Final Epidemic (32 page)

Okay, my smart-assed li’l buddy. Just keep coming. I know a place where we can go be alone together. I got a few questions for you.

He glanced at the object on the seat beside him. Like every silenced pistol Cappie had ever seen, the thing was a piece of crap. It was a battered .38-caliber revolver, and looked better suited as a throw-down piece than as an actual weapon. The front sight had been hacksawed off and the barrel end rough-threaded like a pipe. He had bought it, along with the bulky extension that gave the gun any utility at all, several months before in a biker bar outside Helena.

Before he had gone to the theater, Cappie had donned
latex gloves and carefully wiped the weapon clean. It had taken only a fraction of the precious minutes he had. He had used a few more to wrap white athletic tape around the grip, the face of the trigger, and the bulky silencer itself. Fingerprints were not a problem on the rough cloth texture, unless you happened to be looking for any.

The silencer was homemade, a cylinder the size of a large soup can. Fiberglass insulation and steel wool had been packed around a perforated steel tube, a half inch in diameter, that was welded inside. The end of the tube had been threaded with a hand tap, and the whole apparatus could be screwed into the matching threads cut into the tip of the revolver’s barrel. It was as awkward as it was inelegant. Under the best of conditions, Cappie had estimated, it would hold up for two shots, maybe three.

As it turned out, of course, he had needed only one.

There would not be a second shot—at least, not from this gun. It had already done the only work he trusted it to do. He had intended to throw the pistol and its silencer—separately, of course—into a blackwater borrow pit just off I-70. He still would. But now there was an unscheduled stop he had to make first.

Who knows—depending on how things work out, I might just even leave it with the body, pistol and silencer both.
The image made him smile.
Boy, that might mess with somebody’s mind,
he thought.

Outside, the neighborhood had turned industrial. He continued west until he came to a gravel road rutted from weather and neglect. He turned onto it. Ahead, he could see the dark outline of what looked like a large, abandoned factory.

Cappie reached under his camo jacket and touched the Colt Python he carried in a shoulder rig. Then he checked his rearview mirror a final time.

There was no sign of his pursuer, but Cappie knew for a certainty he was still there. He began to whistle, tunelessly, as the dark building drew closer. Almost idly, Cappie
wondered what Lubella would have on the table when he returned home.

It was much later, almost four p.m. This had turned into an interesting meeting indeed—one with more than a few surprises for both of the participants.

Now it was time to leave. All that was left was the tidying up that was always an inevitable final part of these things.

The strip of cloth he had lighted was almost fully ablaze now, almost at the juncture where it was stuffed into the opened gasoline filler neck. Even from where he stood, under the open sky twenty yards away, he could see the flames licking up the rag’s remaining few inches.

And then, with no further preliminaries, the fumes ignited. There was an intense white flash, followed an instant later by a curiously flat boom—no, he corrected himself, it was more like a deep-throated whoosh. The shock wave was little more than a puff of warmed air he barely felt in its passing.

The vehicle was burning furiously now, the flames an angry orange-black. Where various fluids escaped along the length of the chassis, liquid drops of fire dripped to the ground. The interior, which he had soaked with gasoline, was alive with the dancing flames, though with nothing else. The mad dance of firelight reflected against the walls of this ruined place, now competing with the late-afternoon sun in intensity. Black smoke rose in a thick, rolling plume.

It was time to leave.

As he drove away, he could see the smoke and flickering of light in his rearview mirror. He did not know if the fire would attract attention from the curious or the concerned; he did not know who would see it, or who might care. Regardless, even if the flames drew anyone here, it would be too late. Whatever there had been of value, he had already taken.

Denver International Airport
July 23

The death of Orin Trippett—and the inability of Beck and April to find the canister of the virus they believed he had possessed—had left the pair completely without direction or intent. All they had was the knowledge that the unknown man who spoke soft threats in a Russian accent had been a step ahead of them again.

Aside from that, they had . . . nothing.

“I’m coming back,” Beck repeated, this time with more force.

“To do what, exactly?” Andi Wheelwright’s voice came over the sat phone, clear in its exasperation. “Beck, you’re better off where you are. We have chaos up and down the Eastern Seaboard now. It’s even worse in Florida. There’s rioting—hell, it’s more like armed insurrection down in the quarantine zone. We’ve had reports of attacks on military units down there. Some of the crazies have begun raiding bases, arming themselves with anything they can steal. Not just small arms, either. Mortars, heavy machine guns, even antiaircraft weapons. It’s a free-fire zone, man.”

“What’s happening in New York?”

“What do you think? Ten million people are caught
between an incurable plague and a curfew enforced by a shoot-to-kill edict.”

“You’re getting reports on new flu cases there.”

“Some. Okay, yes—it appears to be spreading faster than we hoped. There are confirmed cases in Manhattan and in Queens. The Coast Guard has had to sink a number of small craft that refused to heave to. They were heading toward the mainland.”

“Andi, you can’t stop all of them. It will get worse; all it takes is one person to get through, or one infected body to wash ashore along the coastline.”

“I know. Nationwide flu in a week. Ten days at the most.”

“Then it doesn’t matter where I am,” Beck said. “Look, Andi—if you won’t help me, at least don’t stand in my way. I’ve done what you wanted; I’ve done all I can. Now I need to find Katie.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Beck—if you have to do something, go to Montgomery and wait. We’ll authorize a flight plan to fly you there. Go to the Capitol Holiday Inn; I’ll make sure they’re expecting you.” She drew a deep breath. “I’ll do what I can, but we’re not getting a lot of information out of Florida anymore.”

“I appreciate anything you can do. You have CDC teams still going into Florida. Put me in with one.”

“I’ll have to clear that with Billy Carson,” Andi said.

“Tell Carson I’ll talk to him when I land,” Beck said. “If he has any problems, he can tell me then. But Andi—one way or another, I’m going in to find my daughter.” He broke the connection.

April nodded, grimly.

“Then I’m coming along.” She sounded stubbornly determined. “Officially, I’m still assigned to you. Last thing Frank Ellis said was to stick to you like glue. Until I check in with him, that’s the directive I’m following.” She held up a hand before Beck could reply. “And I’d like to help.”

Beck looked at April, then at the waiting CDC jet.

“Plenty of room,” he said. “And . . . thank you.”

Montgomery, Alabama
July 23

While April inspected the accommodations—Wheelwright’s office had handled the arrangements directly, and in the current emergency the hotel manager had immediately upgraded “Dr. Beck Casey of the CDC” to the only available suite—Beck limped into the motel’s dining room. He entered an expanse of empty booths and tables that had, nonetheless, each been set with fresh china and linen. Holiday Inn brooked no surprises for its guests, at least none that could be prevented by the attentions of the staff.

A smiling woman flitted to greet Beck, her pale green blouse starched and her carefully coiffed hair a shade of blond not generally found in nature.

Before the hostess could whisk him to one of the many unoccupied tables, Beck surveyed the room. His double take might have been comical, had there been an audience in the room to see it.

There at a booth, situated so that no one could approach unobserved, sat Alexi Malenkov.

The general’s uniform was gone, replaced by a tan polo shirt and khaki shorts. He wore matching socks under the Nike-swooshed sandals on his feet, and a pair of retro-designed
Foster Grant sunglasses peeked from a breast pocket. On the table before him, a copy of the Montgomery
Advertiser
was folded to the sports section, and on his fork was something white flecked with yellow. Alexi was studying the latter with a perplexed look on his face. He looked up as Beck slipped onto the bench across from him.

“Nice outfit, Alexi. How are you enjoying the food?”

“I have not before experienced the culinary pleasure of grits,” Alexi Malenkov said wryly. “They are surprisingly good, if only one can obtain a sufficient supply of—” He paused, lost. “To be sure, of
anything
that might give them some measure of flavor.”

Beck laughed. “Try the honey, Alexi. Or the Tabasco, if you want a real Southern treat.”

The Russian tucked another forkful of hash browns into his mouth.

“Thank you. I will pass, for now. I have news, my friend. Your president has announced he will use Agent VIX around the Florida Quarantine Region, and in New York City.”

“When?”

“They estimate perhaps this time tomorrow.”

“I’ll get ready to be pretty sick in the next couple of days.”
Or,
Beck left unsaid,
one of the dead five percent.

“Yes.” Alexi handed across an envelope, the size in which mail-order catalogues are sent. “That is a gift from the Russian people to you personally. You will appreciate it, I believe.”

Beck tore across the sealed flap and pulled out a quarter-inch-thick sheaf of paper tacked together in the Russian fashion with a straight pin pushed through the corner. He tensed when he saw the photograph that was affixed to the top sheet.

“Ah, you recognize this man,” Alexi noted with satisfaction. “Good. That will make our task easier.”

“I remember him pretty well. The last time I saw him, he was sticking a knife into my thigh. Who is he?”

“Like so many of the people we meet in this interesting
profession of ours, he seems to have a number of names,” Alexi said. He sipped cautiously at his coffee.

His face brightened, and he tipped the cup back for a deeper draught. “We have listed those of which we are aware. At present, he appears to operate under the name of ‘Ilya,’ last name unknown. His vitae is on the second page. You will please note that Ilya is both an interrogator and an assassin. You did well to escape with only the chicken scratch you received, my friend.”

Beck did not answer, his face furrowed in concentration as he scanned through the Cyrillic-lettered text of Ilya’s file.

“I am sorry we did not have time to transcribe this information into English,” Alexi said wickedly. “Do you wish me to translate for you?”

“What you can do,” Beck said, still reading, “is tell me what this Ilya is doing in the States.”

“A good question. You see that he was seconded from the Army to the SVR,” Alexi said, using the current incarnation of what was once the KGB’s foreign intelligence section. “Our friend was Spetznaz, and like all soldiers from elite units he brought his own unique skills into his new employment.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that you may recall that I told you we had placed SVR agents close to your own paramilitary factions,” Alexi said, chewing a piece of wheat toast. “Ilya was one such agent. His English is as good as mine, perhaps a little better. His Czech is excellent, and for that reason he is covered as a former Czechoslovakian Army corporal who defected to this country—seeking, of course, the freedom it has so unquestioningly offered to all.”

Beck looked skeptical. “A man with an Eastern European accent doesn’t usually get very far trying to join that kind of club, Alexi. Not even a defector is ‘right’ enough.”

“His story is that he became disillusioned—I believe the legend we provided is that he had some altercation with your
taxation authorities—and became close to several of your more extreme militia groups. Plus, our friend Ilya was able to provide his new comrades—pardon me, ‘fellow patriotic warriors’—with a few obsolete automatic weapons he bought from street gangs in your larger cities.” His face was impassive, though his eyes were mocking.

Beck grunted. “I’ll have to introduce you to my traveling companion. She’ll find your information very interesting.”

Alexi grinned hugely. “A woman? I am pleased for you, my friend. When may I meet your girl?”

“Her name is April, and I’d recommend against calling her a girl, Alexi. You should probably call her Special Agent O’Connor.”

“Ah, she is FBI. And she has already made the acquaintance of our friend Ilya.”

Beck glanced up at the Russian. “You are surprisingly well informed, Alexi.”

“Ms. Andi Wheelwright has been quite cooperative,” Alexi said. “But she did not mention your companion. You have reason not to tell her, perhaps?”

Beck laughed, though his eyes did not leave the Russian’s face. “Alexi, have you ever heard the phrase ‘sex maniac’? Get a dictionary and look it up—right next to it, you’ll see a photo of your face.”

“Yes, you are pleased to joke. But our friend Ilya is no product of paranoia. He is quite a serious man, my friend.”

“And what does he intend to do now? Come to think of it, what do
you
intend to do, Alexi?”

Alexi motioned for the waitress—a slim girl whose smile seemed permanently set on high—and waited until she had refilled his cup.

“The answer to both questions are remarkably similar, my friend. Our mysterious Ilya is in your country—perhaps illegally, perhaps under some legitimate cover. Either way, he will not be easy to find. It would appear he is looking for one of the murderous lunatics who wish to carry poison to your
cities. For what specific reason, we do not know. And I—an official guest whose presence was arranged by my president talking to yours—well, I am here looking for
him
.”