The Ares Decision c-8

by Robert Ludlum

  The stupid thing had less than ten thousand miles on it and not so much as a scratch in the paint or a chip in the windshield. After spending the last year on a camel that spit on her every time she got within ten feet, was a little reliable transportation too much to ask?

  Knowing from experience that there was no cell reception, Randi got out and looked down at the hood for a moment before reaching into the back for her gym bag. It was four rolling miles to the house, with temperatures just below freezing under a partly cloudy sky. A nice jog, a cup of tea, and a quick call to AAA or an hour digging around in an engine that was probably suffering from an unfathomable computer glitch? Not a terribly hard decision.

  She was searching for her shoes when the Honda she’d passed earlier pulled in behind her.

  “Car trouble?” a man in his early thirties said, throwing his door open and leaping out with a level of enthusiasm that suggested former Boy Scout.

  “Yeah, but I’m okay. I just live up the way.”

  “We’d be happy to give you a lift.”

  “I appreciate it, but honestly I could use some exercise.”

  The very pregnant woman in the passenger seat struggled through her door and waddled around in front of the bumper. “We can’t just leave you out here in the cold.”

  “Really, I’m fine. I—”

  Neither of their movements was fast or coordinated enough to cause alarm, but suddenly both were holding pistols aimed at her chest.

  “If you could hand over your Glock, I’d be grateful, Ms. Russell.”

  She didn’t move, examining both of them carefully. Their position was perfect — far enough from each other that she couldn’t engage both at the same time and lined up in a way that they had her in a cross fire without putting themselves in danger of hitting each other. The woman was now standing in the slightly crouched position of an expert marksman, apparently no longer affected by her “pregnancy.”

  Whoever they were, they were good — even by her standards. Also, they were well connected. Not only did they know the brand of firearm she carried, but it seemed likely that they’d used the OnStar System to shut down the Chevy. Those codes weren’t given out to every carjacker with an e-mail address.

  Randi slowly pulled the gun from the holster at her back, silently cursing her stupidity. Being in the States with most of her long list of enemies half a world away had dulled her edge. Not a lot, but apparently enough to get her killed.

  “Move away from the car, please.”

  As she did, a woman she hadn’t seen emerged from the backseat of the Honda and started toward her. They were about the same size, with exactly the same clothes and hair. Randi watched as she got behind the wheel of the Chevy and turned the key. It started right up and she immediately sped away.

  Based on that, it seemed unlikely they were just going to execute her. And every moment she was still breathing was a moment she could escape. If they put her in the car, they’d be close enough for her to use the knife she still had. It was a slim chance, but it was all she had.

  “Looks like you could use a lift,” the man said. “But first, why don’t you give me the blade you keep strapped to your thigh.”

  46

  Northern Uganda

  November 25—2018 Hours GMT+3

  Mehrak Omidi awoke to the sound of cheering and exited Bahame’s command tent, where he had retreated to escape the jungle’s insidious biting bugs. Young soldiers had crowded around an old pickup, and he was forced to climb onto Bahame’s podium in order to see the two unconscious white men in the back.

  The mob kicked and spit on them as they were dragged toward captivity and, soon, death. Charles Sembutu, for all his fearsome reputation, had proven to be an old woman where the Americans were concerned. He had ignored every opportunity to get rid of Smith’s team, and when they’d finally gotten too close, he’d continued to refuse to act — instead calling Omidi with their position and washing his hands of the matter.

  The lights of the pickup flickered off, revealing a dim glow approaching through the trees. A moment later, an extravagant four-wheel-drive vehicle came skidding into camp. Caleb Bahame leapt out, ignoring the adulation of his soldiers as he pulled a woman across the front seats and out the driver’s door.

  Omidi stepped forward, his gaze moving from the tangle of blond hair to the face so unconvincingly trying to portray courage. The Ayatollah’s continued insistence that they release the parasite on the anniversary of the victory of the revolution had seemed impossible — even with their top biologists working around the clock. And his unwavering belief that God would provide a solution had seemed dangerously naïve. But Omidi once again found himself humbled by the aging cleric’s wisdom and faith.

  He leapt from the podium and retreated to the blackness at the edge of the jungle, unable to take his eyes off the woman. The doubts he’d had about their plans and his fears regarding the American intelligence agencies were suddenly gone. God had made his presence known, and now the success of what lay ahead seemed almost preordained. Sarie van Keuren, the person most qualified to stabilize and weaponize the parasite, had been delivered to him.

  * * *

  Jon Smith opened his eyes, watching the vague shapes around him slowly coalesce into a stone ceiling, rusted bars, and primitive lab beyond. He still didn’t have the strength to get up, and he let his head loll toward the motionless body of Peter Howell next to him.

  “Peter. Are you all right?”

  The blow to the back of the old soldier’s head had been vicious enough that Smith suspected he might never wake up.

  “Peter. Can you—”

  A low moan came from the man and then something that may have been words.

  “What? Did you say something?”

  When he spoke again, his voice had gained strength. “The easiest fifty grand you ever made…”

  Smith hadn’t quite managed to sit fully upright when a piercing scream sounded. The jolt of adrenaline didn’t do much more than amplify the pounding in his head, and he scooted instinctively away from the bars, scanning for the source of the terrible sound.

  About ten feet away, a woman was imprisoned in a similar cell built into the opposite wall of the cave. Smith watched through a curtain of blood-smeared plastic as she stretched her arm through the bars, looking like she’d be willing to break every bone in her body to get to them.

  “You’re awake.”

  Smith turned sluggishly toward the voice, struggling to focus on an old man wearing a canvas apron that looked like it had spent the last fifty years in a slaughterhouse.

  “Where’s Sarie?”

  “Who?” the man said.

  Smith used the depressingly solid-feeling bars to pull himself to his feet while Howell assessed the damage that had been done to the back of his head.

  “Sarie van Keuren. She was with us.”

  “I don’t know.”

  The man clearly wasn’t one of Bahame’s henchmen — he was too white, too old, and, based on his speech, too well educated.

  “Who are you?”

  “Me?” he said, looking a bit startled by the question. “Thomas De Vries. I’m a retired doctor who was kidnapped to keep a man alive so Bahame could kill him. Then I was put in here and told to find a way to keep a brain parasite alive outside the body so it could be transported.”

  “Did you succeed?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not a scientist. And even if I was, I wouldn’t do it.” He pointed to the infected woman, who had tired a bit, but not so much that she’d completely given up trying to get through the bars. “Bahame keeps the infection alive by passing it on to successive victims. You’re in the holding tank now. When she starts to die, you’ll be put in with her. And when you start to die, your friend will be. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s just outstanding,” Howell said as Smith grabbed him under the arm and helped him to his feet. “Tell me, mate. Is there any way—”

  He fell silent at the sound o
f approaching footsteps, and De Vries ran to a plywood-and-cinderblock table, where he tried to look busy.

  The man who entered a few moments later wasn’t the one Smith expected. He was clearly Middle Eastern, and despite filthy, sweat-stained clothing, he had a strange air of meticulousness. When Smith mentally cleaned him up, there was something familiar. He’d seen the face before.

  “Colonel Smith, Mr. Howell. I have to say I’m surprised you were captured so easily.”

  The Persian accent was the final piece he’d needed. “Slumming a bit, aren’t you, Omidi?”

  The man smiled. “Well done, Colonel. Of course, my presence wouldn’t be difficult to predict. Someone has to stop America’s bioweapons division from getting hold of this parasite and using it against the Muslim people.”

  “You and Bahame make an excellent team,” Howell commented. “What’s the old saying? Two peas in a pod?”

  Omidi ignored the insult, secure in the knowledge that he had the upper hand. “How much does the American government know about what’s happening here?”

  “It’s not going to be that easy,” Smith said.

  “No, I suppose not. But it doesn’t really matter. You’ve run out of time.”

  Footsteps again echoed through the chamber, and Smith counted them, trying to add an estimate of their distance from the cave entrance to the things he’d put together about their surroundings: The bars were solid despite some surface rust, and the lock was modern. Much of the equipment in the lab could be used to cut flesh, but there seemed to be nothing that could be used effectively on steel. The old doctor was certainly an asset but had neither the temperament nor the physical ability to do anything heroic. In the end, Omidi was probably right. Their time had run out.

  Sarie appeared first, stumbling into the chamber in a way that suggested she’d been pushed. One of her sleeves was soaked through with blood and her eyes were red and swollen, but beyond that she seemed unharmed.

  Caleb Bahame came in behind her and, with the exception of some graying at the temples, looked exactly like the twenty-five-year-old photos Star had included in the dossier she’d prepared.

  Howell moved suddenly to the bars, wrapping his fingers around them and glaring at the African as he walked casually to the center of the chamber.

  “Peter Howell,” he said. “It’s been many years. You look sick and weak.”

  Bahame saw the surprise on Smith’s face and smiled. “Did Peter not tell you? We are old acquaintances. He killed many of my men. Many of my flock.”

  “You had a lot to cower behind,” the Brit responded.

  “They love me. They understand who I am. What I am.”

  “And what is that, exactly?” Smith said, but Bahame ignored him.

  “You know, I hired a man in America to come for you, Peter. It’s unprecedented. You should be flattered to command the attention of a man like myself.”

  “I remember,” Howell said. “If you’d ever like to visit him, he’s buried out by my shed.”

  Bahame’s smile widened. “You must be very anxious to hear what happened to Yakobo. He was a very fine boy and became a very fine soldier. You’ll be happy to know that I eventually found some of his family. An aunt, I believe. I told him to rape her and then burn her alive, though he certainly didn’t need my encouragement. He enjoyed himself very much.”

  Howell yanked powerfully enough on the bars to cause dirt to shower down on them.

  Bahame laughed. “But now God has delivered you to me. Just as he promised he would. I will very much enjoy dealing with you.”

  “Do it now,” Omidi said, speaking for the first time since the African entered.

  “In good time.”

  “Not in good time. Now. They’re of no use to us. Keeping them alive is an unnecessary risk.”

  The African waved a hand dismissively, obviously wanting to savor the sensation of having Howell completely at his mercy. “I said in good time. I’ll use the whites to keep the spirits alive. To show my people that no one can stand against my magic.”

  “We have an agreement. We—”

  “An agreement? How do prisoners that I captured enter into our agreement?”

  “I’m the one who gave you their location. It was my source in the American—”

  “God told me their location. You were just a convenient messenger.”

  He grabbed Sarie by the hair and pulled her to him. She was smart enough not to fight but drew the line at hiding her hatred.

  “And now I have the woman. Maybe I don’t need you anymore, eh, Mehrak?”

  It was clear that Omidi understood the weakness of his position. Bahame was a mystic and a psychopath, but he had enough of an understanding of biology to know how useful Sarie could be in making the parasite a more practical weapon.

  “Perhaps we could strike a bargain for her,” Omidi said.

  Bahame looked vaguely insulted. “She isn’t part of our deal and I can make use of her myself.”

  “Of course you are right,” Omidi said, his tone softening into something that approached subservience. “But we have the facilities to put her skills fully to use. Certainly there is room for negotiation.”

  The African nodded. “There’s always room for negotiation between good friends. Come, let’s drink and we can talk of this more.”

  47

  Outside Washington, DC, USA

  November 25—1244 Hours GMT–5

  The crunch of icy gravel sounded impossibly loud as Randi walked toward a small cabin tucked into the woods about ten miles from the nearest asphalt. The drive there had offered no opportunity for escape, and the situation wasn’t getting any better. Her captors were a good ten feet behind her, one thirty degrees left and the other thirty degrees right, staying close to the tree line.

  The chances of her making a break and getting to cover without catching a bullet seemed to be hovering somewhere between slim and none. It would have been an easy shot for someone half as good as the people covering her. But even if by some miracle they did miss, that left her running unarmed through the snow in heels and a skirt.

  Randi stopped at the front door and glanced back, unsure what to do. The woman, who looked much more sleek after shedding the elaborate foam belly, motioned her inside.

  The trees were tantalizingly close, and Randi focused longingly on them in her peripheral vision before reaching for the knob. At this point she just had to keep breathing long enough for someone to make a mistake. Not a great strategy, but the only one currently available.

  There was a green-wood fire crackling to her right as she entered, and she couldn’t help reveling for a moment in the heat coming off it. The galley kitchen at the back of the cabin was separated from the main living area by a granite-topped island, and there was a man standing next to the sink working on something she couldn’t see. He was a little less than six feet tall, with thinning hair and a suit that apparently had a healthy fear of irons.

  “Randi,” he said, glancing up at her. “I’ll be right with you. Pour us some wine.”

  There was a carafe on a coffee table near the fireplace, and she examined the odd way the light played off it and the two glasses next to it. Plastic. A quick sweep of the room confirmed that any object more dangerous than a soft cushion had been removed.

  The man came around the counter and slid a plate of cheese and fruit onto the table before settling into one of the sofas surrounding it. “Please. Sit.”

  He didn’t look even mildly athletic, but behind his glasses his eyes were sharp — a little sharper than she would have liked. The intelligence didn’t just reflect there; it glowed.

  Still devoid of options, she took a seat across from him and poured. He reached for a glass and took a careful sip, nodding approvingly. “I was afraid it might be a little past its prime, but I’m happy to say I was wrong. Please don’t let it go to waste. If I wanted you dead or unconscious, you already would be.”

  It was hard to argue with his logic, and she put
the plastic glass to her lips. Credit where credit was due. The man knew wine.

  “First let me apologize for the melodrama. You’re being watched by a surprising number of people, and not all of them are from my organization. We had to make the switch quickly enough that no one would notice.”

  “Your organization?” Randi said.

  The man frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. My name is Fred Klein.”

  Randi took another sip of wine, processing the name impassively.

  “Can I assume you’ve heard of me?”

  “There was a Fred Klein who worked for a while at the CIA and then spent years at the NSA. After leaving there, though, I don’t know what happened to him.”

  “Oh, he did a bit of this and that — finally culminating in our meeting.”

  “I see,” she said, not bothering to hide her skepticism. She’d never met Fred Klein personally, and there was no way to confirm this was him. It was an intriguing claim, though. He had a serious reputation in the intel community, and the suddenness of his resignation from the government had led to more than a little speculation in the circles she ran in.

  “You left Jon Smith a message a few days ago,” he said. “I mentioned it to him and he was concerned.”

  Smith. Still popping up in the oddest places.

  “It was nice of him to be worried, but it was just a personal call about my sister. Do you know where he is? I’d like to connect with him.”

  “Unfortunately, he and I recently lost touch.”

  “That’s a shame. Well, I’ll try to catch up with him when he gets back. Thanks for the wine. Any chance I could get a ride home?”

  Klein smiled and stabbed at a piece of cheese with a toothpick. “Do you know where Jon is?”

  “No idea.”

  “So I should just chalk it up to coincidence that you booked a ticket to Cape Town for tomorrow?”

  “My compliments. You’re extraordinarily well-informed.”

  “I have to admit to a little luck on that one. I’ve had occasion to do business with the same Czech forger you used to have that passport made. But, unfortunately, Jon’s no longer in South Africa.”