“Where did Sophia go?”
The professor's frown deepened. He leaned back, thinking. At last, he decided, “Peru.”
Excitement made Peter's pale blue eyes luminous. “Did she talk about it when she got back?”
Johns shook his head. “Not that I remember. But everyone who goes has to write a report.” He stood up. “I should have it here.” And just like that he casually walked out of the room.
Peter's heart thudded against his chest excitedly. At last, he had gotten what seemed to be a break. He moved to the edge of his chair as the professor talked to himself in the next room. Drawers opened and slammed closed.
Then a triumphant “Ah-ha!”
Peter jumped to his feet, as Johns returned, thumbing through a stapled document. “When I was chairman, I kept them all. They are a useful body of work to draw from for motivating the lower-year classes.”
“Thank you.” The words were inadequate. Barely suppressing his eagerness, Peter took the undergraduate paper and sat in the closest chair. He read through it, and… there it was. He blinked, not quite believing his eyes. Then he read again, memorizing each word: “I encountered a fascinating group of natives called the Monkey Blood People. Some biologists from the States were studying them when we passed through. It seems like a fascinating field. There are so many illnesses in the tropics that it could be a life's work to help cure them.”
No names. Nothing specific about the virus. But had she remembered Peru when she was given the unknown virus to work with?
Peter stood up. “Thank you, Professor Johns.”
“Is that what you wanted?”
“It just might be,” Peter said. “May I keep it?”
“Sorry. Part of my archives, you know.”
Peter nodded. It did not matter; he had committed it to memory. He said a quick good-bye and headed out into the dark, cold night, which for the first time seemed friendlier. He trotted uphill toward the university, where he knew he would find a pay phone.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
12:06 A.M., Thursday, October 23
Wadi al-Fayi, Iraq
The Syrian Desert was cold and silent, and the stink of diesel seemed oppressive inside the canvas-covered truck. Next to the tailgate, Jon and Randi listened for more gunfire. Behind them lay the two unconscious policemen who had been guarding them, while outside some new, unknown force besieged them.
Tense and alert, Smith dropped into a crouch, cradling his confiscated AK-47. He pulled Randi down next to him. She swung her Kalashnikov around so she was ready to shoot, too. They peered outside through cracks where the canvas flap closed against the sides of the truck.
“All I can see are streaks of fire and moving silhouettes,” he said, disgusted. Sweat coated his face. Time seemed to pass with aching slowness.
“That's what I see, too. The light from the other truck's too glaring.”
“Damn!”
They dropped the flap. Abruptly, the noise of fighting ceased. The cold night was menacingly quiet. The only sound was the raspy breathing of the two Iraqi guards lying unconscious on the floor in the eerie glow from the headlamps of the other vehicle.
Jon looked at Randi, who turned just at that moment. He frowned. She shook her head. Her face was pinched. He saw fear in her eyes, then she moved her gaze.
His chest tightened. Only the truck's canvas walls and their confiscated Kalashnikov rifles stood between them and whatever peril waited outside.
He told her, “We'll open fire. We've got no choice.”
“As soon as they're close enough.”
From the desert, a voice bellowed in Arabic at them, “Everyone has surrendered! Throw out your guns and follow with your hands up!”
Quickly Randi translated for Jon. She added grimly, “Sounds like the Republican Guard.”
Smith nodded. In the hovering silence, his gaze narrowed. He was not going to just sit and wait to be executed. He inched back the flap. In the slit he could see a trio of black silhouettes, their guns aimed at the truck where he and Randi hunched.
“I can get three,” Jon decided. “Perfect targets. Problem is, who are they? And where are the others?”
She rose up and peered out through the narrow opening above his head. The heat of her body warmed the chill around him.
“We may have to kill them anyway,” she said grimly. “We've got to get this information about the virus out of Iraq. Concentrate on their legs. What's a few shattered femurs compared to what's at stake?”
He nodded sober agreement and slid the nose of his AK-47 out. He wrapped his finger over the trigger, prepared to fire, and―
Suddenly, a voice boomed: “Russell!”
Jon and Randi stiffened. They gazed at each other, shocked.
“Are you in there, Russell?” the voice yelled in English. Very American English. “If you and the U.N. guy have taken out the guards, give me a shout. Otherwise, you're not likely to leave there without a lot of birdshot in your carcasses!”
Randi inhaled with excitement. She squeezed Jon's shoulder. “I know who he is, thank God.” She raised her voice. “Donoso? Is that you, pig breath?”
“No one else, little lady.”
“We almost killed you, you fool!”
Jon spoke in a low, quick voice. “Don't tell them who I really am. Use the U.N. cover. He already believes it, or he wouldn't have identified me that way. If the U.S. Army gets its hands on me for being AWOL…” He let the words hang in the air. He knew she understood the inevitable result: He would be stopped from pursuing the people who had killed Sophia. “Randi? Will you do that?”
She turned her angry, blazing eyes onto him. “Of course.”
He had to trust her, which suddenly made him very nervous. Together they raised the canvas that overlay the tailgate. Jon shot her a worried look as a short, swarthy man in desert camos came around from the side. He had the firm face and bunched muscles of someone religious in his fitness training. Carrying a cocked 9mm Beretta, he peered beyond them and their Kalashnikovs to the wounded policemen sprawled in the back of the truck.
He grinned approval. “Nice job. Two less for us to deal with.”
Smith and Randi jumped down, and Randi pumped Donoso's hand. “Always interesting, Donoso. This is Mark Bonnet.”
Jon exhaled, relieved, as she introduced him under the alias.
She gave him a polite smile, then returned to focus on Donoso. “Mark's here with a medical mission. Mark, meet Agent Gabriel Donoso. How the hell did you find us, Gabby?”
“Doc Mahuk called as soon as they grabbed you. Then one of our assets picked up the truck crossing the Tigris.” His gaze swept the night. “I'd love to catch up on old times, but someone could've heard the gunfire. We'd better do a fast fade.” He peered speculatively at Jon. “U.N. medical mission, huh?”
“CIA, I take it.” Jon shook his hand and smiled. “My personal appreciation for the CIA grows by the instant.”
Donoso nodded sympathetically. “Looks like you two have had a rough time.”
As Donoso led them around the truck, Jon saw an old Soviet BMP1 troop carrier whose sides had been stenciled with Republican Guard markings. Ruts showed where it had first been angled to block the road. Now its headlights shone directly onto the canvas-covered police truck. Sitting on the light desert soil with their backs against it were the surviving Baghdad policemen and their officer, who was bleeding from a shoulder wound and no longer sported his tariq pistol. Standing sentry were two CIA agents who might easily pass for Iraqis.
“Do you know what they were planning to do with us?” Smith asked Donoso.
“Yup. Get you deep out in the middle of nowhere, kill you, and hide your corpses where not even the Bedouins would dream of looking.”
Jon raised his eyebrows. He exchanged a look with Randi. It was no surprise.
Donoso said, “I need those Kalashnikovs, Mr. Bonnet. Both of them, little lady.”
As Randi and Jon handed over their weapons, Ran
di explained to Jon, “Donoso's an unrepentant male chauvinist pig. He knows better, but he just doesn't care. So he calls me little lady, or girlie, or sweetie-pie, or any other demeaning cliché he can dredge up from his rather ordinary redneck background.”
Donoso grinned widely. “She sticks to `pig breath.' She's got great legs but a limited imagination. Let's go. Into the carrier.”
“A limited imagination? Hey, I'm the one who saved your butt in Riyadh. Where's your respect?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Whoops. That occasion slipped my mind.” He added their AK-47s to a pile of other weapons taken from the Iraqi policemen. “See your guns in there?”
Jon quickly located his Beretta, while Randi dug around until she uncovered her Uzi. Donoso nodded approval and scrambled up into the carrier. Smith and Randi followed.
As they found places to sit, Jon nodded back at the prisoners. “What are you going to do about the Iraqis?”
“Nothing,” Donoso told him. “If they so much as hint about being out here on their own in a police truck, they'll get a fast trip to Saddam Hussein's gallows. No way are they going to breathe a word about what happened.”
Smith understood. “Which means they'd better have their own guns when they get back to headquarters.”
Donoso nodded. “You got it.”
While the prisoners glared up sullenly, the old troop carrier spun its treads into the parched soil and took off. Its speed increasing, the driver directed the big machine down the center of the narrow road that led deeper into the hard, rocky landscape. The moon was sinking in the west, while stars glimmered brightly above. Far ahead on the horizon were dry, rolling hills, black against an even blacker sky.
But Jon was watching behind. At last the Iraqis ran across the sand to the pile of guns and their truck. Now that the carrier was out of rifle range, they were safe to flee. Seconds later, their canvas-covered vehicle disappeared, raising mushroom clouds of light soil as it rushed back to Baghdad and, perhaps, survival.
“Where are we going?” Randi wanted to know.
“Old World War One outpost the Brits built,” Donoso answered promptly. “It's nothing but ruins now. A few tumbledown walls and desert ghosts. A Harrier will pick you up there at dawn and fly you out to Turkey.”
“They don't want me to stay on, pig breath?” Randi wanted to know.
Donoso shook his head with disgust. “No way, baby girl. This cute little caper has compromised you and damn near the whole operation.” His voice rose, and he glared again at Jon. “Hope it was worth it.”
“It was,” Jon assured him. “You have a family?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Why?”
“That's how important it is. With luck, you've just saved their lives.”
The CIA agent looked at Randi. When she nodded, he said, “Works for me. But you'll have some fast talking to do at Langley, kiddo.”
Randi asked, “You're sure a Harrier can take both of us?”
Donoso was all business. “Stripped, no missiles, one pilot. Not comfortable, but it can be done.”
The lumbering carrier continued on through the windswept desert. Moonlight shone down, casting an unearthly silver cloak over the rocky wadi. Meanwhile, everyone's eyes were alert. Without ever discussing it, their gazes surveyed all around, watching uneasily for more trouble.
* * *
The ruins were on the north side of the road. From the carrier, Smith studied them. The remnants of stone walls emerged like worn, gray teeth from the desert. Skeletal brush had blown against some, while a clump of thorny tamarisk grew nearby, indicating water flowed somewhere under the salty surface of this forbidding landscape.
Donoso ordered a man to stand guard in the Russian BMP, and the rest of the crew settled against the walls, wrapped in lightweight blankets to wait out the starry night. The dry air smelled of alkali, and everyone was weary. Some fell quickly asleep, their low snores lost in the sound of a whispering wind that rustled the tamarisk and kicked up little tornadoes among the loose particles on the desert floor. Neither Randi nor Jon was among the sleepers.
He was studying her where she lay in shadows against the old wall. His head resting on a rock, he watched emotion play her face as if it were a musical instrument. He remembered that about Sophia, too. What she felt, she showed. Not a particularly demonstrative man, he had enjoyed that gift. Randi was more guarded than Sophia, but then Randi was a professional operative. She had been trained into sanity-saving unemotionality in her job. But not tonight. Tonight he could tell she was feeling the burning loss of her sister, and he felt deeply for her.
Grieving, Randi closed her eyes, overwhelmed by sorrow. In her mind, she could see her older sister clearly ― the slender face, the softly pointed chin, and the long, satin hair pulled back into a ponytail. When the image of Sophia smiled, Randi fought back tears and hugged herself. I'm so sorry, Sophia. So sorry I wasn't there.
But suddenly a treasure trove of memories appeared from the past, and Randi went eagerly toward them, hoping for solace: Breakfasts were the best. She could smell again the comforting aroma of Maxwell House coffee and hear the cheerful chatter of their parents as she and Sophia ran downstairs to join them. Evenings brought picnics and panoramic sunsets across the Pacific Ocean so brilliant they pierced the soul. She remembered the fun of hopscotch and Barbie dolls, their father's silly jokes, and their mother's kind hands.
But what had dominated their childhoods had been the sisters' uncanny resemblance. From their earliest years, people remarked on it, while she and Sophia had taken it all for granted. They had been blessed with an unusual combination of genetic factors that had resulted in both being not blue-eyed, but brown-eyed blondes. Very dark brown eyes, almost black. Their mother had found it fascinating. So her daughters could view a parallel to their unusual coloring in nature, she had planted black-eyed Susans along the front of their hacienda in Santa Barbara, California. Every summer the cream-colored petals with the rich dark centers had erupted in fragrant color.
All of that had ignited Sophia's first interest in science, while the hacienda's breathtaking views of the Channel Islands and the immense Pacific had awakened in Randi a hunger to know what lay beyond the horizon. Her family had two homes ― the one in Santa Barbara and another on Chesapeake Bay in Maryland. A marine biologist, their father had traveled back and forth regularly, and she, her sister, and their mother had occasionally accompanied him.
Who knew at what point other lives became important? For Randi, it began with the constant feeling of being new herself, not only during the trips from coast to coast but to the Sea of Cortés, the Mediterranean, and the other distant locations that attracted her father's excited attention. Soon she grew comfortable exploring the unknown and meeting unfamiliar people. Then she enjoyed it. Finally she craved it.
A gift for languages had sent her on full scholarship to Harvard for bachelor's degrees in Spanish and government and then to Columbia for a master's in international relations. Everywhere she went, she took additional language courses until she was fluent in seven. It was at Columbia that the CIA recruited her. She had been a natural ― the tweed and contacts of an Ivy League education plus the wanderlust of a gypsy. But she had turned out to be a lackadaisical operative, doing only an adequate job while avoiding the tough assignments… until Mike died in Somalia.
Untouched by bullet or knife, an invisible virus had felled him in an ugly, painful end. Even now it brought a catch to her throat and a searing regret for what might have been.
That was when the inequities of life began to strangle her. Everywhere she looked, people were hungry, imperiled, lied to, or repressed. It outraged her. She had turned inward, and her work became the center of her life. Once she no longer had Mike, the only thing that mattered was making the world a better, safer place.
But she had not made the world safer for Sophia.
She inhaled, trying to calm her emotions. She forced herself to focus. She had a goal. She knew she woul
d never be able to like Smith and probably never to really trust him, but that no longer mattered.
She needed him.
She rose quietly, her blanket wrapped around her. She gazed around at the sleeping men. Carrying her Uzi, she crept across to where Jon lay. She stretched out beside him. He turned his head to look at her.
“You all right?” he asked quietly.
She ignored the kindness in his voice. She whispered, “Let's get one thing straight. I understand intellectually you didn't mean to kill Mike. Lassa is hard to tell from malaria at first, and it could've killed him anyway. But it might not have if you'd diagnosed it in time and gotten help.”
“Randi!”
“Shhh. I don't know that I'll ever be able to forgive you. You were too cavalier. Presumptuous. You thought you knew it all.”
“I was arrogant, yes. But I was mostly ignorant. So are most army doctors when it comes to rare tropical diseases.” He sighed wearily. “I was wrong. Fatally wrong. But it wasn't from not caring or being careless. I just didn't know. It's not an excuse, it's an explanation. Lassa is still mistaken for malaria. I tried to tell you Mike's death was the reason I transferred to USAMRIID, so I could become an authority on infectious diseases. It was the only way I could make up for what had happened ― make sure it never happened again to another army doctor. I'm so sorry he died, and I deeply regret the role I played in it.” He gazed at her. “Death is damnably final, isn't it?”
She heard the pain in his voice and knew he must be thinking about Sophia again. Part of her wanted to forgive him and put it all behind her, but she could not. Despite his contrition and efforts to make amends, he could still be the same old cowboy, galloping heedlessly through life as he pursued his private interests.
But right now that was irrelevant. “I have a proposition for you.”
He crossed his arms over his blanket and frowned. “Okay. Let's hear it.”
“You want to find out who killed Sophia, and so do I. I need your scientific knowledge to help me track the people behind the virus. You need my contacts and other abilities. Together we make a good team.”
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