Never Look Back

by Ridley Pearson

  If he could find him.

  2:03 P.M.

  Wawa, Ontario, Canada

  He drove past Lake Superior Provincial Park and closed the gap he had allowed between his car and Lydia’s, following her off the highway when she exited at Wawa, a modest town that welcomed tourists past a tremendously large bronze statue of a Canada goose. He allowed a car of hunters to pass him and pull between him and Lydia to help shield him from her view.

  She drove north out of town, a few minutes later passing a spectacular waterfall, and finally turned into a motel complex.

  Andy, still behind the hunters, slowed to take a good look, drove a hundred yards past the motel’s entrance, and parked across the road, pulling the vehicle into a stand of pine.

  Only a dusting of snow covered the thick floor of frozen needles. The closeness of the trees made the forest extremely quiet, and the lack of wind kept the chill at bay. He hiked with thermos and binoculars until directly across from the motel’s entrance, but thirty yards in from the road. The forest floor inclined steadily up from the road, and the motel, which sat in a bowl-like hollow between two hills, lay below him. The best view required he climb a sticky pine tree. And so a few minutes later he sat like a bird, perched halfway up the pine, his newly purchased binoculars aimed at the motel.

  He crouched in the tree for what seemed like an hour before she finally appeared beyond the far side of the motel, edged alongside the pool, and climbed the broomed steps terraced into the snow-covered hill, banging her suitcase on each step.

  Andy had carefully scanned the grounds through his binoculars and had seen no one. So he was surprised when now he spotted the white mist of someone’s breath coming from under a huge pine that shaded the middle chalet. He looked more closely and saw a brown winter jacket pressed up against the rough bark. He touched the breast pocket of his new parka, reassuring himself that his wallet was still there, and watched the almond-eyed woman gain entrance.

  Another guard inside, which brought the count to two.

  Now he was certain he had found Leonid Borikowski, and the awareness both stimulated and frightened him, for his immediate reaction was that of the hunter who sees the rabbit heading into the trap and knows inside that the prey is finally his….

  ***

  Lydia Czufin had painted a picture of how their reunion was going to be, so when the stocky man holding a silenced automatic opened the door, she was disappointed. She recognized the man, knew he was a member of Spetsnaz’s elite Kolyma squad, but couldn’t remember how or even where they had met. He was a pleasant-looking man for his size, his voice as low as the growl of a bear. “Greetings. Enter,” he told her, eyes studying her body.

  Typical of the Kolyma, she thought. Animals.

  She stepped inside. He shut the door behind her. They chatted mindlessly, until, when it seemed appropriate, she asked where Borikowski was; and the man, shaking his head slightly—as if disgusted—said, “He’s upstairs. But I had better warn you. He is not well.”

  “What is it?”

  “Headaches. Nosebleeds. He took a bad fall. Whatever he did… he did not sleep well last night. He kept us all awake with complaints and demands.”

  She looked at the man curiously, almost as if he were to blame, and then hurried upstairs.

  Borikowski didn’t hear her until she said, “Hello.”

  “Hello,” he offered with a strange expression on his face.

  They were quite far apart, she propped in the doorway studying him, and he on the bed with his hands on his head. The large and open bedroom and its bath were the only rooms on this upper floor, and the A-frame’s ceiling veed above them. His cosmetics, left unattended, had streaked and mixed, and these colors and shadings made him appear old and haggard.

  “How are you?” she asked, still posed in the doorway. Looking more closely, she noticed that the discoloring across his forehead was not failed cosmetics, but an oblong bruise. In fact, most of the cosmetics were off, she realized, taking three more steps toward him. His wig had been removed, and in place of wavy hair was a head closely shaven; and in the center of his skull was a bump so big that it looked more like a child’s shoe hiding under a rug.

  What both surprised and frightened her was the demonic look carved into his eyes. A sheen, like a stretched thin plastic, jumped out of the black pupils. Eyes looking at her, but never focusing. He held a handkerchief in his hand, which was stained with dried blood.

  Since he did not answer her, she said, “Do you need a doctor? Your head looks…”

  “No.” He continued to grind his knuckles into his temples.

  She approached cautiously, as one might approach a stray dog. She touched his shoulder.

  He looked up. The woman he had murdered at Dorval stood in front of him, her face as bloodless as snow. She was spinning the hat pin behind her ear, and at the same time sticking her tongue in and out like a venomous snake. He glanced into her eyes, but she had none. Only empty sockets, crawling with hungry black flies.

  “Leonid?”

  Now Lydia stood before him. He stopped rubbing his temples. “Sorry. It’s better now.”

  “You look like you tried to stop a train with your face.”

  He attempted a smile, like a defeated boxer might.

  “What is it?” she asked with a more frightened voice.

  “I slipped and fell.” He rubbed his head. “Down a flight of stairs. I’ll improve. I need some time, maybe some sleep.”

  Something crawled around in her stomach every time she looked at his face. She kicked off her shoes and sat next to him, turning him around and trying to work out some of the knots and cables in his neck.

  He groaned. “The nosebleeds come and go. This feels good. Ohhh, that feels better. Yes. Ohhh, right there…”

  She kneaded his right shoulder with her fingers and felt his whole body relax. She pushed him onto his face and made him lie down and continued to rub. She rubbed down his arms and unbuttoned his cuff and began to unstrap what looked like a watch on his wrist.

  He yanked his arm away and shouted angrily, “What are you doing?”

  She sat back, shaken by his abruptness. “Taking off your—”

  “You must be crazy!”

  Dumbfounded, she stared.

  Then he remembered she had no idea of any of this. “Oh! I’m sorry.”

  “Crown?”

  He smiled thinly, trying to be nice. “These have to do with Crown’s security,” he said, strapping the watch back to his wrist.”

  “Two of them?”

  “Each backs up the other.”

  Looking at the watch more closely, she asked, “What does it do?”

  “Monitors my pulse and blood pressure.”

  “Both of them?”

  “I told you: One backs up the other. If both fail…” He trailed off, not knowing whether to tell her.

  “Was it successful?” she asked.

  “So far. Yes.” He removed his shirt with her help and lay back down. “Since we’ll be traveling together, you might as well know what you are a part of.”

  “I don’t have to…”

  “Over there in my suitcase is a briefcase, and inside this are some biological experiments made by the United States Defense Department.”

  “Germ warfare?” She was horrified.

  “No. But in its present form, it’s just as dangerous. It can’t be flown out, due to the effect pressure has on the bacteria. To help protect it, the briefcase is slightly pressurized, but orders are to keep it with me and make a rendezvous in a few days. That’s fine with me. I hate flying. If they kill me, or if they force me to kill myself, or even if they sedate me heavily”—he hesitated in thought—“these devices on my wrists detonate the briefcase using radio signals, and the explosion releases the germ. Simple. The germs are toxic. These devices are deterrents. Always deterrents.”

  “And it kills people?”

  “Don’t sound so concerned.”

  She stopp
ed rubbing his neck. “Does it?”

  “I don’t know. No one will bother us. I know that much.”

  “I don’t believe that. Besides, what about accidents?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What if you die in an accident, or of natural causes… or of falling down a flight of stairs…?” She was somewhat panicked. He rolled over and gazed at her. But she could hardly look back into those eyes, and her mind was reeling with various possibilities, all of which frightened her.

  “I won’t. Why do you think they chose me?”

  “I should contact Rhinestone….”

  “No! I’ll be fine. All I need is a little rest.”

  She said, “You look horrible, Leonid. You need more than rest. You need some X-rays and a doctor.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “But…”

  “No!” he hollered. “Let me rest.”

  She rose from the bed and paced the room.

  Twenty minutes later she sneaked out while he slept. He was mumbling unintelligibly and tossing and turning.

  The idea of some form of germ warfare in a nearby suitcase, rigged to this abnormally behaving man, did little to boost her confidence in the assignment.

  She placed her call from the pay phone by the pool. It was cold, but private, and she could see around herself in all directions.

  ***

  General Gustav Molière’s communications staff, having intercepted a shipment of electronic gear at Mirabel airport six months ago, had known for several weeks which scramblers Rhinestone used. They also knew that the United States had broken the Executive Code earlier this week and so they were now busy making three separate tape recordings of the entire unscrambled conversation, for shipment to Washington, D.C.:

  Tristovich: “Hello?”

  Woman’s voice: “He has taken ill. He’s in pain.”

  Tristovich: “How ill?”

  Woman’s voice: “A head injury.”

  Tristovich: “Anything else?”

  Woman’s voice: “Nosebleeds.”

  Tristovich: “Impossible! Nosebleeds!” (Pause) “How much has he told you?”

  Woman’s voice: “Very little.”

  Tristovich: “Did he tell you about the watches?”

  Woman’s voice: (Pause) “Yes.”

  Tristovich: (Grunts)

  Woman’s voice: “I can take care of him. I’m not worried.”

  Tristovich: “You are to remain with him for the duration of the assignment. And remember, as long as he is wearing those devices, he must not take any drugs! If the situation worsens, you must take over. Remove one of the devices. Strap it to your wrist and make certain the dot in the upper right-hand corner is blinking. Then repeat the procedure with the other watch. Do you understand? It is very simple.”

  Woman’s voice: (Pause) “Make certain the dot is blinking, then transfer the other.”

  Tristovich: “Yes.”

  Woman’s voice: “I understand.”

  From his post, Andy saw her hang up the phone and head back up the hill. He looked at his watch and shifted his ass on the branch, not knowing how much longer he could remain in the tree. In the cold.

  He removed his automatic, checked the clip and chamber, wishing it was a high-powered rifle, and returned it to his holster.

  Then he trained the binoculars on the chalet’s second-story window and waited.

  2:23 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  After a series of formal protests, the withheld data arrived at the SIA and Chris Daniels began to analyze it. Stone’s septic mood had isolated him, and everyone was avoiding him.

  Chris Daniels was the exception. He was sitting across from Stone, dark suit, blue tie, with a ream of computer paper on his lap and no less than six folders on the small table beside him. At Daniels’ request, they had both viewed the videotape of Borikowski’s warning, twice.

  Stone stopped the tape and said, “Let’s start all over. Is that sort of thing possible? Do such things exist?”

  “Yes. It’s entirely feasible.”

  “So, we’re supposed to just allow him to take it, or else we risk spreading this stuff?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “Fill me in on this bacteria, eh? You seem convinced he hasn’t already flown it out of the country, and I find that difficult to believe.”

  “I’m convinced, owing to the nature of the bacteria. The bugs are susceptible to a change in pressure. In any flight situation the bugs would die without a doubt. That much we know.”

  “And what was the other thing?”

  “Saline solution. Salt water. From what we can tell, they’ve developed an extremely efficient microbe, but it’s unable to survive in a saline solution. Stuhlberg used this as a safeguard at first, knowing full well that eventually this condition would be unacceptable. Then with the help of the Center for Disease Control, they discovered a much more significant problem and brought in Corbett to help.”

  “But let’s go over this again…. If Borikowski ends up over salt water—which indeed he must if he can’t fly out—we may still have a chance at him.”

  “Yes, all the data support that. The bugs die in salt water.”

  “Good! Then we attempt to locate and stay with him if we can. We maintain Baker2, but alert him to the new dangers. And if it looks like Dragonfly intends to release the bacteria, we make every effort to stop him and take our chances with the bugs. Now, exactly how dangerous is this… bacteria?”

  “The Pentagon, in what turned out to be a struggle, forced Stuhlberg to send a sample of all research microbes to the Center for Disease Control. This all happened nearly a year ago, partly because of the public outcry surrounding any genetic testing. The Pentagon wanted to know what they had and whether or not it represented any immediate health risks. If our initial identification of the substance Borikowski stole is correct, then he has taken a volatile bacteria that might be extremely dangerous if released into the atmosphere. Using the bugs—as well as Stuhlberg—as a hostage was clever. We’d be making a terrible mistake if we allowed the bacteria to escape into the atmosphere.”

  “I thought you said that there was evidence the lab was already contaminated.”

  “Yes, I did. The sensors indicated contamination. However, one thing in our favor is that Dr. Sherman was not contaminated, which may mean it’s only transmitted by physical contact.”

  “So it’s not as dangerous as we think?”

  “We’re collecting opinions on that. The fact remains that Dr. Sherman was wearing a mask that would screen out the bacteria. So it’s highly possible it’s as dangerous as we think, but that she was lucky. CDC in Atlanta confirmed that if physical contact is made, it will perform somewhat like a germ warfare bug. It ‘feeds’ off organic matter. That’s one of the grave concerns. They have a nickname for this particular bug at CDC, sir. They call it ‘the Desert Maker,’ fearing the possibility of it wiping out all vegetation in a brief amount of time, if it ever escaped. Incidently, they recommended destroying the bacteria, but this was only in part because of its ‘Desert Maker’ reputation. The other problem is that it reacts strangely with blood.” He thumbed through the stack of printouts, and his head remained lowered as he read and then explained. “Any living organism is composed of organic matter—protein chains. In laboratory rats, the CDC found that when the bacteria encountered an organism’s immunological system, it secreted an enzyme that turned out to be a fibrinolysin: enzymes that digest fibrin, which is, of course, the primary component of blood clots. Bacteria do exceptionally well in mucous membranes because they thrive on moisture and warmth: eyes, ears, nose, throat… vagina. Although the lab rats’ immune systems killed the bug within forty-eight hours, rendering it noncontagious, the fibrinolysin broke down their bodies’ ability to clot blood. One of the first symptoms in rats was nose bleeding and serious bruising. This was followed, some seventy-two hours later, by massive hemorrhaging and death.”

 
“In its early stages, would it be treatable?”

  “It’s possible that during its contagious stage—the first forty-eight hours—massive transfusions might work. As I said, we’re collecting opinions. After that, I doubt it.” He wanted to say, “The only thing for us to do is let Borikowski flee unharmed. Contamination will mean genocide.” Instead he told Stone, “We now presume that Stuhlberg has been taken hostage in case we do obtain an antibody that is capable of neutralizing the bacteria.”

  “You mean they’ve upped the stakes,” Stone grunted.

  “I assume their reasoning goes something like that, yes. They expect we might take action against a ship that Borikowski was on—and that’s his only available means of escape, unless we’ve overlooked something. But will we take action that risks the life of one of our leading scientists, who just happens to be a close friend of the president?”

  “I’d forgotten about that.”

  “They went to UCLA together, sir,” Daniels reminded Stone. “Stuhlberg returned to Germany until shortly after the war with France broke out. He escaped to England, from where the president, then a senator, helped him emigrate to the U.S. in 1943.”

  “Oh Christ! Wouldn’t you know?” Stone thought for a moment and shuffled some papers around on his well-organized desktop. Then he asked, “What was the purpose of all these experiments?”

  Daniels leafed through several folders and opened one up. Reading, he pushed his glasses up his nose. Then he looked up and recited: “Vaughnsville had three separate long-range goals. The first involved producing a microbe capable of increasing food protein in cultivated plant life. The second group of experiments was aimed at developing several microbes to be used in neutralizing toxins such as chemical or micro-biological waste. The third bug—the one we think Borikowski took—was aimed at energy independence, by speeding up biomass conversion—the fermentation process—resulting in ethanol production and eventually a light crude. His targeted biomass was garbage and human waste.”

  “Energy independence? That explains it, doesn’t it?” Answering his own question, Stone said, “Yes. I see. No wonder they’re playing hardball.”

  Stone became quite pensive for the next five minutes and scribbled a half dozen notes to himself. He placed a phone call and arranged a meeting with GH4 for later in the day. Then he asked Daniels to review the laboratory break-in. “You mean to tell me that once the GRU had broken the voice code on the credit cards, all they needed to do was walk on in?”