The Widow's Strike pl-4

by Brad Taylor

  “This isn’t a discussion. Get her home.”

  “Sir, she’s the only one who knows what the carrier looks like. If they think she might be infected, they have to know the carrier is — and Jennifer is currently the only human being on the planet who can spot her.”

  “Look, Pike, I won’t let her get hurt.”

  I said, “I know you won’t. I’m not so sure about everyone else. But even you will get her locked up to prevent her from spreading a disease on the off chance she’s contagious. A virus that she doesn’t have.”

  He clenched a fist and pounded the table. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but we follow orders. Get her ass home or turn over the team to Knuckles and let them do it.”

  I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Still staring at the screen, looking Kurt in the eyes, I raised my voice. “Knuckles. Get in here.”

  Kurt’s face showed surprise. Speaking to him, I said, “You people have lost your minds. I’m not bringing her home to a bunch of handwringers who can’t even decide what the danger is. People who are willing to kill a civilian even when they don’t think she’s a threat. You think I’m going to trust them with Jennifer’s life?”

  The door opened, and Knuckles said, “What’s up?”

  I stood. “The commander would like to talk to the new team leader.”

  58

  I sat in the anteroom of our makeshift TOC, waiting for the conversation to play out in the bedroom.

  Blood was the only other teammate around. He looked at me quizzically but had the presence of mind not to ask any questions. He saw my expression and was content to toy with the bandage on his arm.

  I went through the data on the table, absently flipping through the myriad of different leads we had been following. I saw the forensics report off Ernie’s phone, the one that Knuckles had retrieved from the bushes after he’d used it to bait us.

  The report had taken time to compile and we hadn’t been able to focus on it until after my weird meeting with the general. The numbers in it had proven useless. All of them were tied to cell phones we already knew, with the exception of one: Ernie had called a number that hadn’t spiked, but he had hung up before it connected. In essence, it was just an entry in his call log, with no corresponding cellular data.

  The number was very close to one of the others we’d been tracking. Outside of the country code — which was for Iran — it was only two digits off from another cell phone we already had. After it had come up empty yesterday the analysts had decided that it was a misdial. That Ernie, in his panicked state, had botched the call, then realized it before it connected. But you never knew. Just because it wasn’t panning out here didn’t mean we needed to throw it away.

  I folded up the paper and put it in my pocket just as Knuckles entered the room. He looked like he’d been forced to drink sour milk. He even looked a little green.

  He said, “You know what he told me.”

  “Yeah. And it’s not going to happen. That’s the only reason I waited here. To tell you that. Let it go. I’m taking Jennifer with me and flying commercial.”

  “Pike… I can’t let you do that. Don’t make this any worse than it is. Kurt says you can be with her every step of the way.”

  “I believe Kurt. I truly do, but he’s not in charge there. He can say that all he wants, right up until he has to tell me the plan’s changed.”

  “Come on, Pike. Nobody’s going to hurt her. You act like we’re the damn Iranians. You’re talking about the United States government. They aren’t going to do anything harmful to her.”

  I shook my head. “Knuckles, they were going to leave you to rot in Thailand. You. The government isn’t automatically good. I’m sure every Japanese-American believed the government’s words, right up until we threw them into a camp in World War Two.”

  “Jesus, Pike! What the hell are you talking about? World War Two? You can’t compare this to what we did then. The threat was overwhelming. We had Pearl Harbor for God’s sake.”

  I stood up, closing the distance to him. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. It’s not my judgment that’s clouded. It’s theirs, because the threat is overwhelming, and they’re too blind to see that Jennifer is the only one who can prevent it from becoming real.”

  He held up his hands, trying to calm me down. “Pike, we don’t get to make our own orders. Let’s get back and get her checked out. The president will be up on his feet in a few days. He won’t let anything happen, and honestly, they have a point. We can’t just wait to see if she makes someone sick.”

  “She’s not going to make anyone sick, damn it!”

  Unbidden, his comment sent a thought spearing through my brain like a flashlight in a dark room, illuminating the answer on the wall.

  Without a word, I stormed out of the suite. I was four doors away from Jennifer’s quarantine room when Knuckles caught up with me.

  “What are you doing?”

  I reached the door and banged on it, shouting, “Open up.”

  I heard, “What do you want? You can’t come in, Pike.”

  “Open this door, right now.”

  She cracked it and said, “Pike, please. Go away.”

  Knuckles stumbled back when her face appeared, showing me he believed she was a threat.

  I said, “You’re not sick. You said so today.”

  She said, “Yeah, but—”

  I pushed open the door and closed in on her. “Kiss me.”

  “What?”

  I wrapped my arm around her waist and jerked her to me. She fought, turning her head and screaming, “Pike, no! What the hell are you doing?”

  I closed my other hand around the back of her head and prevented her from moving. I kissed her full on the lips, holding it until I was sure, her squirming to get out of my grasp. I let her go and she sprang away like an animal, slamming her fists against me, her face wild.

  Knuckles stood outside the door, flabbergasted.

  I said, “You want to try to stop me, go ahead, but remember, if Jennifer’s a carrier, I’m now fucking highly contagious.”

  59

  Patrick Rathbone awoke with a splitting headache. Not entirely unusual, but the size of the pain was a little out of the ordinary. Called “Bone” by his friends, he spent most nights drinking more than he should.

  He staggered to his feet, kicking the clothes from the night before in his small, one-bedroom apartment. He put his hands to his head, attempting to quell the raging hammers pounding his skull.

  I really need to stop the boozing. At least on weeknights.

  Four years out of college, he was still trying to find his way. With a degree in finance, he liked to tell everyone at home that he worked on Wall Street. Which, technically, he did.

  He’d tried to enter the world of money but had failed. Like a hayseed blonde taking a bus to Hollywood, he’d expected to make his way on his charisma alone and found the job market not exactly embracing him. You needed an in from someone already there. Or, lacking that, a skill that few possessed. He had neither, and now he was a special assistant to an equities trader he longed to emulate. But getting coffee and dry cleaning wasn’t the way to break through.

  He knew that, of course, but like souls everywhere, he toiled away believing that tomorrow he’d get started on his life. He’d allowed the bonfire of his earlier ambition to die down to a smattering of embers, along with his circle of friends, who were just as lost as he was. All living in the Big Apple but none tasting the fruit that was promised.

  Today, he needed to get his ass to work before he was fired for not showing up with a triple latte.

  He staggered to his sliver of a bathroom, his head splitting open in pain. He placed both hands on the counter and stared bleary-eyed into the mirror, shocked at what he saw.

  His eyes looked like the sign of the devil. Red orbs staring back, crisscrossed with veins, scaring him.

  Jesus Christ. What did I drink last night?

  In truth,
he hadn’t tied one on hard for two days, when that hot Eastern European girl had said she’d give him a blow job. Of course, that bitch had left him hanging.

  He took a shower, hoping it would make him feel better. By the time he was done, he felt worse. Like the hangover to end all hangovers. He staggered to his small dresser and began dragging out clothes, losing track of what he was trying to do.

  He pulled on his socks, feeling like he was walking dead. He shook his head, focused on getting to work. On saving his job. He took two steps toward his tiny sliding closet and fell to his knees, the pain in his head overpowering. A wave of nausea overcame him. He spewed vomit for a full ten seconds, then began hacking and wheezing. He crawled through the bile, his stomach clenching over and over, a small part of him incongruously embarrassed at the mess.

  A larger part spiked in fear. He knew something was wrong. This wasn’t the drinking. He crawled to the phone, oblivious to the strings of phlegm trailing from his nose and joining the stream of puke dripping from his mouth. He dialed 911.

  By the time they answered, he was unconscious.

  60

  Malik stood on the corner of East Forty-Fifth Street, ostensibly waiting for the light to change, but in reality assessing everything around the United Nations Plaza, the East River just beyond.

  The phalanx of NYPD vehicles up and down the avenue fronting the plaza caused a small bit of concern, but he knew it was just business as usual. The building was constantly barraged with people protesting one event or another, warranting a heavy police presence.

  With no Iranian embassy in the United States, Malik needed a secure location to meet his contact, and the UN provided that venue. As much as the two nations hated each other, the United States still allowed a robust delegation from the Persian state to represent Iranian interests inside the United Nations. One such man, embedded in this delegation, was his contact.

  Malik crossed the street, acting exactly like the plethora of foreign tourists wandering the plaza. He stopped at a sculpture of a revolver with its barrel twisted in a knot, using the time for a final survey before passing through security. Nothing stood out. Bored patrol officers leaning against vehicles, a Korean family taking pictures of the imposing building fronted by a row of flags, a young European couple reading a plaque.

  He had planned on waiting a minute or two longer before going inside, until the Korean turned his camera on the sculpture, with Malik in the frame. He sidestepped the Korean, then walked to the entrance. Passing through the metal detector, he felt sweat break out on his neck from an irrational fear that it would pick up the glass vial inside his pocket.

  It did not. Collecting his phone, the guards barely giving him a glance, he wandered into the tourist area, weaving through various displays, giving each the requisite attention before moving on. He burned off another five minutes in this manner, working his way to a stairwell.

  He checked his watch, then descended, following the signs to the coffee shop on the lower level. Servicing both UN staffers and the visiting tourists, it was the perfect location to meet.

  He passed the gift shop and entered the little snack bar, glancing casually around as he walked to the counter. He did a double take when his scan passed the meeting location. At the corner table was the cleric who had met him in Hong Kong.

  Not a good sign.

  He purchased a Danish and some tea, using the time to assess. If they were going to pull him back, they would have simply called him on the phone the cleric had passed in Hong Kong and ordered him to come home instead of allowing him to travel to New York.

  Feeling somewhat better, he approached, waiting for a pack of children to pass before speaking.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, but I’m pleased at the attention.”

  “Don’t be. It’s because I allowed you to continue in Hong Kong. I now bear some responsibility for the debacle that’s occurred. I don’t intend for there to be a second one.”

  So, he’s under fire now. Good. He has a vested interest in success. Malik thought about pointing out that it was the cleric’s juvenile team that had caused the problem but knew it would be suicide. No sense in poking the lion in the eye. He decided on groveling — and lying.

  “I feel the same way you do. It was not the result I wanted, but it did accomplish its purpose. The team that was following me has lost the trail.”

  He had no intention of mentioning his encounter in Macau. The Black Widow had escaped and was even now headed to the target, so there was no reason.

  The cleric mocked him. “‘Not the result’? ‘Not the result’? Do you realize we lost an entire team in Hong Kong?” Waving a hand around the room, the cleric continued. “The Chinese are keeping this bloated organization from doing anything militarily in our country, and now they have a group of our men under arrest. They are already screaming in diplomatic cables. Do you know what will happen if your ‘result’ causes them to rethink their position on Security Council resolutions?”

  Malik said nothing, having not considered the second- and third-order effects of the failed mission inside China.

  The cleric continued. “If that happens, both you and I will never see the light of day again.”

  Malik saw his opening. Saw that the cleric wanted success to quell the failure he’d sanctioned. Needed success. He said, “I was willing to forfeit myself for this mission because I believe in it. I’m sorry to include you as well. In the end, the ‘debacle,’ as you call it, is done. I can’t change it, but we can press forward. Stopping now will garner nothing. The Chinese will do what they are going to do regardless. In fact, the mission may be the only thing that tamps down any reaction to the events in Hong Kong. With the ensuing pandemic in the United States and the fear of its spread, the arrests will be forgotten.”

  “Maybe,” the cleric said. “Where do we stand?”

  Malik was secretly pleased at the word we in his question. “The Black Widow is carrying the virus and is headed to the target.”

  “When does it leave?”

  “Three days. I went to her hotel room yesterday and left her instructions, along with her tickets. She will be there in plenty of time.”

  “And you’re still sure this is the best way? Maybe we should redirect her to a target here, inside the United States.”

  “No. We need to infect as many people as possible, in the absence of major hospital support. If she does it like she is instructed, the entire target will empty before anyone realizes they’re carriers. They’ll fly to a hundred different places and then begin infecting each location. It is the only way.”

  The cleric nodded. “Okay. Maybe we’ll continue. Now, what about the vaccine? I’m under specific orders to bring it back. We need to replicate it immediately.”

  Malik pulled the vial from his pocket and said, “Here it is. There is enough material left to duplicate, although it will take some time for our scientists to do so.”

  “Are you sure it works?”

  Malik lied, “As sure as I can be. The doctor said it was the final trial and, unlike the other ones, was the first that had worked. Our scientists should be able to prove it.”

  “I’m wondering if we hold off until that’s done. Wait until we can be sure it works. We have no rush.”

  No, no, no. Malik had wondered what he would say if this most obvious question was asked and now was glad of what had happened in Hong Kong. “If we wait, we run into the Chinese dilemma. It will take them days to formulate a response, but we know it’s coming. Those are days we do not have. It could take weeks to extrapolate this material into enough vaccine to inoculate our population. We can build that buffer simply by preventing entry of any westerner. Let the virus consume them while we work.”

  Malik watched the cleric consider the statement, hoping he was truly worried about the Chinese repercussions, along with having no knowledge of what it took to develop a vaccine. He pressed ahead, as if the decision was already made.

  “The contact her
e was supposed to pass me the information for our friends in Venezuela. For the explosives. Did you get that word?”

  Snapped out of his thoughts, the cleric pushed an envelope across the table. “Yes. It’s all in here. Explosives, a boat, and a crew. They don’t know where they are going.”

  “That’s fine. They don’t need to.” Malik placed the original cell phone the cleric had given him on the table. “One other thing: My new passport is from Bahrain, but this phone is tied to a carpet company in Iran. I didn’t mind carrying it in the Far East, but inside the United States it’s asking for trouble. I didn’t want to answer it this morning when my contact called, but I did because you ordered me to. I need another, clean phone. I’ll get it myself and send you the number.”

  “You think the Americans are attempting to track it? That they are locked on to you now?”

  Malik held up his hands to assuage him. “No, not yet, but I’ve learned never to be lazy. While I’m sure I’ve lost the team completely, they were sent by someone, and those people won’t quit. They know someone has the virus. I just want to make sure they’re attempting to find the wrong person.”

  61

  Chip Dekkard relished his new role as a referent leader inside the Oversight Council. Up until the current crisis, he could have counted on one hand the number of times he had even opened his mouth. Now he had people like the secretary of state, the director of the CIA, and the secretary of defense hanging on his every word. He originally had signed the nondisclosure agreements for the council simply because the president had asked, in his heart eschewing working for the government and its bloated, inefficient mechanisms. Now he could see how the power was intoxicating, but he still remembered the stakes, which were higher for him than for anyone in the room.