The Judas Strain sf-4

by James Rollins

  A pissing contest for jurisdiction.

  This was insanity.

  Either way, Painter doubted any solid evidence would be found.

  An hour ago he had been woken from a catnap in the dormitory of Sigma Command. One of their tracers had finally hit. An order for a prescription refill for Jackson Pierce. The Social Security number had matched. It was the first hit since Gray and company had fled the firebombed safe house. Painter had tagged all of Gray’s aliases, along with his parents’ names, coordinated through NSA’s tracking network.

  Painter had sent out an emergency response team to the pharmacy while joining another team headed to the delivery address on the prescription. The Phoenix Park Hotel. The pharmacy had confirmed the order, but the delivery person had not yet returned. An attempt to reach him by cell phone had so far failed. The pharmacy had even tried calling the hotel, but no one picked up at the extension for the room.

  Upon arriving here, Painter learned why. The room was deserted. Whoever was here had already bolted. The register was signed under Fred and Ginger Rogers, an elderly couple according to the desk clerk. They had checked in alone. And paid cash. Gray was apparently not with them. Besides which, Gray would not have made such a blatant mistake, ordering a refill, triggering an alert.

  And if so, what made his parents make such a risky move? Harriet was a bright woman. The need must have been dire. So why didn’t they wait? What made them cut and run? Was it meant merely to misdirect? To send them all along a false trail?

  Painter knew better. Gray would not use his parents like that. He would get them to hole up anonymously and lay low. Nothing more. Something was wrong here. No one had seen the elderly couple leave.

  And then there was the question of the missing deliveryman.

  Painter shoved through the stairwell door and into the lobby.

  The night manager nodded to him, wringing his hands. “I have the security footage from the lobby pulled and waiting.”

  Painter was led into the manager’s back office. A television with a built-in VCR stood atop a filing cabinet.

  “Key it to an hour ago,” Painter said, checking his watch.

  The manager started the tape and fast-forwarded to the time-stamped hour. The lobby was deserted, except for a lone woman behind the desk, seated doing paperwork.

  “Louise,” the manager introduced, tapping the screen. “She’s quite shook up by all this.”

  Painter ignored his commentary, leaning closer to the screen.

  The lobby door swung open, and a figure in a white smock strode to the front desk, presented an ID, and stepped toward the elevator bank.

  Louise returned to her work.

  “Did your night clerk ever see the delivery person leave?”

  “I can ask…”

  Painter paused the tape as the figure adjusted the smock.

  A woman.

  Not the pharmacy’s man.

  The security footage was grainy, but the woman’s Asian features were evident. Painter recognized her. He had seen her on the video surveillance back at the safe house.

  One of Nasser’s team.

  Painter punched the eject button and grabbed the tape. He swung around so fast that the startled manager backed away a step. Painter held up the security tape.

  “No one knows about this,” he said firmly, fixing the manager with a steady stare, doing his best to look threatening, and considering his mood, it wasn’t hard. “Not the police. Not the FBI.”

  The man nodded vigorously.

  Painter headed out the door, clenching a fist, wanting to pound something.

  Hard.

  Painter understood what had happened here.

  Nasser had snatched Gray’s parents.

  Out from under their noses.

  The bastard had beat Sigma by only minutes. And Painter could not blame any mole for losing this particular race. He knew the reason. Bureaucracy. Seichan’s background as a terrorist had everyone on full alert, which meant everyone was stepping on everyone else’s toes. Too many goddamn cooks in the kitchen…and all of them blindfolded.

  Unlike Nasser.

  All day long Painter had been running into roadblocks, mostly due to bureaucratic territoriality. With Sigma under a government oversight review, other agencies tasted the blood in the water. Whoever could nab the Guild turncoat, the big fish amid all the chum, could almost guarantee some security. As such, there was little true cooperation, more a nod in its general direction.

  If Painter had any hope of thwarting Nasser, he needed to cut the red tape binding his wrists. There was only one way to do that. He pulled out his cell phone. To hell with diplomacy.

  He pressed a button and speed-dialed to Central Command.

  The line was picked up by Painter’s aide.

  “Brant, I need you to patch me through to Director McKnight at DARPA. On a secure line.”

  “Certainly, sir. But I was just about to call you in the field. Communications just patched up some strange news. About Christmas Island.”

  It took a moment for Painter to switch gears. “What’s happened?” he asked after a steadying breath. He paused before the hotel’s revolving door.

  “Details are sketchy. But it appears the cruise ship used to evacuate the island was hijacked.”

  “What?” he gasped out.

  “One of the WHO scientists was able to escape. He used a shortwave radio to reach a passing tanker.”

  “Lisa and Monk…?”

  “No news, but details are flooding in now.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  His heart pounding, he signed off, pocketed the phone, and pushed through the revolving door. The cool air did little to take the heat out of his blood.

  Lisa…

  He ran over his last conversation with her in his head. She had sounded tired, maybe a tad on edge, wired from lack of sleep. Had she been forced to make those calls?

  It made no sense.

  Who would have the audacity to hijack an entire cruise ship? Surely they must know word would get out. Especially in the age of satellite surveillance.

  There was nowhere to hide a ship this size.

  3:48 P.M.

  Aboard the Mistress of the Seas

  Monk gaped at the sight.

  Sweet Jesus…

  Monk stood on the starboard deck, alone, waiting for Jessie. A mist-shrouded island rose directly ahead. Cliffs climbed steeply out of the ocean, offering no beach or safe harbor, topped by jagged peaks. The whole place looked like an ancient stone crown, draped in vine and jungle.

  It appeared especially ominous backlit by the black skies behind it. The cruise ship had been outrunning a storm. Off in the distance, patches of dark rain brushed from the low clouds and swept the whitecapped ocean. The winds had picked up, snapping flags and gusting with shoves to the body.

  Monk kept one hand clamped to the rail as the large boat rolled in the rising storm surges, taxing the ship’s stabilizers.

  What the hell was the captain thinking?

  Their speeds had slowed, but their course remained dead-on. Straight toward the inhospitable island. It looked no more welcoming than the hundreds they’d already passed. What made this one so special?

  Ever resourceful and fluent, Jessie had ascertained some details about the island from one of the ship’s cooks, a native of the region who recognized the place. The island was called Pusat, or Navel. According to the cook, boats avoided the place. Supposedly the Balinese witch queen Rangda was born out of this navel, and her demons still protect her birthplace, beasts who rose out of the deep to drag the unsuspecting down to her watery underworld.

  Jessie had also offered an alternative explanation: But more likely it was just bad reefs and tricky currents.

  Or was it something else entirely?

  From seemingly out of the sheer rock of the island, a trio of speedboats jetted into view. Blue, long-keeled, and low.

  More pirates.

  No wonder no one
dares come here, Monk thought. Dead men tell no tales.

  Monk glanced around him as some men hurried past, shouting in Malay. He strained to make out the words. He checked his watch. Where was Jessie? A little translation right about now would be handy.

  Monk studied the island ahead.

  From international reports, the Indonesian islands were riddled with hundreds of secret coves. Over eighteen thousand islands made up the Indonesian chain; only six thousand were known to be populated. That still left twelve thousand places to hide.

  Monk watched the trio of boats buzz toward them, then split away, spinning sharply with a spray of seawater. They positioned themselves to either side of the cruise ship’s bow and one directly in front. They headed back toward the island, puttering slowly in the chop.

  Escorts.

  The smaller ships were guiding their big brother to port.

  As the island drew nearer, Monk was able to spot a narrow chasm in the cliff face, angled in such a manner as to be easy to miss. The gap appeared too small for the cruise ship, like passing a camel through a needle’s eye. But someone had done proper soundings, compared them to the ship’s dimensions and draft.

  The cruise ship pushed its bow between two sheer walls of black rock. The rest of the ship had no choice but to follow. The port side scraped with a screech and tremble. Monk danced back as a spar of cliff on his side ground away a pair of lifeboats, smashing and raining down pieces.

  The entire ship squealed.

  Monk held his breath. But they did not have far to go. The way opened again. The Mistress of the Seas slid out of the chasm and into a wide, open-air lagoon, the size of a small lake.

  Monk crossed back to the rail and gaped around. I’ll be damned. No wonder they call this place a navel.

  The island was really an old volcanic cone with a large lagoon at the center. Jagged walls circled all around and made up the crown of the island. Inside, the cliffs were less steep, lush with jungles, threaded with silver waterfalls, and lined by sandy beaches. The far side of the wide lagoon was littered with palm-thatched buildings and clapboard homes. Scores of wooden docks and stone jetties prickled from the small town. Several boats were pulled up on shore for repair; others were rusted down to ribbings.

  Home sweet home for the pirates.

  More boats sped out to meet the arriving cruise ship.

  Monk expected they weren’t coming to sell trinkets.

  He searched upward, noting how the character of the light had grown shadowy when they had pushed into the lagoon. As if the storm clouds had blown over suddenly.

  But it wasn’t clouds that shaded the lagoon.

  Someone’s been busy, Monk thought as he craned upward.

  Crisscrossed over the open cone of the volcano, a vast net had been strung. It looked fairly patchwork, built piecemeal, surely decades in its construction, possibly centuries. While the main sections were supported with steel cable and latticework, strung from one peak to the next, other areas were formed of rope and reef nets, and even older sections appeared to be merely twined grass and thatch. The entire construct spanned the lagoon like a meshed roof, an engineering marvel, artfully camouflaged with leaf, vine, and branch. From above, the lagoon would be invisible. From the air, the island would appear to be just a continuous jungle.

  And now the vast net had captured the Mistress of the Seas and hid it forever from prying eyes.

  Not good.

  The engines cut and the ship slowed to a drift. Monk heard the chug and gentle vibration as the ship’s anchors were dropped.

  A commotion toward the bow drew his attention forward.

  Monk headed over to investigate. Other pirates were less stealthy and ran past him, assault rifles held in the air, cheering.

  “That can’t be good,” Monk muttered.

  Keeping back, Monk discovered a large crowd of the pirates gathered on the forward deck, massed around the pool and hot tub. Bahamian music blasted, courtesy of Bob Marley and his Rastafarian riffs. Many had bottles of beer, whiskey, and vodka, reflective of the mix of mercenary and local pirate. It seemed a welcome-home party was under way.

  Along with games.

  The pirates’ attention focused toward the starboard side of the ship. Assault rifles were shaken in upraised fists; encouraging shouts rang out. Someone had unscrewed the diving board and had it protruding out from the rail, over the water. A man was dragged forward, his arms tied behind his back. He had been beaten, bloody-nosed, split lip.

  Shoved around, Monk caught a glimpse of his face over the crowd.

  Oh, no…

  Jessie babbled desperately in Malay — but his words fell on deaf ears. He was forced at gunpoint over the rail and onto the diving board. It seemed these were fundamentalist pirates, sticking with tradition.

  Jessie teetered on the plank, poked and prodded to the end.

  Monk made a step in his direction.

  But a mass of pirates stood between him and the young nurse. And what could he do? Plainly Monk could not shoot his way through the throng of pirates here. It would just get them both killed.

  Still, Monk’s hand drifted to his rifle.

  He should never have involved the kid. He’d come to lean too heavily on him, pushed him too far. Jessie had left an hour ago, searching for any local maps of the region. Someone must have a map or could sketch one. The pirates had to be getting their supplies from somewhere nearby. Monk had urged caution, but Jessie had scampered away, eyes bright.

  And look what it bought him.

  With a final wail, Jessie fell from the plank’s end and tumbled into the water, striking it hard. Monk rushed to the rail, along with most of the pirates, standing shoulder to shoulder as they catcalled, cheered, and cursed. Bets were placed.

  Monk let out a held breath when Jessie resurfaced, kicking hard, on his back, gasping. A pair of pirates near the bow leveled rifles at the struggling victim.

  Oh God…

  Shots cracked crisp, especially loud under the muffle of the netting.

  Spats of splashes marked the impact.

  At Jessie’s heels.

  More laughter.

  The kid kicked harder and writhed, swimming away from the boat.

  He would never make it to shore.

  One of the blue speedboats aimed straight toward his floundering shape, meaning to run him over. But at the last moment, it dodged away, swamping Jessie with its wake.

  He sputtered up, looking more angry than frightened.

  On his back, he scissor-kicked and used his bound arms as some sort of rudder. The guy was strong and wiry.

  But the speedboat was faster.

  It swung around again, sweeping back for another pass.

  A laughing gunman in the back of the boat braced himself and aimed his assault rifle. He strafed the water as the boat passed between the cruise ship and the boy.

  Monk cringed, knowing Jessie could not have survived this time.

  The speedboat buzzed past.

  And there Jessie was, coughing and sputtering. He paddled and kicked. A small cheer arose from the pirates.

  Monk’s hands clenched on the rail, hard enough to rip it away. Goddamn assholes were toying with Jessie, stretching out the torture.

  Although he was unable to act, refusing to turn away, Monk’s fingers tightened into a knot. His face, heated to a red-hot fire, must be glowing through the nut-brown makeup.

  All my fault…

  Jessie fought toward shore, on his side now, searching for how far he had to swim to reach the beach. The speedboat circled back. Laughter echoed over the water.

  Jessie kicked faster. Suddenly he popped up, finding sand under his toes. He ran, fell, shoved, and dove toward shore. Then his legs were high-stepping through the lapping water. He pounded across the beach toward the dense jungle.

  Go, Jessie…

  The speedboat raced by. Shots were fired. Sand exploded, leaves shredded. Then Jessie dashed the last steps and vanished headlong into t
he forest, arms still tied behind his back.

  More cheers, some disappointed groans.

  Money changed hands.

  But most were still chuckling, as if at some private joke.

  Monk nudged his neighbor. “Apa?” he asked.

  As the band of pirates here was a mix of locals and foreign mercenaries, Monk had learned that pigeon Malay passed okay. Not everyone was as fluent as the native pirates.

  The gentleman at his side was missing several teeth, but was happy to show how many he had left by grinning broadly. He pointed toward shore, but he aimed higher up. A few wisps of smoke could be seen near the ridgeline. Some camp was up there.

  “Pemakan daging manusia,” the pirate explained.

  Same to you, bud.

  The pirate must have noted his confusion and only smiled wider, showing his decaying wisdom teeth. He tried again. “Kanibals.”

  Monk’s eyes widened. That was one Malay word Monk could translate himself. He stared back toward the empty beach, then up toward the trails of smoke. It seemed the pirates shared the island with a local tribe of cannibals. And like any good guests returning home, the pirates had thrown their caretakers a bone.

  Literally.

  The pirate at his side continued to babble and pointed toward the water. Monk only caught a few phrases, a word here and there.

  “…lucky…at night…bad…” The man pantomimed with his hand, a claw rising up and grabbing something and dragging it down. “Iblis.”

  The last was a Malay curse word.

  Monk had heard it enough times, but he was fairly certain the man was using its direct translation.

  Demon.

  “Raksasa iblis,” he repeated, and babbled a bit more, ending in a whispered name, drying his grin into more of an ache. “Rangda.”

  Monk frowned and straightened, leaning over a bit to stare at the water.

  He remembered Jessie’s old wives’ tale. Rangda was the name of the Balinese witch queen, whose demons were supposed to haunt these waters.

  “At night…” the man mumbled in Malay, and pointed to the water. “Amat, amat buruk.” Very, very bad.