by Jack Mars
And worse, the fact that they remained quiet after the attack on Barcelona signaled to him that they had more in store for the world.
“We’re still missing a link between this boy and the virologist,” Reid said in frustration. “We need something more to go on.” He turned expectantly to Barnard. “You’re the bioterrorism expert here. What aren’t we seeing?”
Dr. Barnard was busy scrolling quickly through his phone, his eyes flitting back and forth behind his owlish glasses.
“Barnard…” It didn’t seem as if the doctor was listening.
Suddenly he looked up sharply from his phone. “Agent Baraf, do you have a medical report on the boy from Hospital de l’Esperanca?”
“Uh, yes, we do.” Baraf sifted hastily through a stack of paperwork beside Sawyer’s computer. “They faxed a hard copy to us last night… Here.” He yanked out a sheaf of collated pages and handed them to Barnard.
Reid peered over the doctor’s shoulder. The report was in Spanish, yet Reid was not at all surprised to learn that he could read it as easily as he could English. He had previously learned that he could speak Arabic, Russian, and French, all of which had returned to him simply by being exposed to the language.
Apparently the CDC doctor could read it as well. “Right here.” He pointed to a paragraph describing the boy’s physical state upon arriving in the ER. “This boy, he passed in less than three hours of hospitalization,” Barnard said rapidly. “Add to that Mr. Sawyer’s observations from the train, and it’s still less than five hours total; much faster than any other infected patients. But why? If you look here, the admitting doctor wrote that an MRI showed scarring on his lungs.”
“A boy speaking Arabic with scarring on his lungs,” Reid thought out loud. “Most likely the product of breathing something in… a toxin, and more than just average pollution…”
“It would be something strong enough to weaken his respiratory system and allow the virus to take hold much quicker,” Barnard added.
Reid sucked in a breath as he realized what the doctor was suggesting. “Sarin gas. You think this boy survived a sarin attack.”
Barnard nodded. “Agents, I don’t believe this boy was picked from a crowd. He was chosen for a reason—a compromised system that would disseminate the virus faster than an ordinary human adult. And if sarin is the culprit, there is a good chance he is…”
“Syrian,” Baraf finished.
“Baraf, every country in the EU keeps a registry of Syrian refugees, right?”
The Italian agent nodded to Reid. “Yes, but we have no background on this boy, no name to search—”
“We do,” Reid countered. “Mahdi. M-A-H-D-I. This was carefully planned, and whoever the missing link is between the boy and the virologist would likely not want his identity known. Search the registries for anyone who entered Europe from Syria under that name. Start in Spain and work east—France, Italy, Greece, any country that opened its borders to refugees.”
“Can you?” Baraf asked the tech.
Sawyer rubbed his bleary eyes. “It’ll take a few moments… but yes. It would be faster if we had a full name, though.”
Barnard and Reid exchanged a glance. He could tell they were thinking the same thing. “Muhammad,” Reid told him. Barnard nodded in agreement. “Muhammad Mahdi.”
Sawyer’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Reid found himself chewing anxiously on a thumbnail. It was a long shot, he knew; or perhaps the perpetrator did not assume that the likes of Barnard and Reid Lawson would be on his trail. He glanced over at the doctor and could tell that he too was emotionally fraught.
“The registry will only tell us where he entered Europe,” Barnard said, his voice hushed behind a closed fist over his mouth. “He may not still be there.”
“Maybe not,” Reid replied, “but if he’s still using the alias, we might be able to track his last known whereabouts. And with international travel shut down, they would have to already be in the next place they plan to release the virus…”
“Or,” Barnard offered, “somewhere far, far from it.”
Reid didn’t respond, but the doctor was right. Finding this alleged Mahdi did not necessarily mean finding the virus—but all they needed was someone with information. Kent Steele had proven tactics for extricating it.
The rapid clacking of the keyboard stopped suddenly as the English tech’s fingers froze. “We have a match,” Sawyer said, sounding somewhat surprised. “A Muhammad al-Mahdi entered the refugee registry in Athens, Greece, by way of Turkey fourteen months ago. According to this, there hasn’t been any movement since—at least not registered.”
Athens . It would make sense, Reid reasoned. A coastal city, close to an airport and a major trade route via the Mediterranean. This al-Mahdi must be the link, he was sure of it. “Thanks for your help,” he said to Baraf. “We have to move. Barnard, let’s go.”
The two of them started across the floor of the airline lounge, but Baraf trotted after them. “Agent, wait! Wait a moment. Where are you going? You don’t even have a precise location.”
Reid paused. “We’re going to Greece. It’s a two-hour plane ride from here; we’ll have the CIA start scouring databases in Athens for al-Mahdi’s whereabouts. You should have your people do the same—housing authorities, hotels, property deeds, anything you can find with his name on it. Hopefully we’ll have something solid by the time we arrive.”
“I should send agents,” Baraf insisted, “and we should alert the Greek authorities. If the virus is in Athens—”
“We don’t know that yet,” Reid argued. “This is all speculation until there’s evidence—”
“Agent Steele, we have an obligation to make them aware!” Baraf said loudly. Other Interpol agents in the lounge looked up from their work, surprised by the outburst.
Reid lowered his voice. “Baraf, you remember Davos. It only took three of us to take that bomber down. If we had more, we might have spooked him, caused him to act early. Well, this is Davos all over again. We can’t even be certain that the virus is in Athens; if I was al-Mahdi, I would want it far away from me. But if we find the man, we can us him to find the virus. If we go in there with cops and agents storming the building, and he does have the virus, we could have much bigger problems.”
Baraf sniffed, but he too lowered his voice. “So you suggest that I allow two CIA agents and a doctor to handle this by themselves?” He shook his head. “Not only would that be flagrantly ignorant, but it would go against every code by which Interpol conducts itself.”
Reid thought for a moment. Baraf was too virtuous to see this by any other angle—but maybe his perspective could be parried with the same tactic.
“You said it yourself,” Reid told him. “We don’t know a precise location. We don’t technically have a lead to follow. The CIA is in full cooperation with your office, so as soon as we know something, you will too. Then you can notify Greece and send your agents.”
Baraf raised an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting I give you a head start.”
“I’m suggesting you hold off on thinning your resources until you have something concrete.” Which is just a loophole to give us a head start , Reid thought.
“If I may,” Barnard interjected. “A potential compromise: Agent Baraf’s concern is that the active virus is in Greece. We can alert the WHO to the potential threat of smallpox in Athens and have a team on standby in case of infection.”
Baraf clearly didn’t like it much, but he nodded tightly once. “Rest assured, Agent Steele, as soon as we have a location pinned down for this al-Mahdi, my agents will be there and Greek authorities will know about it.”
“Of course. Thank you, Baraf. I hope the next time we see each other is under better terms.” He briefly shook hands with the Interpol agent, and then he and Barnard hurried from the airline lounge. “Seems you have a knack for diplomacy, Dr. Barnard,” Reid mused.
“It would seem,” Barnard agreed. “And while we’re at it, it seems you an
d your Interpol friend are breaking about a half dozen international laws.”
“Yeah,” Reid muttered. “Apparently I have a knack for that. Let’s find Watson and get in the air as soon as possible.” He wondered where Watson had gone. Updating Cartwright and Riker should have only taken a few minutes.
He didn’t have to wonder long. As they left the lounge and stepped out into the hauntingly empty terminal, they were greeted by three people—Watson, and two newcomers, though both were familiar faces. One was a tall man with angular features sporting a blue baseball cap and brown jacket; Agent Carver, Watson’s former partner and the other man who had helped saved Reid’s daughters from Amun hands the month prior.
The other face was a most welcome one, with slate-gray eyes and blonde hair. Just seeing her sent a warm sensation through his limbs. Even with her hair tousled, no makeup, a white sweater and jeans with a black bag slung over one shoulder, she looked beautiful.
“Kent,” she said. Maria took a step toward him, and in that moment he hoped she would run to him, but her gaze flitted to the other agents present and she stopped herself.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. He knew their presence could mean only one of two things, and he hoped the news was good.
“Riker had us rendezvous with you here,” she told him. “This op is top priority right now.”
He nodded; he was glad for the assistance, though he had some burning questions. “Your timing is perfect. We’re heading to Athens.”
Watson frowned. “What’s in Athens?”
“If we’re lucky? The man who knows where the virus is, who made it, how much they have, and where it’s going to be released,” Reid said simply.
Apparently that was as much of an explanation his new partner needed. “Let’s go.” Watson led the way hastily down the length of the terminal, filling Carver in on the details of the op. Barnard came next, while Reid slowed his pace to walk beside Maria.
As he did, he noticed there was a small line of blood on the right sleeve of her sweater. “What happened?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “Nothing good. We got a lead on Rais headed east, into Slovenia. The trail ended at an Amun safe house that we didn’t know about. We were jumped by two members.” She gestured toward the blood on her sleeve. “One of them grazed me, but I’m fine. He’s not.”
“And Rais?”
Maria sighed. “Trail went cold. I’m sorry, Kent. I would have kept going, you know that. But Riker contacted us and filled us in on what you guys were up to, had us meet here.” She scoffed bitterly. “I can’t believe they pulled you back in for this.”
“I sort of volunteered,” Reid said, even though it wasn’t quite the truth. “Anything else on Rais?” Despite their situation—pursuing the bearers of a virus whose goal might have very well been to end humanity—he still found himself irrationally concerned about the assassin.
“Intel suggests he’s heading to Russia. We just couldn’t catch up with him.” Her fingers touched his as they walked, though she didn’t quite hold his hand. “Hey. That means he’s heading farther away from you and your family. So let’s put that out of our minds for now, because we’ve got way bigger things to worry about.”
She was right. He needed to stay sharp, focused on the task at hand, if they were going to stop this al-Mahdi before he did whatever he was planning to do. He could only hope they would find answers in Greece.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rais was careful to maintain the legal speed limit as he drove the SUV southbound on an otherwise empty Swiss avenue. He kept his eyes open and alert and listened keenly for the sound of sirens, which he expected to begin their telltale scream in the night at any moment.
The first thing he had done after his escape, after killing the two Swiss officers and the hospital guard, was take the guard’s truck. He knew he could not keep it long, but he also knew that the authorities would expect him to get on the highway immediately and put some distance between him and Sion. Instead he drove up the road from the hospital until he found a gas station that was still open at that late hour.
He looked the station over from across the street before pulling in. There would be cameras at the pumps; he spotted two in the front, each angled toward the entrance, and another in the rear. However, the western-facing façade, a brick wall with no point of egress, had no cameras and no lights.
Rais secured his seatbelt and drove the truck into that wall at twenty-five miles an hour.
The impact was not enough to even deploy the airbags, but the crunch of steel on brick was definitely enough to alert the attendant, who came running out a moment later.
“Sir!” he said frantically in German as he rounded the truck. “Are you all right? Should I call an ambulance?”
Rais pointed the gun, the Sig, from the driver’s seat. “Put your hands up,” he said in German, “and take one step back.”
The terrified attendant did as he was told, though it did not look like the first time he had been held at gunpoint. Rais climbed out of the truck. He noted with some dismay that even the minor impact against the brick wall had left him sore. He had to remind himself that he was not fully recovered; he could not act too brashly.
The attendant was a couple of inches taller and stockier than Rais, but it would do better than the thin, ill-fitting scrubs he had taken from the Swiss nurse Elena. “Remove your clothes.”
“Excuse me?” said the bewildered attendant.
Rais sighed irritably. It was not a difficult request, yet so many seemed to have trouble understanding it. “Take off your jacket, your shirt, and your pants, or I will kill you.”
Threats will get you everywhere , Rais thought with minor satisfaction as the attendant, jarred into action at the notion of being murdered that night, tore out of his denim coat, dark gray shirt, and jeans. He stood there, shivering in a pair of boots and white briefs.
Rais flipped the Sig in his hand and brought it down on the attendant’s head in a powerful blow. The man crumpled, unconscious and bleeding from a gash on his forehead. His skull was likely cracked and he would need stitches, but he was alive. Probably.
Rais dressed quickly, pulling the jeans over the scrub pants (it was still cold in Switzerland in March, and the layers would be helpful) and then the shirt and jacket. In the pockets of the pants he found a cell phone, a disposable lighter, a wallet, and a ring of keys. He kept the lighter. There was no cash in the wallet, so he tossed it at the man’s unconscious body. The phone he crushed under a boot heel. The ring of keys led him to a pickup truck parked behind the gas station.
In the distance the sirens began to scream. They were growing steadily louder. The police would be looking for the guard’s stolen car.
He pulled the truck out of the parking lot, across the road, and down a side street that led into a residential neighborhood. Driving slowly, he looked left and right until he found what he was seeking—a home with a long driveway and two other cars parked in it. Rais switched off the headlights and backed the truck up the drive, alongside the other two cars.
Once the police discovered that the SUV had been crashed into the side of the gas station—which would be only a matter of minutes—they would look for the attendant’s stolen car. But they would be looking for it on roads and highways, not parked in someone’s drive. It was nearly two in the morning by then; with any luck it would be hours before the residents would wake and report the strange truck on their property.
Rais set out on foot, striding down the road at a pace that was not too fast yet what he hoped looked like someone simply eager to get home. Sion was not a large city; he doubted they had a sizable police force at their disposal. Even so, it was quite late at night and there were very few people on the streets. Whenever he saw headlights approaching he quickly ducked into hiding until they passed.
Even he had to admit that Sion was an attractive town, sprawled at the base of the Alps as if it had slipped off the mountainside. From nearly an
ywhere in the city he could look up and see the Valère Basilica, the twelfth-century fortified cathedral that sat upon a hill overlooking Sion’s downtown. Most tourists mistook it as a castle.
The town proper was a mélange of narrow, winding streets arranged in no discernible pattern, as if the city planner had been a child with a crayon in their fist. It would be easy for him to lose the authorities here, if need be, but he was eager to be off the road. He hid out in the courtyard of a small hotel and waited until morning, catnapping on and off for fifteen to twenty minutes at a time.
He didn’t realize how exhausted he was until he stopped moving, hiding himself between two shrubs with his back to the hotel’s brick façade. His limbs ached and his wounds still pained him. If he could have risked only a few more minutes during his escape at the hospital, he might have grabbed some narcotics to assuage his pain.
No , he thought. I must stay sharp. He needed his mind keen if he was to get out of Sion.
Twice during the five hours before sunrise the phantom nerve pain gripped his body, what the doctors had called stingers. The first time was while he was napping, and the pain was so intense that he clamped both hands over his mouth to stifle the scream that lurched from his throat. The second time he was awake when they came on, but no less surprising. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood, until the pain subsided.
Eventually the horizon turned pink as the sun began to rise—as did Rais, climbing carefully from his position and stretching in the dim light of morning. It was no coincidence that he had chosen this small hotel at which to hide.
On the southern-facing exterior wall was a loose brick, about a foot above eye level. To see it was not to think it loose, but he knew it was there. He worked his fingertips into the crevices and tugged the brick out. Behind it was a single, small gold key.
