assailed him. He sifted through them quickly, but none of them had any interest in finding him. His mental search area was only a couple of square blocks, at best, but it was good enough to convince him to stay the night. He climbed back into the Mercedes and drove further up the street. A Motel 6 beckoned, and he drove into the large crowded parking lot. There were a few dark and secluded parking spots in the back, and he nosed the Mercedes into the darkest one and turned off the engine. He waited, listening with both his ears and his mind. Nothing. He climbed out and quickly walked away from the vehicle. It was unlikely that the SUV would have been reported missing this early, but of late, luck had been working against him.
The office was locked, and a small sign told him to ring the bell. He brushed off the small accumulation of snow and pressed the buzzer. He felt a mind stir and a mumbled curse. A moment later, the handle buzzed, and Reisch pulled open the glass door.
“Evening,” said the portly, balding man in a blue T-shirt, with about as much interest as someone scheduling a dental appointment. He collected some papers and pushed them towards Reisch as he stepped up to the desk. “One night?” He had a large anchor tattooed across his left bicep. It covered a once well-muscled arm, which now sagged as much as his belly.
“Yes,” answered Reisch. Brevity served his purpose as well. He quietly filled out the reservation form. His right hand had recovered enough to use the pen that was chained to the desk, but the going was slow. The fat man watched impatiently with bored eyes. Reisch almost laughed out loud when his mind saw the TV dinner and the game show that waited for the surly clerk in the next room.
“Sixty-two fifty,” the man said, taking the forms that Reisch had filled out. He accepted the money from the German and quickly gave him his change and a key. “Room 127. Out the door, turn right, halfway down.” He stacked and filed the papers, and then as an afterthought said, “Checkout is at eleven.” Before Reisch could turn, the man had disappeared behind the office door.
Room 127 was exactly what he had expected. Threadbare carpet, cheap furniture, a smell of industrial-strength disinfectant, and an overly hard mattress. The television worked, and he turned it to the network news. Most of the bulletin was about the assassination of the governor. Reisch stripped the bed linen and lay fully dressed on the mattress while waiting for the local news. Twenty minutes later, the local news from Denver began. Again, it was almost all about the dead governor, but near the end of the allotted thirty minutes, the beautiful brunette newscaster switched to something more of interest to Reisch.
“There was other news today. An elderly man was found dead outside of his Colorado Springs home early this morning. Eighty-two-year-old George Van Der was discovered by neighbors just before seven. The police have described the circumstances surrounding his death as suspicious.”
Reisch was impressed with the woman’s ability to look both serious and seductive while describing murder.
“Since the first of the year, there have now been thirty-one murders in and around Colorado Springs. In a related story, a man is being sought for questioning in connection with the death of Mr. Van Der, as well as for an assault on a Colorado Springs patrolman.”
Two black and white sketches filled the screen, and with little surprise, Reisch recognized his own face. The image on the right showed him in a hat with dark glasses, but the one on the left was a dead-on likeness.
“ . . . stable condition with undisclosed injuries. The assailant is described as being six feet five inches, two hundred pounds, and wearing a black overcoat and pants. He was last seen driving a stolen black late-model BMW. The police ask that if anyone has seen this individual, they contact the Colorado Springs Police Department, or the Colorado State Police.” The brunette had reappeared, and two phone numbers floated beneath her. “This individual is considered armed and extremely dangerous and should not be approached.”
“Mandy, do the police have any comment on this unprecedented outbreak of violence?” The venerable, white-haired anchor set up his sexy co-anchor.
“Well John, as you know, the local, state, and federal authorities have been looking into this problem for a while now, and they admit to being stumped. Usually, this type of violence indicates a gang or drug problem, but that’s simply not the case here. What we are seeing are previously normal citizens suddenly becoming extremely violent. The Colorado Health Department has also looked into this, but they haven’t been able to provide an explanation either. At this current rate, Colorado Springs will log more murders this year than Chicago, New York, Philadelphia, and of course, Denver.” She managed to maintain both her grave look and the sparkle in her eyes.
“Pueblo is not that far from Colorado Springs, Mandy. Any speculation that the governor’s assassination may be related?”
“We do know that Peter Bilsky had spent time in Colorado Springs as late as three weeks ago, but no one is commenting on a connection.”
Reisch didn’t care about the Governor; the sketches were a different matter though. Under normal conditions, he could project any appearance he wanted, but he wasn’t in a normal condition. “Sleep, that’s all I need,” he said, closing his eyes for the third time in twenty-four hours.
It was late, and Martin was surprised to see so many people out walking the neat sidewalks. They flashed by at
three times the legal speed limit, but no one seemed to be bothered by it. In fact, no one seemed to even notice. The Suburban braked suddenly, and Martin strained against the shoulder harness. The big vehicle turned sharply to the right, and he was squeezed against the door. McDaniels sat comfortably, convincing Martin that marines really were immune to the laws of physics. The driver accelerated for a moment and then once again braked sharply. Martin lurched forward as the lead vehicle stopped in front of a large, well-lit brick wall, where they waited only long enough for an oversized wrought-iron gate to swing open, and then both trucks were off again. They raced down a lane lined with tall, well-tended ivy hedges, and even if there had been enough light, Martin doubted he would have seen anything more than just a blur of green.
A half mile later, the driver finally pried his foot off the accelerator and expertly coasted to a stop in front of a large Tudor manor. Old money, Martin thought as he scanned the front of the mansion. At least three stories, the façade was as tall and as long as the Suburban allowed Martin to see. Etched lead-glass windows with brass inlays framed a two-story portico. Marble steps lit by a sparkling silver chandelier led to massive oak doors. This wasn’t one of the McMansions that were springing up all over the greater Atlanta area; this was wealth with a capital W.
“This is the place,” McDaniels said.
For once, Martin was at a loss for words. He tried to think of something clever to say, but the ride, the anticipation of seeing Avanti, and the fact that he had no idea what he was doing here, tied his usually glib tongue in knots. “Okay,” was the best that he could manage.
“All we need from you is a threat assessment. Let him lead the discussion. Don’t try to be clever, just listen.” McDaniels tried to sound encouraging, but to Martin’s ear, he sounded more like an old baseball coach who was forced to put him into a close game, all the while hoping that Martin didn’t screw things up too badly.
He had to stop himself from saying, “Okay, coach.” Instead, he said, “I understand. I guess I’m doing this alone.”
McDaniels nodded.
“Do I wear a wire, or something?”
“No, I don’t want you to be a secret agent. I just want you to listen, and tell me how badly we’re screwed.”
The driver of the Suburban suddenly opened Martin’s door, and he jumped. “You’re not even coming in?” The pitch of his voice was rising.
“No. It’s just you and Avanti.” McDaniels saw the color leave Martin’s face. “You’ll be fine. He can’t hurt you.”
“How do you know?” The words were out of his mouth before he even registered the thought. “I’m sorry; I’m just a little out of my element.”
McDaniels gave an almost imperceptible nod to the enlisted man who reached in and helped Martin out of the car. “I know. Just listen to the man. You can do that.”
The sergeant led Martin up the marble staircase. They’re too grand to be steps, Martin thought as the young marine quietly opened one of the twelve-foot doors. “He will be waiting for you in the library, sir. Across the foyer, first door on your right.”
Martin stepped into the dark entranceway, wondering how a marine sergeant came by the word “foyer.” The door closed behind him with a small but resounding click. It was dark, and if it hadn’t been for the lights of the two SUVs shining through the thick glass, it would have been completely black. “Hello,” he called out tentatively. His voice echoed as if he were on a sound stage.
“In here, Dr. Martin,” returned a thickly accented and gruff voice.
Martin immediately recalled the distinctive voice and followed it into a dark room. His eyes had started to adjust, and he could make out several wing-backed chairs arranged around a large table. One of the chairs was occupied. The thick smell of books filled the air, and he was suddenly reminded of his medical school’s library.
“Excuse the darkness. I no longer have need for light, but if you feel it is necessary, there is a lamp on the table.”
Martin found it and clicked it on. The harsh light momentarily blinded him, but he could see that the man in the chair didn’t react.
“It is somewhat ironic that I prefer this room, don’t you think, Dr. Martin? It’s the smell, I think.”
Martin remained standing, taking stock of what was left of Jaime Avanti. He was blind—that much was obvious. His pupils were as wide as they could be in the harsh lamplight, and the whites of his eyes had taken on a sickly yellow hue. But that paled in comparison to the other physical changes. He had always been a thick, robust man, the prototypical Russian. Ukrainian, Martin corrected himself, but time had not been kind to Avanti. Gone were the large belly and the powerful arms and shoulders; what remained was a skeleton, a shadow of his former self. Even his trademark hirsuteness was gone. Patches of white hair covered a wrinkled skull, and a thin beard reached down to his sunken chest.
“I am told that my appearance has changed over the past fifteen years. I’m guessing that yours has as well, but hopefully not as much as mine.”
“No, it hasn’t,” Martin said in a voice full of surprise and disgust. He hadn’t really thought about how he would feel seeing Avanti, a man he once knew who had chosen to become a terrorist. “You look like shit, Jaime,” he said with undisguised loathing.
“That’s what I like about you Jews, no beating around the bush. Yes, I probably do look like shit, but that’s not why you are here. What have your military people told you?”
“That you broke into my lab and stole samples of Ebola, among other things.” Martin moved to a chair opposite Avanti and sat down, completely comfortable that what was left of Jaime Avanti posed no physical threat.
“‘Among other things?’ You are exactly as I remembered, Nathan, pompous and self-absorbed.” Avanti’s voice was tired. “A slow-acting virus has been released into the population of Colorado. It is a mutated and less virulent form of the virus you know as EDH1. I believe that this may have been one of the ‘other things’ General McDaniels shared with you.”
“We have reviewed a case of viral encephalitis from Colorado, and electron microscopy does confirm an unknown virus that looks very much like EDH1. However, it is a single case, and hardly worth all this drama.” Martin tried to keep his voice relaxed and casual.
“I estimate that over the next three months, more than twenty-three thousand citizens of Colorado will die as a direct result of the infection, and a much larger number will be affected by, shall we say, the consequences of the infection.” He turned his face towards Martin and smiled wide enough to expose his yellow teeth. “Perhaps that’s worth a little drama.”
Martin was glad that Avanti couldn’t watch the color drain from his face.
“Now that I have your attention,” Avanti continued, “I need to impress upon you the seriousness of this situation. I asked you here so that we may discuss this as colleagues.”
“You stopped being my colleague the moment you threatened innocent lives.”
“Innocent. So self-righteous . . .” Avanti’s voice trailed off . . . “You’re not here so we could argue banalities; there are more pressing issues.”
“So why am I here?”
“To hear what I have to say and ultimately to make a decision,” Avanti reached for a small briefcase on the table next to him. “Do you remember the last time we met?”
“Not clearly,” Martin watched as Avanti fumbled with the latch and suppressed the instinct to help the blind man.
“It was the 1992 UN conference on population sustainability. You had just started working for the CDC and I was an invited guest.” Avanti retrieved a glossy program guide from the briefcase and tossed it to Martin.
A collage of smiling children spelled out the word “United Nations” and beneath it in bold black script: Social Carrying Capacity and the Population Bomb. “I remember.” Martin said softly while leafing through the distantly familiar pages. “What does any of this have to do with what you and your people have done in Colorado?”
Martin scoffed loudly. ”Bullshit! At least give me the courtesy of the truth.”
“I understand that you are under a good deal of stress, but if you could control yourself for just a little longer perhaps we can get through this.” Avanti paused for a moment and took Martin’s silence as a sign that he could continue. “Now, as I was saying, they are not my people. Undoubtedly, you have been told that for a time I lived and worked with a group of ’Islamic extremists,’ and it was under their umbrella that we originally created the Hybrid virus. However, I was never counted among their numbers, and I do not now wish to be remembered as one of them. They simply paid the bills, and supplied the raw materials.”
“I was told that you were a Muslim.”
“Surely, you are not implying that all Muslims are terrorists?” Avanti chuckled.
“You seem to be both,” Martin countered.
“Superficially perhaps,” Avanti smiled knowingly. ”At least that’s what they believe.”
“Who, the Americans, or the extremists?” Martin noted that Avanti’s flair for the dramatic had not dimmed with time.
“Both of course, but in time the truth will be known.” The sagging face that a moment earlier was pulled into a smile was now fixed with determination. “If you haven’t guessed by now, I am quite close to death, and it is because of this that I have been sent to deliver their message. I am believed to be a good and faithful Muslim and have been given this great honor because of my service to Allah.” Avanti paused and expertly reached for a glass of water on the table that separated them. “Excuse me, but my mouth gets dry so quickly these days,” he said before nosily draining the glass. “Where was I?” he said to himself.