Final Epidemic

by Earl Merkel

  Most recently, Cappie had tipped his Asian benefactor to the theft of the M-16s—not the feds,never them, though what the Jap subsequently did with the information was certainly none of Cappie’s business. Cappie was a pragmatist: it was not so much spying on his old friend as it was helping his new one stay on top of things. Why not? The Jap had been grateful for the heads-up—guy knowed right away that the feds would be lookin’ into that kinda shit,Orin noted, suitably impressed—and had been suitably generous in return.

  Cappie was genuinely sorry about Orin, too. Sort of.

  ’Course, once he started thinkin’ about it, sooner or later he’d of knowed it was me talked,Cappie mused. He shrugged off any regret.Fuck it; it was him or me. He touched his pocket, felt the weight of the can he had torn from Orin’s jacket.There’s people who’d pay boo-coo bucks for something like this. ’Sides, I got nuthin’ against Denver. And when you get right down to it, Orin was an asshole anyway.

  So much for memory lane; Cappie returned his attention to his rearview mirror.

  Whoever was behind him had only limited practice in car tails. That ruled out the feds, Cappie figured; certainly they had to know their business better than the solitary silhouette in the Malibu. It also eliminated most of the other persons, law enforcement or not, whose attentions might alarm him. That left an amateur of some sort, and while that made him curious, it barely constituted a concern. Whoever was behind him was either new at this, or his experience was limited to places where it didn’t matter if the prey knew he was being stalked.

  Okay, my smart-assed li’l buddy. Just keep coming. I know a place where we can go be alone together. I got a few questions for you.

  He glanced at the object on the seat beside him. Like every silenced pistol Cappie had ever seen, the thing was a piece of crap. It was a battered .38-caliber revolver, and looked better suited as a throw-down piece than as an actual weapon. The front sight had been hacksawed off and the barrel end rough-threaded like a pipe. He had bought it, along with the bulky extension that gave the gun any utility at all, several months before in a biker bar outside Helena.

  Before he had gone to the theater, Cappie had donned latex gloves and carefully wiped the weapon clean. It had taken only a fraction of the precious minutes he had. He had used a few more to wrap white athletic tape around the grip, the face of the trigger, and the bulky silencer itself. Fingerprints were not a problem on the rough cloth texture, unless you happened to be looking for any.

  The silencer was homemade, a cylinder the size of a large soup can. Fiberglass insulation and steel wool had been packed around a perforated steel tube, a half inch in diameter, that was welded inside. The end of the tube had been threaded with a hand tap, and the whole apparatus could be screwed into the matching threads cut into the tip of the revolver’s barrel. It was as awkward as it was inelegant. Under the best of conditions, Cappie had estimated, it would hold up for two shots, maybe three.

  As it turned out, of course, he had needed only one.

  There would not be a second shot—at least, not from this gun. It had already done the only work he trusted it to do. He had intended to throw the pistol and its silencer—separately, of course—into a blackwater borrow pit just off I-70. He still would. But now there was an unscheduled stop he had to make first.

  Who knows—depending on how things work out, I might just even leave it with the body, pistol and silencer both.The image made him smile.Boy, that might mess with somebody’s mind, he thought.

  Outside, the neighborhood had turned industrial. He continued west until he came to a gravel road rutted from weather and neglect. He turned onto it. Ahead, he could see the dark outline of what looked like a large, abandoned factory.

  Cappie reached under his camo jacket and touched the Colt Python he carried in a shoulder rig. Then he checked his rearview mirror a final time.

  There was no sign of his pursuer, but Cappie knew for a certainty he was still there. He began to whistle, tunelessly, as the dark building drew closer. Almost idly, Cappie wondered what Lubella would have on the table when he returned home.

  It was much later, almost four p.m. This had turned into an interesting meeting indeed—one with more than a few surprises for both of the participants.

  Now it was time to leave. All that was left was the tidying up that was always an inevitable final part of these things.

  The strip of cloth he had lighted was almost fully ablaze now, almost at the juncture where it was stuffed into the opened gasoline filler neck. Even from where he stood, under the open sky twenty yards away, he could see the flames licking up the rag’s remaining few inches.

  And then, with no further preliminaries, the fumes ignited. There was an intense white flash, followed an instant later by a curiously flat boom—no, he corrected himself, it was more like a deep-throated whoosh. The shock wave was little more than a puff of warmed air he barely felt in its passing.

  The vehicle was burning furiously now, the flames an angry orange-black. Where various fluids escaped along the length of the chassis, liquid drops of fire dripped to the ground. The interior, which he had soaked with gasoline, was alive with the dancing flames, though with nothing else. The mad dance of firelight reflected against the walls of this ruined place, now competing with the late-afternoon sun in intensity. Black smoke rose in a thick, rolling plume.

  It was time to leave.

  As he drove away, he could see the smoke and flickering of light in his rearview mirror. He did not know if the fire would attract attention from the curious or the concerned; he did not know who would see it, or who might care. Regardless, even if the flames drew anyone here, it would be too late. Whatever there had been of value, he had already taken.

  Chapter 40

  Denver International Airport

  July 23

  The death of Orin Trippett—and the inability of Beck and April to find the canister of the virus they believed he had possessed—had left the pair completely without direction or intent. All they had was the knowledge that the unknown man who spoke soft threats in a Russian accent had been a step ahead of them again.

  Aside from that, they had . . . nothing.

  “I’m coming back,” Beck repeated, this time with more force.

  “To do what, exactly?” Andi Wheelwright’s voice came over the sat phone, clear in its exasperation. “Beck, you’re better off where you are. We have chaos up and down the Eastern Seaboard now. It’s even worse in Florida. There’s rioting—hell, it’s more like armed insurrection down in the quarantine zone. We’ve had reports of attacks on military units down there. Some of the crazies have begun raiding bases, arming themselves with anything they can steal. Not just small arms, either. Mortars, heavy machine guns, even antiaircraft weapons. It’s a free-fire zone, man.”

  “What’s happening in New York?”

  “What do you think? Ten million people are caught between an incurable plague and a curfew enforced by a shoot-to-kill edict.”

  “You’re getting reports on new flu cases there.”

  “Some. Okay, yes—it appears to be spreading faster than we hoped. There are confirmed cases in Manhattan and in Queens. The Coast Guard has had to sink a number of small craft that refused to heave to. They were heading toward the mainland.”

  “Andi, you can’t stop all of them. It will get worse; all it takes is one person to get through, or one infected body to wash ashore along the coastline.”

  “I know. Nationwide flu in a week. Ten days at the most.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter where I am,” Beck said. “Look, Andi—if you won’t help me, at least don’t stand in my way. I’ve done what you wanted; I’ve done all I can. Now I need to find Katie.”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “Beck—if you have to do something, go to Montgomery and wait. We’ll authorize a flight plan to fly you there. Go to the Capitol Holiday Inn; I’ll make sure they’re expecting you.” She drew a deep breath. “I’ll do what I
can, but we’re not getting a lot of information out of Florida anymore.”

  “I appreciate anything you can do. You have CDC teams still going into Florida. Put me in with one.”

  “I’ll have to clear that with Billy Carson,” Andi said.

  “Tell Carson I’ll talk to him when I land,” Beck said. “If he has any problems, he can tell me then. But Andi—one way or another, I’m going in to find my daughter.” He broke the connection.

  April nodded, grimly.

  “Then I’m coming along.” She sounded stubbornly determined. “Officially, I’m still assigned to you. Last thing Frank Ellis said was to stick to you like glue. Until I check in with him, that’s the directive I’m following.” She held up a hand before Beck could reply. “And I’d like to help.”

  Beck looked at April, then at the waiting CDC jet.

  “Plenty of room,” he said. “And . . . thank you.”

  Chapter 41

  Montgomery, Alabama

  July 23

  While April inspected the accommodations—Wheelwright’s office had handled the arrangements directly, and in the current emergency the hotel manager had immediately upgraded “Dr. Beck Casey of the CDC” to the only available suite—Beck limped into the motel’s dining room. He entered an expanse of empty booths and tables that had, nonetheless, each been set with fresh china and linen. Holiday Inn brooked no surprises for its guests, at least none that could be prevented by the attentions of the staff.

  A smiling woman flitted to greet Beck, her pale green blouse starched and her carefully coiffed hair a shade of blond not generally found in nature.

  Before the hostess could whisk him to one of the many unoccupied tables, Beck surveyed the room. His double take might have been comical, had there been an audience in the room to see it.

  There at a booth, situated so that no one could approach unobserved, sat Alexi Malenkov.

  The general’s uniform was gone, replaced by a tan polo shirt and khaki shorts. He wore matching socks under the Nike-swooshed sandals on his feet, and a pair of retro-designed Foster Grant sunglasses peeked from a breast pocket. On the table before him, a copy of the MontgomeryAdvertiser was folded to the sports section, and on his fork was something white flecked with yellow. Alexi was studying the latter with a perplexed look on his face. He looked up as Beck slipped onto the bench across from him.

  “Nice outfit, Alexi. How are you enjoying the food?”

  “I have not before experienced the culinary pleasure of grits,” Alexi Malenkov said wryly. “They are surprisingly good, if only one can obtain a sufficient supply of—” He paused, lost. “To be sure, ofanything that might give them some measure of flavor.”

  Beck laughed. “Try the honey, Alexi. Or the Tabasco, if you want a real Southern treat.”

  The Russian tucked another forkful of hash browns into his mouth.

  “Thank you. I will pass, for now. I have news, my friend. Your president has announced he will use Agent VIX around the Florida Quarantine Region, and in New York City.”

  “When?”

  “They estimate perhaps this time tomorrow.”

  “I’ll get ready to be pretty sick in the next couple of days.”Or, Beck left unsaid,one of the dead five percent.

  “Yes.” Alexi handed across an envelope, the size in which mail-order catalogues are sent. “That is a gift from the Russian people to you personally. You will appreciate it, I believe.”

  Beck tore across the sealed flap and pulled out a quarter-inch-thick sheaf of paper tacked together in the Russian fashion with a straight pin pushed through the corner. He tensed when he saw the photograph that was affixed to the top sheet.

  “Ah, you recognize this man,” Alexi noted with satisfaction. “Good. That will make our task easier.”

  “I remember him pretty well. The last time I saw him, he was sticking a knife into my thigh. Who is he?”

  “Like so many of the people we meet in this interesting profession of ours, he seems to have a number of names,” Alexi said. He sipped cautiously at his coffee.

  His face brightened, and he tipped the cup back for a deeper draught. “We have listed those of which we are aware. At present, he appears to operate under the name of ‘Ilya,’ last name unknown. His vitae is on the second page. You will please note that Ilya is both an interrogator and an assassin. You did well to escape with only the chicken scratch you received, my friend.”

  Beck did not answer, his face furrowed in concentration as he scanned through the Cyrillic-lettered text of Ilya’s file.

  “I am sorry we did not have time to transcribe this information into English,” Alexi said wickedly. “Do you wish me to translate for you?”

  “What you can do,” Beck said, still reading, “is tell me what this Ilya is doing in the States.”

  “A good question. You see that he was seconded from the Army to the SVR,” Alexi said, using the current incarnation of what was once the KGB’s foreign intelligence section. “Our friend was Spetznaz, and like all soldiers from elite units he brought his own unique skills into his new employment.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that you may recall that I told you we had placed SVR agents close to your own paramilitary factions,” Alexi said, chewing a piece of wheat toast. “Ilya was one such agent. His English is as good as mine, perhaps a little better. His Czech is excellent, and for that reason he is covered as a former Czechoslovakian Army corporal who defected to this country—seeking, of course, the freedom it has so unquestioningly offered to all.”

  Beck looked skeptical. “A man with an Eastern European accent doesn’t usually get very far trying to join that kind of club, Alexi. Not even a defector is ‘right’ enough.”

  “His story is that he became disillusioned—I believe the legend we provided is that he had some altercation with your taxation authorities—and became close to several of your more extreme militia groups. Plus, our friend Ilya was able to provide his new comrades—pardon me, ‘fellow patriotic warriors’—with a few obsolete automatic weapons he bought from street gangs in your larger cities.” His face was impassive, though his eyes were mocking.

  Beck grunted. “I’ll have to introduce you to my traveling companion. She’ll find your information very interesting.”

  Alexi grinned hugely. “A woman? I am pleased for you, my friend. When may I meet your girl?”

  “Her name is April, and I’d recommend against calling her a girl, Alexi. You should probably call her Special Agent O’Connor.”

  “Ah, she is FBI. And she has already made the acquaintance of our friend Ilya.”

  Beck glanced up at the Russian. “You are surprisingly well informed, Alexi.”

  “Ms. Andi Wheelwright has been quite cooperative,” Alexi said. “But she did not mention your companion. You have reason not to tell her, perhaps?”

  Beck laughed, though his eyes did not leave the Russian’s face. “Alexi, have you ever heard the phrase ‘sex maniac’? Get a dictionary and look it up—right next to it, you’ll see a photo of your face.”

  “Yes, you are pleased to joke. But our friend Ilya is no product of paranoia. He is quite a serious man, my friend.”

  “And what does he intend to do now? Come to think of it, what doyou intend to do, Alexi?”

  Alexi motioned for the waitress—a slim girl whose smile seemed permanently set on high—and waited until she had refilled his cup.

  “The answer to both questions are remarkably similar, my friend. Our mysterious Ilya is in your country—perhaps illegally, perhaps under some legitimate cover. Either way, he will not be easy to find. It would appear he is looking for one of the murderous lunatics who wish to carry poison to your cities. For what specific reason, we do not know. And I—an official guest whose presence was arranged by my president talking to yours—well, I am here looking forhim .”

  He again tasted the coffee, savoring it before speaking again.

  “You see, Beck—we believe Ilya is no longer act
ing as a Russian, much less as an SVR agent. Did I mention Ilya had a previous posting in Japan? It is in his record, there before you.”

  Beck waited, feeling the chill that rippled the back of his neck.

  “We believe,” Alexi said, “that he is Aum—in fact, that he is one of the teachers, these sensei who now lead them. His task, I am convinced, is to ensure this virus continues to spread. He wishes, I think, to kill millions of your countrymen.”

  Alexi Malenkov again sipped at his coffee, and studied Beck over the rim of the cup.

  “I am here,” he said, “to help you stop him.”

  Chapter 42

  Montgomery, Alabama

  July 23

  An hour later, Beck lowered himself into a lounge chair on the concrete apron around the hotel swimming pool; as he did, he could feel every minute of the past two days in his joints. His leg throbbed; only the possibility that someone might hear gave him the strength to bite back the groan.

  Beck had expected the hotel to be deserted, or close to it. He had not factored in the effect that a near-complete shutdown of transportation would have. Across the country, a tremendous number of people were stranded far from their own homes. Here, in the Heart of Dixie, the Holiday Inn had assumed the role of sanctuary for a significant number of these refugees.

  One might not have known that, fewer than two hundred miles away, a plague raged unabated.

  Around the pool, a cornucopia of browning female flesh competed for his attention. From behind the protection of his sunglasses, Beck still found himself compelled to look, though without the component of casually omnivorous lust he remembered from other places, other years.

  For one thing, his mind was still tumultuous with concern for Katie, despite April’s frequent, reassuring analyses of why she had still not been located. Then there was the simple requirement of staying alive; between the dark man and the virus, Beck sensed that the odds had dipped depressingly low. For another, Beck had begun to realize that the most voluptuous figures—those that climbed from the water with a lithe womanly grace that was achingly lovely, those whose lowered eyes noted his glance with a studied, seductive indifference—were, upon closer examination of the males who attended them, no older than fifteen.