Black (16 page)

The man smiled, incredulous. “You're saying this came from a dream—”

“Not exactly,” Tom said. “An alternate reality. But let's forget that for a minute. Regardless of how I know, I do have specific knowledge of things that haven't happened yet. I knew that a French company was going to announce a vaccine called the Raison Vaccine before it was public knowledge. I also know that the Raison Vaccine will mutate under extreme heat and become quite deadly. It will infect the world's population in less than three weeks. All we're asking you to do is check it out. What's so complicated about that?”

Olsen looked from Tom to Kara and back. “So let me summarize here. A man walks into the building, begins to scream for help while choking himself, and then claims some bats have visited him in a dream and told him that the world is about to end—in what, three weeks?—when a vaccine overheats and turns into a deadly virus. Is that about it?”

“Three weeks
after
the virus is released,” Thomas clarified. Olsen ignored him.

“Are you aware that intense heat kills things like viruses, Mr. Hunter? Your warning is flawed on the surface, regardless of the source.”

Kara came to his defense again. “Maybe that's why Raison Pharmaceutical is ignorant of the problem, assuming they are. Maybe drugs aren't tested under extreme heat.”

“You're a nurse,” Olsen said. “You're buying all this dream nonsense?”

“Like Tom said, it's not necessarily dream nonsense. Just check it out, for goodness' sake!”

“How do you propose I do that? Send out a bulletin that announces the fuzzy white bats have issued a warning about the Raison Vaccine? Pretty clear case of defamation, don't you think?”

“Then explain to me how I knew that Joy Flyer was going to run in the Kentucky Derby,” Tom said.

Olsen shrugged. “Public information.”

“But it wasn't public that Joy Flyer was going to win,” Kara said. “Not two hours ago when I placed my bet.”

Tom faced her. “What bet?”

“Joy Flyer won?” Olsen said. He glanced at his watch. “You're right, the results should be in. You sure Joy Flyer won? He was a long shot.”

“You bet on Joy Flyer?” Tom demanded. “How much?”

“Yes, Tom, I did. And yes, he did win, long shot or not.”

“Bummer.” Olsen shook his head and looked out the window. “I had a thousand bucks on Winner's Circle.”

“You're missing the point,” Kara said. “Tom learned that Joy Flyer was going to win from the same source that gave him these details about the Raison Vaccine.”

“How much?” Tom asked again.

Olsen sighed. “None of this can be substantiated. For all I know, you didn't even bet on Joy Flyer. And if you did, you could be claiming to have been tipped off by some angel to substantiate this other story. For all I know, you have stock in Raison Pharmaceutical's competitor and are looking to trash Raison. I can't do a thing with this information except put it through the normal channels.”

“So you're dismissing it? Just like that?” Kara demanded.

“No, I said I'd report it.” Olsen sat up and straightened some papers. “You've made your report—I suggest you go collect your winnings.” He smiled condescendingly.

Kara stood abruptly. “You're a fool, Olsen. Don't you dare toss that report. If there's even a small chance that we're right, you could be messing with a very dangerous situation here. I just bet $15,000, most of my life savings, on a long shot named Joy Flyer because of what my brother knows. There's $345,000 sitting in an account with my name on it right now because I listened to him. I suggest you do the same.”

She marched to the door.

“Exactly!” Tom said, standing. Three hundred forty-five thousand?

The cab had waited as instructed.

“That's true? You really won that much?”

“If we paid off your debt to the boys in New York, do you think they'd leave us alone?”

“With a little interest, sure. You're serious?”

“You've bailed me out more than once.” She shrugged. “Now it's my turn. Besides, it's as much your money as mine.”

“Where to?” the driver asked.

Tom searched his sister's eyes. “Airport,” he said. Then to Kara, “Okay?”

“Where?” she asked.

“Bangkok. A flight leaves at ten. We no longer need visas, I checked.”

She stared at the back of the driver's seat. “Why not? Airport.”

“Airport it is.” The cab pulled out.

Tom nodded. “Okay, good. We don't have a choice, right?”

“Of course we don't ,” she said quietly. “We never have a choice with you, Thomas. Staying put isn't in your vocabulary.”

“This is different. We can't pretend this isn't happening.”

She looked out her window. “We need more information.”

“We will. I promise. As soon as I can fall asleep.”

“That should be when? Somewhere over the Pacific?”

13

C
arlos Missirian walked through Bangkok International Airport eight hours after Valborg Svensson had given him the order to come. The company's jet served him well. His mind retraced the conversation with the Swiss.

“Our man at the CDC received a nervous visitor today who claimed that the mutations of the Raison Vaccine held together under prolonged, specific heat,” Svensson had said. “The result, the visitor claimed, would be a lethal airborne virus with an incubation of three weeks. One that could infect the entire world's population in less than three weeks.”

“And how did this visitor happen to come across this information?”

Svensson had hesitated. “A dream,” he said. “A very unusual dream.”

Carlos's shoes clacked on the concrete floor. Perhaps they had found the virus, although it was difficult to imagine they'd done so by this sort of means. He took a deep breath. The time would soon come when taking a long pull of air would bring death instead of life. An odorless
virus borne on the wind, searching for human hosts. Not a simple disease as innocuous as Ebola that took weeks to spread properly, but a genetically engineered virus that traveled with the world's air currents and infected the entire world's population. An epidemic that could poison this very airport in a matter of minutes, incubate over a number of weeks, and then kill within twenty-four hours of its first symptom.

There was no defense for such a virus. Except an antivirus.

He rented a Mercedes and drove into the city. Monique de Raison was due to deliver an address at the Sheraton in twenty-four hours. He would wait until then. This gave him ample time to prepare. To plan for whatever contingencies might disrupt his primary course of action. To narrow any possible avenues of escape or disruptions to the kidnapping.

They'd chased down hundreds of leads over the last five years. A dozen times they'd been very hopeful of uncovering a virus with precisely the elusive characteristics they required. Once they were quite certain that they actually had it. But never had they acted on such an irregular report. Certainly not a dream. What had convinced Svensson to trust such a report, Carlos didn't know. But the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea.

Why not? Why couldn't the answer to his prayers be delivered through a dream? Was this beyond Allah? He'd never been a mystic, but this didn't mean that God hadn't spoken to Mohammed through visions in the cave. If this single weapon could deal such a blow to his enemies, wasn't it conceivable that Allah would open man's mind to it through something as mystical as a dream? The fact that this Thomas Hunter not only had such a dream but that he'd proceeded to the CDC with it seemed to suggest providence.

Furthermore, if any pharmaceutical research firm had the resources to develop such a virus, it would be Raison Pharmaceutical. He'd never met Monique de Raison, but her meticulous research in the field took what the Russians had accomplished to a whole new level. Carlos served death with force, not through the veins, but that didn't mean he was ignorant concerning the intricacies of bioweapons.

He could still hear Svensson's low, grinding voice that late night seven years earlier as they overlooked Cairo. “When you were six, in Cyprus, your father was a computer scientist who moonlighted as a strategic adviser to the PLO,” Svensson said. “He was kidnapped by Israeli Mossad agents. He never came home.”

“Okay, so you know your history,” Carlos said, somewhat surprised that this man knew what few could possibly know.

“I would expect most young boys would turn bitter. Maybe one day act out deep-seated resentment. But these are pale words to describe you, yes?”

Carlos watched the tall Swiss draw deep on his cheroot. “Maybe.”

“You left home at age twelve and spent the next fifteen years training with a long list of terrorists, including a two-year stint in an Al Qaeda training camp. You finally left this nonsense of petty terrorism. You're interested in bigger fish.”

Carlos did not like this man.

“But your years of training have suited you well. Some say that there isn't a man alive who could live through five minutes of hand-to-hand combat with you. Is that true?” Another deep drag of smoke.

“I'll leave the business of judging me to others,” Carlos said.

The man smiled. “Do you know what it would take to subdue the earth?”

“The right weapon,” Carlos said.

“One virus.”

“As I said, the right weapon.”

“One virus and one antivirus.”

Carlos dismissed the sudden urge to cut the man's throat right there on the roof of the Hilton, not because Svensson presented any immediate threat, but because the man looked evil to him with his black eyes and twisted grin. He did not like this man.

“One virus, one vaccine, and one man with the will to use both,” Svensson said, and then slowly turned to Carlos. “I am that man.”

“Frankly, I don't care who you are,” Carlos said. “I care about my people.”

“Your people. Of course. The question is, What are you willing to do for your people?”

“No,” Carlos said evenly, “the question is, What
will
I do? And the answer is, I will remove their enemies.”

“Unless, of course, the Israelis remove you first.”

Three months later they had struck a simple agreement. Svensson and his group would offer a base of operations in the Alps, an unprecedented level of intelligence, and the means to conduct a biological attack. In return, Carlos would provide whatever muscle Svensson required in his personal operations.

The broader plan involved nations and leaders of nations and was masterminded by the man Valborg Svensson answered to: Armand Fortier. Carlos had met Fortier on only two occasions, but after each, any doubts he'd harbored had been swept out to sea. Every conceivable detail had been excruciatingly planned and then planned again. Contingencies for a hundred possible reactions to the release of any virus that met their requirements. The primary nuclear powers were the greatest prize—each had been softened and judged in ways they could not begin to imagine. Not yet. One day the historians would look back and lament the missed signals, so many subtle signs of the coming day. No one would pay such a price as the United States. The final result would forever change history in a matter of a few short weeks. It was almost too much to hope for.

And yet it was a very real possibility. If a hundred million Americans woke up one morning and learned they had been infected with a virus that would kill them in a matter of weeks, and only one man had the cure and was demanding their cooperation in exchange for that cure . . .

This was true power.

All they needed was the right weapon. The one virus with its one cure.

Carlos took a deep breath and blew it out past pursed lips. The American was on his way. Thomas Hunter. According to his sources, Hunter would be arriving in Bangkok in a matter of hours. By this time tomorrow, Carlos would know the truth.

He breathed a prayer to Allah and eased the Mercedes toward the off-ramp.

14

T
om awoke with duplicitous images running circles in his head. He was in a soft bed, and light was streaming through a small window above him. This was Rachelle's home. Johan's home. In the colored forest where he lived.

He groaned, shook the dreams of the histories from his mind, rubbed his eyes, and struggled out of bed. The room was small and plain, but turquoise and golden hues from the wood gave it a rich beauty.

He slowly opened the door. Memories of the previous evening flooded his mind. He dipped his hands into a small basin of water by the bedroom door and splashed water over his face.

“Thomas!”

Tom whirled around, startled by the cry. Johan stood in the doorway, grinning. “Do you want to play, Thomas?”

“Play? Um, actually I have some things I have to do. I have to find my village.” Not to mention figuring out what to do about the romance business.

“Then maybe Tanis and my father can help you find your village. He's waiting for you.”

“Your father? With Rachelle?”

The boy grinned very wide. “You want to see Rachelle?”

“Uh, no, not necessarily. I just wondered if—”

“Well, I think she wants to see you. I think that's what my father wants to talk to you about. Yes, I do. And it's very exciting! Don't you think?”

“I . . .” Was he understanding this right? The whole village knew? “I'm not sure what you mean.”

Johan beamed. “They said that you hit your head and lost your memory. Is that fun?”

“Not especially.”

“But if you come with me, you will have fun. Come on! They're waiting.” He ran off through the door.

Tom followed. His memory was still lost, even after a good sleep.

He stepped outside and allowed his eyes to adjust to the light. Everywhere, small groups of people busied themselves. He stared at a group of women to his right who sat on the ground working with leaves and flowers—they seemed to be making tunics. Some were quite thin, others fairly plump, their skin tone varied from dark to light. All watched him with knowing glints in their emerald eyes.