The Genesis Plague Part 11

'How do I know that guy with the gun wasn't one of your men?'

'Definitely not one of ours,' he a.s.sured her. 'Our a.s.sa.s.sins are a h.e.l.luva lot better than that rookie. You'd have been dead, probably from a car bomb. Or at least a discreet discreet sniper shot,' he said after giving the logistics momentary consideration. sniper shot,' he said after giving the logistics momentary consideration.

'Thanks. That's comforting.'

'Hey, if you didn't notice, those bullets were coming in my direction too,' he reminded her. He pointed to his trashed stereo. 'Could've been my head instead of my CD player.'

'I suppose,' she relented. 'You know, you weren't exactly a marksman back there, either.'

He couldn't help but grin. This woman was definitely feisty. 'For the record, that's the first time I've ever had to fire a gun at something other than a range target. And in my defence, shooting with my left left hand while speeding in reverse hand while speeding in reverse on snow on snow wasn't in my training repertoire.' wasn't in my training repertoire.'

She curled her fingers to her lip and fought back the horrible thought of what the alternative outcome might have been had he not shown up. 'Thanks, I guess. I don't know what I'd have done if ...'

'You're welcome,' he replied humbly. 'Just glad the timing worked out.'

A pause.

'So what exactly is is your repertoire?' The words had bite, but she couldn't help it. your repertoire?' The words had bite, but she couldn't help it.

'I'm an information guy. Intelligence. Glorified desk jockey. I interrogate witnesses and suspects ... that sort of thing.'

'Sounds like you're a paid conversationalist.'

'Or a bulls.h.i.+t detector.' He smiled.

She tried to suppress a laugh, but failed. The adrenaline buzz was abating and her muscles were starting to go limp again. 'G.o.d, that was scary.'

'Amen, sister. That was wicked crazy back there.'

With Agent Flaherty's defences down, she noticed a much more p.r.o.nounced Boston accent. Running her fingers through her wet hair, she blew out a long breath. 'So now what? Are you supposed to protect me or something?'

'I'll have to see what the manual says ...'

'There's a manual?' she scoffed.

He shook his head and grinned.

She groaned in frustration.

'Our local office is next to the Federal Building downtown, near Faneuil Hall. We'll head there, figure out what to do.'

Brooke crossed her arms tight over her chest and stared out the frosty window.

'Look. Here's the deal. A colleague asked me to find you. He's a deep-cover operative in Iraq. He's the one who found your ID badge. I know that if he suspected you were in danger, he'd have told me.'

'How do I know he didn't call that guy too?'

'Not a chance,' he said.

'Well, someone wants me dead. And the timing can't be a coincidence. It's got to be someone in the military, right?' she insisted.

Flaherty said nothing, because on that point, he'd have to concur. It had him wondering who else besides Jason could possibly have known about Brooke's involvement in Iraq and and could also be capable of coordinating a kill order so quickly. Why now - could also be capable of coordinating a kill order so quickly. Why now - right right now - had she suddenly become a threat? now - had she suddenly become a threat?

'I remember reading the small print in my confidentiality agreement. I don't recall any mention of a.s.sa.s.sination as a means of recourse-'

'We need to find this Frank guy you were talking about. I need that e-mail address. I can run its profile, the host server ... find his IP address and trace him.' Flaherty dipped into his pocket, pulled out his BlackBerry. He keyed in his security code, tapped on the web browser and held it out for her. 'You said his address was on your computer, right?'

Staring at the device with narrow, incredulous eyes, she asked, 'Why didn't you just give this to me earlier if you needed his email address?'

'Basic psychology. I ask you for information, and your future response, your compliance or lack thereof, indicates your propensity to cooperate.'

'Or maybe you just wanted to give me your card so I'd call you. I have a bulls.h.i.+t detector too.' She took the BlackBerry and began finger-pecking the URL for Yahoo!.

He smiled. 'You always so shy?' But he saw that she'd suddenly become preoccupied with the BlackBerry.

'Huh. That's weird.'

'What?'

She tried logging into her e-mail account again. 'Says my username and pa.s.sword are invalid. Like my account is gone. That's impossible.'

Flaherty sighed. 'No, actually it's not.'

'What do you mean?'

He nodded. 'NSA. That's my guess.' He knew that telling her this wasn't smart, but he'd done it anyway.

'But they can't do that! I mean, who who can do that?' she protested. She felt violated. can do that?' she protested. She felt violated.

'Thirty thousand computer scientists and cryptographers under one roof in Fort Meade, dedicated to cracking data and voice communications can do just about anything when they have your number. Remember those geeks in high school, the computer hackers, videogame junkies, Dungeons and Dragons types? Imagine a building - a city - full of 'em.'

'G.o.d,' she groaned. 'I like videogames too,' she confessed. 'But I'm not snooping around people's private information.'

'You've got to have something else from this guy, right? A business card, a paycheque ...?'

She shook her head. 'No card. And the money was wire-transferred to my account.' Then she thought back to eavesdropping on the archaeologist who'd performed the carbon studies. 'Wait. There was this archaeologist who was at the cave when I was there. He was outside the cave, making a cell phone call. Something about test results on samples he'd sent out. I overheard him mention an AMS lab where he'd sent samples for testing.'

'AMS lab?'

'Accelerator Ma.s.s Spectrometer. The machine used for carbon-dating studies.'

'Remember the name of the place?'

She tried to recall, but couldn't. 'No. d.a.m.n.' Then she remembered something else. 'But there were other tests results he'd mentioned. Biological cultures or something. He was reading from a report that had an official seal on its cover. Some kind of insignia, I think. But it was weird, because I remember it had a symbol representing a DNA helix, or chromosomes. And it had a long acronym that began with USA ...'

Flaherty tightened up, fearing he knew what she meant. 'Did the insignia have a five-pointed star to the right of the helix and a circular symbol beneath it?' He tried tracing the layout in the air with his index finger to help her picture it.

She fished her memory. 'Not sure.'

He checked the mirror to ensure no one was shadowing him then pointed with his chin at the BlackBerry and said, 'Type in this web address.' He had to repeat the tricky URL three times before she got it right.

Once Brooke brought up the home page, she immediately recognized the insignia. 'Yeah, that's it! That's the insignia!' She held the BlackBerry out for him and pointed to it on the mini LCD screen.

For Flaherty, this was anything but good news. 'Great,' he grumbled.

There was a long acronym beside the insignia: USAMRIID. 'I remember the two "I's" in the name too,' she said. 'Reminded me of Roman numerals. Says here "United States Army Medical Research Inst.i.tute for Infectious Diseases".'

'Exactly,' Flaherty said. He let out another sigh. This a.s.signment was fast s...o...b..lling into something much bigger. 'Among other things, that's America's bio-weapons division.'

25.

IRAQ.

'What do you mean she got away?' Crawford snapped through the sat-com's microphone in a loud whisper. He practically bit the filter off the Marlboro that dangled between his lips.

'There was someone else there already. A detective, I think,' the caller replied.

'So?' He circled around the MRAP to avoid be overheard by the marines milling around the camp.

'I had her pinned down. Was moving in to finish her. The guy came out of nowhere. Took me down with his car, started shooting. He managed to take her away.'

The inept a.s.sa.s.sin's recap of what had transpired at the museum pushed Crawford's rage to the boiling point. 'Isn't that Jim-f.u.c.king-dandy,' Crawford spat. 'You listen to me, you incompetent sc.u.mbag ... You find her, you kill her. Or I'll have your head, you hear me?'

'I'm already tracking them. I'll take care of it.'

'You better be calling me real soon with good news.' He terminated the call. He pulled a long drag on the cigarette, then flicked it at a scorpion scurrying through the sand. Deliberating on how to inform Stokes about the mishap, he finally settled on sending a text message - short and sweet. The he shut the phone and slid it into the pocket of his flak jacket.

Who was this detective that beat them to the archaeologist? Only someone on the inside could have sent him. Maybe Stokes had something up his sleeve. Seemed unlikely, because, even though Stokes wasn't exactly the lucid soldier he'd known for so many years on the battlefield, he was no idiot. In fact, Stokes seemed h.e.l.l-bent on covering his tracks, as evidenced by the way he'd commenced countermeasures the moment the cave was infiltrated by the militants. Considering the fact that the woman's ID badge had been sitting next to Yaeger's computer left little doubt as to the true culprit.

Crawford bounded over to the command tent where Sergeant Jason Yaeger and his linebacker-sized tech were helping the marines prepare the recon robot. They were loading gas canisters into the rotary magazine of what resembled an oversized tommy gun mounted on the robot. Crawford stood back a minute, reined in his fury, and considered how to approach Yaeger. Unfortunately, this clever kid was no automaton - wouldn't be doing this kind of work if he was. Any guy who pa.s.sed the psych profile to go deep cover wouldn't be the type to back down or conform to protocol. If Yaeger had an agenda, he certainly wasn't going to divulge it. Autonomy was poisonous, thought Crawford. Especially on the battlefield.

'Yaeger,' Crawford finally called out.

The mercenary looked up. 'Yeah.'

'Need a moment with you, son.'

Jason handed the last gas canister to Meat, then went over to the colonel.

'Walk with me,' Crawford said, pacing away from the tent.

Jason kept step beside him.

'I need to know if you've spoken to anyone about what's happening here.'

Jason's response was forthright: 'You, air command ...'

'Don't be coy with me, Sergeant,' Crawford warned. He needed to be direct, without raising undue suspicion. 'Someone on the outside outside. Did you communicate with non-military, civilians perhaps?'

Jason was a master of reading between the lines. Best to answer him with a question. 'Why would I do that?' He could tell Crawford was unsure how to push the issue.

Crawford turned and tried to decipher Yaeger's gaze, but read nothing. 'Until we confirm exactly who's holed up in that cave, I want all communication running through me. I know you want this guy in there to be Al-Zahrani. But until we're absolutely certain, this operation has to be airtight. Let me have your sat-com.' He held out his hand.

Jason merely stared at the hand. 'You know I can't do that, Colonel.' He waited for the hand to go down, then looked deep into Crawford's hard eyes. 'No one is more sensitive to secrecy than me. Same with my men. We survive survive on trust. From what I see, none of your boys have surrendered equipment and it's far more probable that a leak or mole might exist in your platoon. Don't make me remind you that I'm accountable to a different authority. So if you have a concern, best for you to voice it. I don't like playing games. Especially not when the stakes are so high.' on trust. From what I see, none of your boys have surrendered equipment and it's far more probable that a leak or mole might exist in your platoon. Don't make me remind you that I'm accountable to a different authority. So if you have a concern, best for you to voice it. I don't like playing games. Especially not when the stakes are so high.'

Jason knew he struck a chord, because Crawford's jaw was jutting out again.

Folding his arms tight across his chest, Crawford shook his head like a disappointed parent. 'Yeah, the stakes are are high. Ten million high for you, isn't that right? Free agents like you don't get it, Yaeger,' he said with venom. 'True soldiers aren't motivated by a 401(k) plan and bonuses. And don't cry to me about your story, 'cause I've already heard it: how your brother died in the Towers and, instead of grieving, you dropped out of Dartmouth and did your time with the marines. This little vendetta of yours' - he twirled a finger up and down at Yaeger's outfit - 'seems too personal. One might say it compromises your objectivity.' high. Ten million high for you, isn't that right? Free agents like you don't get it, Yaeger,' he said with venom. 'True soldiers aren't motivated by a 401(k) plan and bonuses. And don't cry to me about your story, 'cause I've already heard it: how your brother died in the Towers and, instead of grieving, you dropped out of Dartmouth and did your time with the marines. This little vendetta of yours' - he twirled a finger up and down at Yaeger's outfit - 'seems too personal. One might say it compromises your objectivity.'

Jason kept his cool, and his distance. 'Since you've done your homework, you should know that my psych examination suggests otherwise,' he replied levelly. 'My profile shows that I approach my work quite clearly and without bias. Don't forget that I have people too. And I'm starting to feel that I need to check your your background.' He saw Crawford's jaw extend to the max. 'I called for backup. I didn't call for a d.i.c.k-measuring contest. Unless you'd like for me to file a formal complaint with the brigadier general, I suggest you start helping me. Stop talking to me like I'm your b.i.t.c.h.' background.' He saw Crawford's jaw extend to the max. 'I called for backup. I didn't call for a d.i.c.k-measuring contest. Unless you'd like for me to file a formal complaint with the brigadier general, I suggest you start helping me. Stop talking to me like I'm your b.i.t.c.h.'

Crawford let out an exasperated sigh, flashed a sardonic grin. 'Until we know what and whom we're dealing with up there' - but Stokes had already provided concise details - 'I'd appreciate it if you could not stir the hornets' nest, is all I'm saying.'

While staring into the colonel's s.h.i.+fty eyes, Jason counted to five to decompress. 'The bot's prepped and ready,' he replied calmly. 'I've got work to do.' He didn't wait to be dismissed - just sidestepped Crawford and strode to the tent.

26.

LAS VEGAS.

Randall Stokes stared at the computer screen wondering when Frank Roselli's elusive e-mail would make an appearance in his inbox.

'If you have something to say, Frank, let's get on with it,' he said to no one.

This morning's clean-up had Stokes's lower left eyelid twitching and his neck muscles quaking in spasm - his body's most recurrent stress valves. Even the skin on his hands was breaking out in an itchy rash. No doubt that was due to the message that had had turned up in his inbox: Crawford's blunt update concerning the botched kill order on the Boston mark. Normally, this wouldn't overly concern Stokes. Except this time the mysterious white knight who'd thwarted the a.s.sa.s.sin had been overheard asking the mark probing questions about Iraq. That the guy had a gun and managed to escape with the mark posed some serious questions concerning his motive and his employer. turned up in his inbox: Crawford's blunt update concerning the botched kill order on the Boston mark. Normally, this wouldn't overly concern Stokes. Except this time the mysterious white knight who'd thwarted the a.s.sa.s.sin had been overheard asking the mark probing questions about Iraq. That the guy had a gun and managed to escape with the mark posed some serious questions concerning his motive and his employer.

Three kill confirmations had already arrived: an archaeologist in Geneva, a biocontainment engineer in Munich, a micro-biologist in Moscow. No complications or interference. No interloper. Therefore, the archaeologist was an isolated problem that, in all probability, linked directly to the ID card the deep-cover unit found near the cave. That would soon be remedied too. But for now, Stokes mothballed his concerns.

Turning his attention back to the business at hand, Stokes brought up a new window and entered three pa.s.s keys in the software's prompt boxes. A chequerboard of live video feeds came on line, each shot glowing in eerie green monochrome. In all, sixteen closed-circuit cameras equipped with audio and infrared transmitted interior shots of the labyrinth via an encrypted digital signal bouncing through military satellites.

Fourteen cameras showed no movement - only still shots of winding pa.s.sageways walled by jagged rock glowing in emerald night vision. The scene on the cameras numbered '01-E' and '11-G', however, were far from static.

Stokes double-clicked the grid box for '11-G' and the video window enlarged on the screen. The live shot showed the five heavily armed Arabs funnelling single file through the tunnel, moving deeper into the mountain, still frantically searching for an alternative exit.

No such luck.

No one knew better than Stokes that the cave had only one accessible opening. Precisely the reason the ancient Mesopotamians and Stokes himself had chosen the site. After all, the lair's primary purpose was to contain evil, both then and now.