Hybrid (43 page)

In a little over twenty-four hours, he would carefully apply a fine powder to several sheets of brittle yellow paper and then soak them in water for five minutes. The sheets would transform into what looked like ordinary notebook paper, and the deadly Hybrid virus would be safe inside tiny microscopic cocoons made of high-molecular-weight plastic, so long as they weren’t exposed to intense light. Rider would then simply distribute tiny bits of paper, each no bigger than a fingernail, to various places across the county, and the sun and wind would do the rest. It would take a day or two, and then the paper would begin to break down into extremely fine dust particles that were lighter than air. It was a much slower process, but in the end, it would find the hiding Americans.

He wondered how the others were doing. If everything had gone to plan, there would be one more Servant of God somewhere in northern California, and a third further up the Pacific coast. He only had a general idea where the others were supposed to be, and no idea how many more had made it this far. Three years was a long time to be perfect, and that was what was required of them. Still, there was enough redundancy built into the plan; they only needed eight for all the infected areas to converge and completely blanket the United States. He didn’t fear for himself. He was sure that a man in his position would hear the enemy long before they were close. Even if he was captured, the only thing he would regret would be his failure. The Americans could do nothing to him; he was already a dead man who long ago had made his peace with God.

Still, Rider would have preferred the original plan. He preferred the more personal touch. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that you had personally killed the man who had just rudely brushed past you—along with his family, friends, neighbors, and city. Rider wondered if his streak of cruelty offended Allah. Certainly, the Prophet in all his battles must have drawn some personal satisfaction from the destruction of the unrighteous. Comforted by that thought, he returned to his computer and the plans for shutting down Los Angeles.

He was trapped by his own cleverness.

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Pushkin said as he floated through the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room.

Reisch watched his mentor drift a foot off the ground; a mist of silver sparkles trailed behind as he glided towards the big picture window. The late afternoon Colorado sun shone through Pushkin, and for a moment Reisch lost him in the bright light. “Are you real or just a product of my mind?”

“If you knew the answer to that question, you would know the answer to a lot of other questions,” Pushkin said smugly.

“That’s true, but it would also tell me if all those people outside can see you through the window.” Now it was Reisch’s turn to be smug.

“They can’t,” the Russian said, unconcerned with the foot and automobile traffic in suburban Pueblo. He turned towards Klaus and began to condense into his usual form. “I think it’s a good thing that you’re now forced to rely on your skills and experience as opposed to your paranormal abilities. They’ve weakened you, and made you sloppy at the worst possible time.”

Reisch didn’t want to argue, and there really was no point in denying the truth.

In the last two days, he had been shot three times, very nearly caught twice, and forced to flee before a foe at least as powerful as him. All three were firsts for him, and all three were a direct result of poor planning and execution. He had begun to put his infallibility before three decades of experience. But that was changing now; he was out of Colorado Springs, and already he could feel the mental fog begin to lift.

The theatrics in Fort Carson had thrown Amanda off his trail, but to stay below her radar he was forced to stay inside of himself. Twice he had squared off against her and the best he had achieved was a draw, but only after she had soundly thrashed him in their first encounter. Both meetings had been unexpected and on her turf; he was going to change that. They would met again, but not until everything was over.

“So when are we going?” a more solid-appearing Pushkin asked.

“Later; I can’t escape the military without alerting her, so I’ll have to wait until they thin out.”

“It is interesting that she could have destroyed you both, but didn’t. Why is that do you think?”

“If I was forced to guess I would say that it was nothing more than survival instinct.”

“Strange that after all she has been through that she still clings to life.”

Twenty-eight hours left, and they finally had Rachel Hill, aka Maria Belsky, and Alexander Stone, aka Kameel Neser, in the same building. Kyle Stanley watched as Neser was shackled to the metal table. Maria was in the next room sitting in front of a similar metal table. Stanley had decided not to have her shackled after she had positively identified Neser. The Russians confirmed Maria’s identity and story, but only after the president had called the Russian president and explained his extreme displeasure with their stonewalling.

“Are you sure you want to be involved with this?” one of the assistant directors asked Stanley.

“We are well past any need for plausible deniability, Jack. I will be quite happy to explain to a judge or the American public why I did what we’re about to do. Let’s get started.”

Stanley walked into the interview room just as the tech was finishing with the IV. “I’m Kyle Stanley, director of the FBI. You are Kameel Neser, are you not?”

Neser looked up and sneered. “Where’s my lawyer? And what the hell is this shit about?” He waved his restrained arm and the IV, still in his Alexander Stone persona.

“Let me explain the ground rules to you, Mr. Neser. As of fifteen minutes ago, you have no rights. As a matter of fact, you no longer exist. I have very little time, so you will either give me what I need now, or we will extract it from you.”

Neser smiled and stared at Stanley for a long minute. “It’s happening, isn’t it?” He started laughing. “And you think I have the answers. That’s beautiful. Go ahead; ask away, because I was never told a thing.” He leaned towards Stanley as far as the chains would allow and then smiled broadly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. All we want to know is who you killed and when.”

Neser continued to smile. “Bullshit. The director of the FBI doesn’t bother himself with trivial little matters like homicide. What’s happening outside? Tell me, and I’ll give you a name.”

For an instant, Stanley was tempted. “What’s happening outside is that the climate has changed. As soon as we found out your real name, you became the property of the FBI courtesy of the United States Congress and House Bill 1278.” Stanley slowly relaxed himself into a chair opposite Neser.” We have a small project that you have just been enrolled in. I’m afraid that it’s very new. In fact, you are our first test subject. That’s why I’m here. Although I am curious to know what you’re talking about.”

Neser’s smile faded, and he tried to cross his arms. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

“You have nothing to say now; that’s about to change.” Stanley nodded to the med tech. “Last chance.”

Neser hesitated, the blood draining from his face as the tech began to swipe the IV with alcohol, preparing it for an injection. “What are you giving me?” His voice trembled very slightly.

“Sorry, we don’t need informed consent here. Tell me who you killed and when.”

The tech hung a second smaller bag of IV solution, only this was colored red.

“We’re going to need to restrain him better before I can give it to him,” the tech said to the director.

“For comfort or for effectiveness?” Stanley asked.

“This is bullshit,” Neser jeered. He didn’t think they would go through with it, but he was starting to have his doubts. Technically, even starting an IV was a violation of his rights, and they had done that without hesitation. Maybe this was more than just an elaborate bluff. He wasn’t a fanatic; he wasn’t even a believer. He was just good at what they needed.

“Effectiveness. I assumed comfort wasn’t going to be an issue today,” the tech answered, a little concerned that he had misread the director’s intentions.

“Definitely not,” Stanley said.

Two more men wrapped Neser in leather restraints, and he started kicking and biting. It took them two minutes to fully secure every joint in his body, and only after that did they force a bite block between his teeth.

“I believe that you are a terrorist, and you have been convicted of a felony in the United States. The American people no longer have permissive views towards people such as yourself. As a result, we have developed this technique to drain you of any secrets you are reluctant to share. It was derived from a compound used in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Cuba—only this is a more effective form. It does have a few side effects, however, hence the need for restraints.” Stanley nodded a second time and the new IV was opened. The red solution began to flow into Neser’s veins, burning them. He began to shake and scream. “I’m told it burns a little going in.” When Neser’s eyes and screams took on a different tone, Stanley stopped the infusion himself. “Something to say?” As if on cue, the bite block was taken out.

Fifteen minutes later, they had a list of seventeen names and dates.

“You’re a little scary, do you know that?” Stanley’s assistant director said to him just before they reached the elevator. “Would you really have given it to him?”

“I was a little disappointed that he broke so quickly. I wanted to see if it really worked.”

“It may have killed him.”

“It may have,” he said. They rode in silence to the top floor, and Stanley could see that a small crowd of people was waiting for him.

“Six matches,” a tall silver-haired man said. “We have them all in custody.” Six of the names Neser had just “volunteered” were among the 161 names on the “missing” list. “We’ve sent additional teams to search their homes.”

“If all six are correct, and we subtract Maria Belsky that leaves us with ten unaccounted for.” Stanley’s words burst the bubble of excitement that was floating through his office. It was the first break in the case, but they still had a long way to go. “How many of the 161 do we have?”

“That number is down by two. Rachel Hill and Peter Bilsky are accounted for,” a silver-haired man said. Stanley met him with a questioning gaze. “The man who assassinated the governor of Colorado. Of the remaining 159, we have 121 in custody. Most check out. Some were covering up felony convictions, and then we have eight who remain uncategorized. All six matches came from the uncategorized group.”

“So potentially we hold two more?” Stanley clarified.

“Yes. The search teams should have something soon.”

“Call me when you get something. Now let’s all get back to work.”

We’ve covered less than half of New York City, and there’s
only twenty-five hours left
, Oliver thought as he walked up Eighth Avenue, just north of Greenwich Village. Greg and the two FBI agents were getting a few hours of sleep after eighteen hours of fruitless searching. Oliver couldn’t sleep. The stress, the consequences of failure, and the thousands of voices that assaulted him from every direction prevented even a moment’s rest. At least he could get a decent cup of coffee here.