The Ares Decision

by Robert Ludlum

  “I said the infection didn’t get them. Apparently, the ones who got away were killed and burned by the surrounding tribes.”

  “Like Noah’s family.”

  “Exactly. It says there are stories of this phenomenon going back for hundreds of years—maybe thousands. It’s likely that the traditions of isolating, killing, and burning people you suspected could be possessed arose over time because they worked.”

  “A primitive quarantine procedure,” Smith agreed.

  She continued her search through the papers, finally snatching one from a pile to her right. “Jon! Look at this.”

  He leaned closer and examined a neatly drawn map with the house they were in at one corner.

  “He talks about a cave system and the fact that he thinks the parasite is dormant in an animal that lives in it. He did some exploring and took samples of some of the insects, reptiles, and mammals there.”

  “Did he find what he was looking for?”

  She flipped over the next page and then another and another. They were all blank. “Apparently so.”

  Smith descended the stairs and went out on the front porch, passing Howell and walking another fifty yards before digging out his sat phone. Fred Klein picked up on the first ring.

  “Jon. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. We’ve got something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’re at Duernberg’s farm going through his diaries and it turns out he believed the infection was centered on a series of caves about twenty miles northeast of here. We’re going to head over there at first light to see if we can get some samples.”

  “Is that safe?”

  Smith laughed quietly, mindful of the people sleeping around him. “Other than Bahame’s guerrillas, an unexplored and probably unstable cave network, lions, hippos, and the infection itself, it should be a piece of cake.”

  Klein ignored his comment. “So you think Duernberg could be right?”

  “It makes sense based on what little we know. Years could go by with no flare-up; then someone wanders into one of those caves for whatever reason and comes into contact with a carrier. Look, you need to call Billy Rendell at CDC and get him started thinking about this. If the infection does get out, we need a containment plan and he’s the best in the business.”

  “Rendell,” Klein repeated. “Can he be trusted?”

  “Billy knows how to keep things quiet. You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “I just have to worry about you.”

  “Yeah. Look, Fred. If you don’t hear from us in a couple days, we’ve had problems and you’re going to have to consider escalating this thing—sending a military force to create a perimeter and a fully equipped team to go into those caves.”

  “I understand, Jon. But we’re in a delicate position—not only with the Iranians and Africans, but with Covert-One itself. It’s safe to say that the CIA suspects there’s a new player in town and we have to be very careful about tipping our hand.”

  “If this thing gets out, Fred, that’s going to be the least of our problems.”

  “I’m meeting with the president tomorrow. I’ll fill him in and give him your recommendation. But American credibility isn’t that great when it comes to Middle East intel right now—at home or abroad. If we want to come down on the Iranians or send a significant force into Africa, we need something concrete. And then there’s the time it’s going to take to ramp up that kind of operation…”

  “I know, Fred. But I can’t stop thinking about that video and extrapolating it out to somewhere like New York or London.”

  “Yeah,” he responded quietly. “Me too.”

  42

  Tehran, Iran

  November 25—1055 Hours GMT+3:30

  AYATOLLAH AMJAD KHAMENEI SAT cross-legged on the cushion listening to a wiretap recording provided by the men hovering around him. He closed his eyes, trying to remain serene, trying to put his faith in God as the details of the plot against him unfolded. Rahim Nikahd’s daughter-in-law had died of the injuries she’d suffered at the hands of Omidi’s men and it was more than the politician could forgive.

  No, that wasn’t true—as Mehrak would have undoubtedly pointed out if he weren’t so far away. The treasonous conversation between Nikahd and a number of his colleagues in parliament hadn’t sprung up due to just that mistake. It was too intricate, too elaborate. Much more likely they had been planning for months. Perhaps even years.

  “Leave me,” he said, waving a hand.

  The men in the room had been handpicked by him, but still he didn’t trust them. In these dangerous times, he was certain only of his immediate family and of Omidi, who was as much a son to him as the ones his wife had given birth to.

  Khamenei listened to the details of the plan to assassinate him, of the transformation of Iran into a “modern” country, of the olive branch that would be offered to Farrokh.

  When the recording ended, he took off the earphones and laid them on the floor. He had made so many errors during his long life. First and foremost, though, was underestimating the power of money. International sanctions had caused Iran’s economy to falter and prevented its citizens from getting the useless baubles they saw on the Internet and in Western advertisements. The things they now put above God.

  He had also badly misjudged the reaction of the country’s youth to America’s occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan. He’d seen it as a harbinger of things to come—the rise of a new imperialism that would annihilate them if they didn’t have weapons to defend themselves. Now, years after the utter failure of the American military to control those countries and the uncertain financial future of the U.S. government, many Iranians naïvely believed that the chance of invasion was remote. Particularly if no concrete provocation was offered.

  And so the Iran he had helped build was being rotted from the inside by people who cared only about feeding their own appetites. The dream of the Islamic Republic would be smothered in expensive cars, lurid clothing, and uncontrolled media.

  He picked up a large manila envelope and pulled a photo from it, once again examining the faces of the people it depicted. Jon Smith was a microbiologist at the U.S. Army’s bioweapons center in Maryland. Sarie van Keuren was the world’s leading expert on parasites. And Peter Howell was former MI6 and SAS. The Americans knew something. And that meant time was short.

  Omidi no longer had sufficient control of the Iranian security forces to fire into the protesters plaguing the country. Leaders in parliament were plotting his death. And there were whispers that Farrokh was seeking military capability.

  Khamenei knew that he had already waited too long, allowing his power to erode to the point that he could no longer be certain of anything. The only answer was to gouge directly at the root of the evil casting its shadow over the republic.

  He looked at the clock. Less than a minute.

  When the phone finally rang, he immediately reached for it. “God be with you, Mehrak.”

  “And with you, Excellency.”

  “It is good to hear your voice. I have few friends here. Fewer, I think, than even you imagine.”

  “I heard about the meeting between Nikahd and the others. We’ll deal with them when I return, but we have to move cautiously.”

  “It’s too late for that, old friend. I should have listened to your warnings. Sometimes I think I am becoming old and foolish.”

  “You see piety in men who have none, Excellency. That isn’t foolishness. It’s what it means to be a man of God.”

  “You always know how to comfort me, Mehrak. And I thank you for it. Now tell me what you’ve learned.”

  “Bahame’s weapon is nearly perfect. I saw it used and his descriptions were entirely accurate. It is truly the wrath of the Almighty.”

  Khamenei closed his eyes again, picturing America collapsing into chaos, broken bodies littering the streets, survivors cowering and begging their false God for salvation that would never come.

  �
�You said nearly perfect. Why nearly?”

  “It’s impractical to wield and will have to be weaponized.”

  “The anniversary of the victory of the revolution is in eleven weeks. We will release it in America then.”

  “Excellency, that’s impossible. We don’t have people with the necessary expertise. It will—”

  “Have faith, Omidi. God will provide.”

  “Of course, Excellency. But we have to be realistic. The difficulties of—”

  “What Bahame wants is waiting on the Sudanese border. I will authorize the transfer immediately.”

  43

  Northern Uganda

  November 25—1207 Hours GMT+3

  JON SMITH CHECKED THE hand-drawn map again as they crawled along a barely discernible jeep track cutting through the rolling terrain.

  They’d left the farm after downing an elaborate breakfast Duernberg insisted on making, and now the sun was directly overhead. Temperatures had risen to a level that was taxing even the overbuilt cooling system of Janani’s truck, and the wind was churning up thick clouds of dust in the distance.

  “Won’t work,” Sarie said from the backseat when Smith leaned out the window to dry his sweat-soaked face. She was right—the air felt like it was blowing out of a wet convection oven.

  He pulled back again, adjusting the assault rifle sticking up between the front seats so he could lean forward and get his back off the leather. “The map shows an intersection with a better-defined road ahead. We turn left on it and then it’s not much more than a mile to the cave area.”

  “If the intersection is still there,” Howell said. “That’s not exactly a new map.”

  “All we’ve got. How are we looking behind, Sarie?”

  “Nothing. I think our friends must have abandoned us.”

  The soldiers tracking them hadn’t made an appearance since the prior afternoon. They’d probably broken an axle or been washed away in a stream crossing like they themselves had nearly been no less than twenty times since leaving Kampala. Or maybe they’d just turned back. Bahame wouldn’t be particularly accepting of Ugandan soldiers wandering around in his backyard.

  The road leveled out and Howell used the opportunity to accelerate as they came around a sweeping curve. The heat and empty landscape had dulled his normally razor-sharp reflexes and he slammed on the brakes just a fraction too late. The vehicle fishtailed in the loose dirt, sliding forward until the brush guard rammed the side of the military truck parked in their path.

  Howell immediately went for the assault rifle, but Smith grabbed his wrist. The cab of the truck was empty, but there were three armed men in the back, their elevated position perfect for shooting down into the Land Cruiser’s windshield. Camouflage-clad men appeared out of the tall grass and approached cautiously with weapons at the ready.

  “Get out of the car!” one demanded in heavily accented English.

  “You’re the ones who have been following us since Kampala,” Smith said as they stepped cautiously from the vehicle. “We have permission to be here.”

  Six guns were trained on them, and out of the corner of his eye Smith could see Howell sizing up the men holding them. They appeared to be a few notches above the poorly trained part-timers so common in this part of the world.

  It suddenly struck him just how alone they were. Had Sembutu decided that they were more trouble than they were worth—that it would be better if they just disappeared? It would be so easy. No one would ever find the bodies, and their disappearance could be credibly blamed on Bahame or any of the hundreds of other things that killed people every day in that part of the world.

  “You must turn back,” the man said. “Go home.”

  “We’re scientists,” Sarie added. “We’re here studying some of your local animals.”

  “You study ants, yes?”

  “That’s right, we—”

  “You want to die for ants?”

  “We don’t just study ants,” Smith said. “We study diseases and the way they’re spread. The work we do saves lives.”

  “Not yours if Bahame finds you.”

  “That’s a risk we’re willing to take.”

  The man just stood there for a few moments, scowling silently at what he undoubtedly saw as soul-crushing stupidity. Finally, he pulled a sat phone from his pocket and began speaking unintelligibly into it. When he hung up, he looked even less happy.

  “If you refuse to go back, my men and I have been ordered to protect you.”

  “We appreciate that, but it’s really not necessary. We don’t want to put you in danger. It—”

  “Then go back to Kampala.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

  The man let out a frustrated breath and started back to his truck.

  * * *

  HOW ARE YOU holding up?” Smith said, scrambling over a pile of jagged boulders as he jogged toward Sarie. The terrain had opened up into rocky grassland punctuated by occasional stands of trees that looked like enormous parasols. She was standing in the shade of one of those, and he pulled out a canteen, taking a sip before holding it out to her.

  “Just another day at the office.” The edges of her eyes crinkled as she squinted through her sunglasses at the shapes the wind was creating in the grass. “But I’m starting to wonder if this is the right place. It seems like with this many people we’d have found something by now.”

  They had pressed Sembutu’s soldiers into service, and they, along with Peter Howell, were walking across the field at twenty-five-yard intervals, searching for a cave entrance.

  “This is what the map said.”

  “For his patients’ sake, I hope Duernberg was a better doctor than he was a cartographer.”

  Smith pulled off his straw cowboy hat, holding it up to block the sun as he looked out over the endless landscape.

  “These are hard conditions,” Sarie said. “You’re doing a lot better than I would have expected.”

  Smith grinned. “I can’t figure out if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

  “It’s an observation,” she said, her expression turning probing. “You and Peter don’t seem very bothered by the terrain or the sun or people pointing guns at you. I understand that he was in the SAS, but what’s your excuse?”

  “I may not be SAS, Sarie, but I’ve worked on the front lines in MASH units attached to special forces units.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “I get around, Jon. I’ve known military doctors. Some have had some interesting adventures. But in the end, they’re city strong.”

  “City strong?”

  “They go to the gym religiously three days a week. They do their little midlife-crisis triathlons. It’s different in the bush. But then, you know that, don’t you?”

  Smith wasn’t happy with the direction the conversation was going and was almost relieved when he heard a frightened cry from one of the soldiers searching to the north. He pulled his pistol from its holster and ran over the uneven ground toward the voice with Sarie a few feet behind.

  Sembutu’s other men had dropped to their knees and were sweeping their rifles back and forth while Howell called for calm.

  Finally, Smith spotted the cause of the commotion. One of the soldiers he thought was crouching had actually fallen chest-deep into a hole. His arms, spread out flat on the ground, were the only things keeping him from plunging the rest of the way through.

  Smith and Sarie grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him out while the others gathered around.

  “Are you all right?”

  He didn’t seem to understand, and Smith pointed to the blood beginning to soak through the right leg of his fatigues. “Just sit back and relax for a minute. I’m a doctor.”

  Someone translated, and Smith took out a knife, cutting through the fabric and looking at the gash made by a sharp outcropping the man had hit on his way down.

  “I have a first-aid kit,” Howell said, digging through his pack and handing ove
r a well-stocked plastic organizer that he’d obviously created himself. Smith cleaned the wound with alcohol and then pulled out a hooked needle and some thread.

  “Tell him this is going to sting a bit.”

  The man lay back but, to his credit, didn’t flinch or make a sound while Smith stitched up the wound.

  “I think Dr. Duernberg has redeemed himself,” Sarie said, lying flat on the ground and peering into the hole. “It’s about fifteen meters to the bottom. Can’t see how far it goes in either direction, but it looks pretty big.”

  “What about the rock he hit?” Smith said.

  “Clean and dry.”

  Smith nodded. There was a good chance they’d found the parasite’s hiding place. The cave’s entrance was hidden by a tangle of grass and vines, making it easy for anyone walking through the area to tumble in. Had the soldier gone all the way down and gotten his cut contaminated with water or bat guano, things could have gotten complicated. They’d been lucky.

  Smith bandaged the wound while Sarie unpacked her equipment and Howell enlisted the remaining soldiers to clear the foliage from around the hole.

  When he was done, Smith grabbed a flashlight and leaned in, shining the beam in a slow circle. There was no way to climb down—the entrance was in the middle of a vaulted roof that he couldn’t see the edges of. The floor was strewn with rocks from millennia of miniature cave-ins, and he could hear dripping echoing somewhere beyond the hazy ring of illumination.

  “What do you think?” he said, sliding back out.

  “I say we take a look,” Sarie responded, uncoiling a rope next to a box of surgical gloves.

  He frowned and looked around them. Beyond the gloves and a few basic surgical masks, they had no biohazard equipment. And beyond the rope, they had no climbing equipment. Not exactly ideal. Then again, these weren’t exactly normal circumstances.

  “You sure you got me?”

  There was nowhere to anchor the rope, leaving no choice but to have Howell and the soldiers dig in like a tug-of-war team on one end. The result was less than confidence inspiring.