Ice Cold Kill (18 page)

John sat and glanced around the immense auditorium. His voice echoed a little in the vast space. “I’m sorry if you mistook me for the London Philharmonic. I get that a lot.”

The general waved off the issue. “This was the only room available for—”

“This room is swept for listening devices,” John cut in, smiling politely. “There are metal detectors built into the doors. I bet there are electronic baffles in the walls to make transmission impossible. Nothing said in this room can be recorded.”

Glenn’s eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat, broke eye contact.

“Anyway, sir, I appreciate your time. By now, you know and we know that whatever the Secret Service was transporting for you through Colorado has been stolen. We need to know what it was, if we have any hope of figuring out who stole it and why.”

The general folded his puffy, pink hands on the enormous table.

John withdrew his notepad and uncapped his pen. He paused, the pen over his notepad.

The general said, “Well, first, I need to assure you: It isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

John paused, smiling. He capped his pen, closed his notepad and rubbed both temples. “Oh, shit.”

Glenn’s jowly face reddened. “No, no!”

“General, in the history of the Republic, every conversation that ever started with ‘it isn’t as bad as it sounds’ always ended with congressional hearings.”

“Honestly! It’s fine.” Sweat formed on the general’s upper lip. “It’s been a communications problem, mostly. Everything’s under control.”

John let his face betray his utter disbelief.

“You see, it started when the Philippine military raided a terrorist compound about three weeks ago.”

“Abu Sayaf.” John had read about the raid in the overnights. “Sword of the Father. They’re unofficially linked to al-Qaida.”

The general clearly hadn’t known that. “Um … yes. Anyway, following the raid, the Philippine army found a lab. They interrogated some of the prisoners and discovered this … Abu Sayaf, as you say, had hired a biologist from Tajikistan. The biologist was experimenting with zoonoses. Zoonoses are—”

“Viruses.” John pointedly glanced at his watch. “Viruses that jump from species to species, like swine flu or bird flu. This Tajik biologist was working on something like that?”

“Yes. He was trying to manipulate a strain of a simian flu virus, turn it into a human flu, and release it. Probably in Manila, or to sell it to other terrorist affiliates. Anyway, the raid foiled that plot.” He smiled proudly, as if he, himself, had led the raid.

“Was the biologist successful? Did he create a human flu?”

Glenn rearranged his pudgy hands. “Yes and no. He was successful in manipulating an influenza strain but it’s completely unstable. I could expose you to it right now and the flu would break down in your system long before you became symptomatic. It’s harmless.”

“But you brought it to the United States anyway,” John added.

“Yes. The boys at USAMRIID wanted to study it and create an antivirus. Just in case. That’s—”

Again, John jumped in. “The U.S. Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases.”

The general nodded, as if John were his prize student. “Very good. Yes. The Secret Service was transporting the virus in a supercooled container to keep it alive. They were taking it to a chemical weapons depot, where it could be safely studied.”

“And if it got into the hands of terrorists?”

“Harmless. That’s why we didn’t immediately contact the intelligence community. The pathogen just breaks down too fast to be infectious.”

John asked for the name of the Tajik biologist working in the Philippines. Glenn squinted, bringing up the name. “Ah … Farrukh Tuychiev, I believe.”

John asked a couple more questions but they didn’t get him far. He had interviewed top military personnel before and, like a lot of people, he had come to understand there often was an inverse relationship between how high their rank and how much useful knowledge they possessed.

When the potentially useful questions petered out, the men stood and shook hands. Glenn’s palm was cool and moist.

As he gathered his coat and scarf, John was left scrambling with the sure knowledge that he’d failed to connect some of the dots. “How did the Philippine military determine the recombinant flu was no risk?”

General Glenn shook his head. “They broke one of two canisters trying to move it. Several men were exposed to the virus but not a single one of them got sick.”

John thought about this for a moment. Something was still off. “What did the Tajik biologist do wrong? Why didn’t his virus work?”

General Glenn shrugged. The many medals pinned to his chest bobbed. “I don’t know. The Philippine military was willing to part with the virus but not with the man. He’s apparently accused of other crimes there. He—”

John said, “You have a doctoral degree, General. I’m guessing medicine or biology. Biochemistry, maybe. Am I right?”

Glenn’s eyes darted. “Why, yes. Biology. How did—”

“What did the Tajik do wrong? Why didn’t the altered flu work as a weapon?”

“I told you. It’s unstable.”

“What would make it stable?”

Glenn laughed. “A better biologist!”

John continued to smile politely but kept his eyes locked on the other man. John didn’t move. Few people can tolerate silence in a conversation.

“Ah. We were lucky. The biologist just wasn’t very good,” Glenn said. “That’s all.”

“See? That’s the problem?” John made a show of scratching his hair. “The crew we’re liking for this heist? They are top-notch. And I gotta tell you, General, they staged a diversion in Manhattan that was a thing of beauty. They did it to cover the theft in Colorado.”

Glenn’s ears turned pink now.

“So my question is: who goes to that much effort to steal a useless weapon?”

Thirteen

Paris

Daria replayed the so-called fight in her mind. She rewound and did it again.

Shit,
she thought. Belhadj had studied Krav Maga, the Israeli martial art.

At least that explained how he managed to kick her ass so competently.

When she could, Daria levered herself up onto one knee, tried to stand. She fell on her butt, tried again, and made it up. Bound and bruised, even inhaling hurt. Her hair was disheveled. Her blue sweater was sour with spilled champagne. Still, the fight had been more humiliating than painful. She’d taken worse beatings at her kickboxing gym in Los Angeles.

This is why she hadn’t wanted to confront Belhadj in hand-to-hand combat. He didn’t have a reputation as a keen strategist. He had a reputation as a street fighter.

Daria tucked the spade-blade back into her waistband.

She steadied herself, blew stray hair out of her eyes, made sure her breathing was even, and walked straight-backed into the living room. Belhadj sat on one of the two windowsills, thumbing through Internet pages on Daria’s smartphone.

“Looking for pornography?”

The Syrian didn’t respond. He didn’t even look up.

“Tsk. Don’t pout. You wouldn’t have respected me if I hadn’t at least tried.”

His eyes flicked up to her. The living room featured a small, oval table for taking meals, and two matched, wooden chairs circa 1950. His wine-soaked jacket hung over the back of one of the chairs.

Belhadj spun the phone in his palm and held it toward her, elbow locked. Daria squinted to see the page he’d brought up.

The page included their photos. They were part of a law-enforcement circular, with a French intelligence header at the top of the page. They were wanted by every agency in the West, the Middle East and Northern Africa, regarding a conspiracy to kill the President of the United States of America.

“Ah. That will complicate getting around Paris.”

“Yes,” he conceded, pulling the phone back and tapping keys. “Do you really know someone who can track Sahar?”

“Maybe. There’s no end to the European intelligence agencies. France alone must have seven or eight. They trip over each other. There’s a freelance hacker in Paris who keeps up-to-date with all their telephone and computer surveillance protocols. He’s completely apolitical and will work with anyone who pays. We used him when I was Shin-Bet. Iran did, too.”

“That address. Rue de Terrage. Did you make that up?”

“No. He has an electronics shop there. The shop is a front for his hacking job.”

Belhadj stood. He examined his jacket, decided it wasn’t too stained. He shrugged into it. Daria brought her wrists around to the left of her hips and clinked the links meaningfully.

Belhadj went to the hall closet and found a man’s raincoat. He draped it over her shoulders, hiding her arms.

“Let’s go.”

*   *   *

Both Daria and Belhadj realized using the metro now was too risky, due to the law-enforcement circular with their photos. Outside the apartment, Belhadj led her by the elbow until they found a line of cars blocked from the busier streets by sour-smelling food crates that had been left for pickup. Belhadj drew his lock picks. Daria was impressed that he chose so bland a vehicle: a late 1980s Citroën, painted pale pumpkin and missing its rear bumper. But she didn’t want him to know that.

“Really?” she said, climbing in after he held the door open for her. “You couldn’t steal something with a little style?”

He hot-wired the ignition, ignoring her. She noted that he carefully repositioned the side and rearview mirrors before pulling out.

She had to sit forward so the cuffs didn’t bite into the small of her back.

Belhadj used a map on her smartphone to get them to rue de Terrage. The street was a small cluster of ramshackle retail fronts tucked between the Gare de L’Est train depot and a line of tall, mushroom-gray apartment buildings. As with most of Paris, the neighborhood showed no clear separation between commercial and residential zones.

“This is the place,” she said, nodding toward a down-on-its-luck electronics store. They passed by without slowing down. It was heading toward dusk and light, dry snow swirled in the air. Daria couldn’t tell if it was snowing or if old snow on the street was being whipped up by the wind.

“What should I know?” Belhadj asked.

“He’s … colorful. Algerian. He works alone. I’ve been in his shop a couple of times and never saw any security cameras. I suspect he doesn’t trust them because they can be hacked.”

“Will he be armed?”

“No.”

The Syrian circled the block and parked directly across the street. He sat and watched the door. There was no way of knowing if the shop had customers. According to a sign in the window, they were within ten minutes of closing for the evening.

“How is your French?” he asked.

“Excellent.”

“Mine is bad. I sound like an immigrant.”

Daria laughed. “You won’t stand out. Not in this town.”

Belhadj contemplated the scene for a while. His messenger bag rested on the floor of the Citroën, which was rusted out enough to show bits of street beneath them. He reached into the waterproof bag and pulled out a silver .32 Smith & Wesson revolver. He popped open the cylinder and held it butt-first toward Daria’s eyes. She could see there were no bullets.

He set it on her lap, leaned toward his window to retrieve the key to the cuffs from his pants pocket. Daria pushed her arms to her left and he unclipped both wrists, took the cuffs with him.

“I don’t see any customers.” She rubbed her chafed wrists. “He might have seen the circulars with our pictures. We should move quickly once we’re inside.”

Belhadj nodded, opened his door. Daria stood and shrugged properly into the too-long raincoat, rolled back the sleeves to reveal her hands. She shoved the Smith & Wesson into the coat pocket and walked shoulder to shoulder with the Syrian into the shop.

She thought they looked like extras in a Guy Ritchie movie but kept the observation to herself.

*   *   *

Rene LeClerc wanted in the worst way to be a badass rapper. And that career path would have been fine if Rene LeClerc had any musical skills. Or if he could write. Or if he hadn’t had stage fright.

Worse yet, Rene LeClerc wanted to be a rapper circa 1990. He owned enormous gold-painted tchotchki, like American dollar signs, that hung on long gold chains around his neck. He wore them over a New Orleans Saints jersey four times too large, even though he had never actually watched an American football game. He wore droopy pants, enormous knockoff Nike sneakers, and a long, steel key chain that dangled out of his pants pocket and down to his knees. The Algerian immigrant assumed that being black alone made him cool.

In this, he was mistaken.

Daria and Belhadj entered his shop and found no customers. The would-be rapper stood behind his counter, two turntables before him, Mickey Mouse headphones around his neck. He was rummaging through a box of pre-2000 record albums, looking for a hook to riff.

He smiled and spread his arms. He spoke in thickly accented French. “Welcome, friends. Yo yo yo.” He attempted but failed to create a gang symbol with his fingers. He didn’t appear to recognize either of them but then, he likely was paying more attention to how he looked than how his customers looked. “What is it I am doing for you?”

Daria drew the unloaded Smith from the raincoat and pointed it at the Algerian. Belhadj drew his fully loaded .45. Daria’s gun felt light to her experienced hand but the faux rapper wouldn’t know the difference.

“Ah, God!” he shouted. “This is three times this month! Come on! I am making the honest living! Why can’t you—”

Belhadj circled the front counter from the right, Daria from the left. The Syrian agent reached for the collar of the Saints jersey but Daria slammed the sole of her bulky boot into the side of Rene LeClerc’s right knee. He dropped so fast, his chin hit the glass counter, then he fell like damp laundry.

Belhadj took a step back, surprised by the ferocity of her attack.

Daria knelt, scanned the thigh-high shelf behind the counter. She noted a large bottle of cleaning alcohol. Needing both hands, she tossed her revolver to Belhadj. The throw was a little high, and he took a pivot step back, eyes tracking the spiraling gun, to catch it one-handed.