Ice Cold Kill (38 page)

Daria slid off Asher’s back onto the cold floor.

Asher’s eyes were wide in pain and shock. His lips moved but no sound escaped.

Neither his arms nor legs were moving.

His eyes slid to her bloody hands, cradled now against her chest as if in prayer. He looked at the well-worn spade sheath, clutched in her hands.

His eyes closed slowly. His breathing slowed.

Daria’s own vision grayed out.

Thirty-three

Belhadj had dislodged the pigeons to let Daria know where he was. He shot the big, blond American and turned his massive gun toward Asher Sahar, just in time to see Daria’s suicide dive.

The Syrian watched the stranger in the brown jacket kneel and hide the red canister in Asher Sahar’s messenger bag.

Belhadj ducked back out of sight as the throng of trapped tourists scattered and five people with American accents shoved against the tide. A wide array of weapons broke through.

“Freeze!… Nobody move!… Do it!”

The thunder of boots and barked commands seemed to revive Daria, who stirred, rising off the floor to kneel beside Asher, her head spinning.

Owen Cain Thorson boomed, “Do not move!”

Daria, on her knees, realized opponents were in close proximity. She couldn’t focus enough to see them and their voices were tinny and muddled, as if over a walkie-talkie on a stormy night.

“Stop!” Thorson ratcheted the slide on his machine pistol. “Don’t move!”

Daria felt a hard, cold shape by her knee. One of Asher’s SIG autos. She wrapped her fingers around the handle.

Five CIA weapons locked on her.

Major Theo James pushed his way through the crowd, panting, his face red.

John Broom, also on his knees, skittered across the floor and into the line of sight of the CIA weapons. “
Wait, wait, wait!
”

He raised open palms toward Swing Band.

Thorson’s jaw dropped. “Broom? How the hell—”

John pointed behind the CIA assault squad. He had never spoken so quickly in all his life, and was appalled to hear his voice rise an octave. “This is Major Theo James! U.S. Army! He’s USAMRIID! Also World Health! Major? Identify yourself!”

Theo gulped. “Ah, yeah. Me. That’s me. Hi. I’m him.” His instructors in officer training school had never covered this scenario.

John, freaking out, saw the steely glint in Thorson’s eye and the seething anger in his jaw. He figured the odds of Thorson shooting through him to kill Daria to be about fifty-fifty.

“Owen! The major has primary responsibility for the virus! Do you hear me? Whatever else happens, containing the virus is his job! Major?”

Theo couldn’t figure John’s angle but played along. “Ah, yeah. Yes! Absolutely!”

Thorson held his machine pistol in both hands, aimed at John Broom’s chest and, through him, at Daria’s chest.

Daria gripped Asher’s fallen weapon and tried to push through the dizziness.
What was happening?

“B-Broom?” she tried.

Agent Maldonado squinted through blood from her badly cut eyebrow. Two other agents bled on the floor.

“Owen, protocol!” John barked. “The major takes control of the virus. Right?”

The ex-SEAL, Collier, squinted over the sights of his .45. His bristly gray mustache twitched. “That is protocol.”

Up on the rosewood balcony, Belhadj didn’t move.

Thorson didn’t move.

John didn’t move.

Theo James said, “Fellas?”

The moment passed, and everyone could see it in the subtle shift of Thorson’s stiff shoulders. He nodded, once. “Yes. Army takes the virus. Do it.”

But the barrel of his weapon didn’t budge.

John exhaled. “Good. Okay. We good, everyone?”

This wasn’t Collier’s first firefight. He watched his boss, then his eyes flickered to the dead and the dying on the floor. He looked at the unarmed civilian on his knees. Behind him, the Israeli target looked barely conscious.

Collier said, “Stand down, people. We good.”

When Thorson didn’t move, Collier’s mustache twitched again. “Boss? We are good.”

Thorson lowered his barrel about three inches.

John tried really, really hard not to pee his pants. “The major gets the virus?”

Thorson rolled his eyes. “Yes, Broom. Step clear of the prisoner.”

“Major?” John gulped. “This is my friend Daria Gibron. She
is
the virus culture. Take her, please.”

Thorson’s eyes almost shot out of his skull. “What?”

But Theo was quick on the uptake. He had pegged Collier as the most regular military man in the bunch. “You. I’m Major Theo James, U.S. Army. This woman is Patient Zero for a biohazard threshold event. Help me secure her for transport.”

Collier holstered his weapon. “Yes, sir.”

Thorson went apoplectic. “What? No! She’s—
no
!”

But the other agents had already lowered their weapons and were securing the onlookers, calming the crowd.

Daria, on her knees, lay one sweaty palm on John’s shoulder. “What … what…”

And she passed out.

*   *   *

On the balcony, Belhadj waited a few beats. He lowered his handgun, then melted into the gloom of the Catedral de Milano.

Thirty-four

The Middle East
Almost Twenty Years Ago

“There’s a war on, Chatoulah.”

The Tunnel Rat of Rafah gave the girl a spade-shaped knife in a leather sheath. The girl had grown taller and stronger. The children did not know their ages or birth dates, but estimated that she was eight.

“Where?” she asked.

“Here. I think.”

“A war between who?”

“I haven’t figured out all of the angles. Even the Bedouin cousins, God grant them huge profits, don’t know all the details. I just think a war is coming. And…” He paused. “I think we need to align ourselves.”

“With who …
whom?
”

“With the side that wins.”

“And that’s which side?”

“The Jews. And the West. I think.”

A woman’s voice broke in. “That is a very astute observation, young sir.”

Both children leaped to their feet. The woman stood confidently at the mouth of the alley. Tall, beautiful. Dressed in Western desert kit: khakis, fine boots.

Israeli,
the girl thought. But here? In Rafah? That’s when she noticed the other two men with her, both blonds. Both armed.

“You are a gifted political scientist.” The woman had a strange, foreign accent. “You have a keen understanding of the Gaza Strip. If you wish to align yourself, I can help you. Both of you. A war
is
coming. And lucky me: I know which side wins.”

The girl’s first thought was to flee. She felt Asher tense, ready to bolt. He reached back blindly for her hand. She switched the spade knife to her left and took his dry palm.

“Which side wins?” Asher asked the tall woman.

“My side. My name is Hannah Goldman. You are … Asher? And?”

The girl took a shy step behind her brother.

“Daria, I believe you said.” The tall woman smiled. “Daria, it is. Such a lovely name.”

*   *   *

“Daria? Daria?”

Daria Gibron dragged herself up from the grasp of anesthesia. She blinked in the too-bright light. The first face she saw was familiar. She tried speaking, despite being intubated.

She mouthed the name,
Asher
?

“John.” The swimming, half-formed face before her smiled. “John Broom.”

Thirty-five

Germany

Daria recovered.

Interestingly, it was at the best and closest medical facility Major Theo James could whistle up: Ramstein Air Base in Germany. Interestingly because that’s where the FBI had taken her the first time she’d been injured while fighting with Asher Sahar.

Her treatment, such as it was, consisted of keeping her on oxygen for five days, balancing her fluids, pushing the electrolytes, and keeping an eye out for secondary infections. After that, the medical regimen relied on prayer and dumb luck.

On the sixth day, she was informed that CIA analyst John Broom had been infected with Pegasus-B. By her. His treatment lasted half as long because he was asymptomatic when the treatment began. He was up and walking about before Daria was fully awake. He visited her every day. They didn’t tell her right away that the World Health Organization had coordinated responses to two outbreaks of a novel influenza. The French Ministry of Health handled three cases in Lyon, France, while the Italian Ministry of Health reacted to seven cases in Milan, Italy.

The cases ended after that and the health ministries relaxed. It would be months before anyone realized that all of the victims had the genetic markers of Ashkenazim, or the Jews of Central Europe.

On the seventh day in the hospital, she was well enough to realize he was keeping other secrets from her.

“Best tell me. You know I’ll find out anyway.”

John sat on the edge of her bed, one foot on the floor and one knee up by her side. “Asher Sahar shot FBI Agent Ray Calabrese.”

Daria stared at him, blinking rapidly but otherwise appearing unemotional.

“He’s alive. He’s facing, I don’t know, six or seven months of physical therapy. I’ll set up a Skype call for you this afternoon. He really wants to talk to you. If that’s okay.”

It explained why Ray hadn’t been part of the rescue in Milan. And hadn’t been in touch.

“Thank you. And Asher?”

“Medics on the scene said you probably severed his spine when you jumped him. There was no way to tell at the cathedral how bad the spinal injuries were.”

Daria absorbed this, the skin around her eyes shrunken and mottled darkly.

“Here’s the thing, though: an Israeli Army medical team arrived and took him into custody. But when we tried to follow up, guess what: the Israelis don’t have any record of a medical team being dispatched to Milan. The CIA hasn’t been able to locate him.”

A soft smile skittered over her pale, cracked lips. “And you shan’t.”

“Oh, I’m not CIA anymore. Didn’t I tell you?”

Daria reached up and touched his arm. “Oh. They gave you the sack?”

“No. I took a job with a senator. Well, I will. As soon as they let me leave the base, anyway. But hey, I got this back for you…”

John held out a spade-shaped sandwich of leather, with an eighth of an inch of air showing between the identical pieces. They connected at a broken hinge.

“Oh.” Daria took the empty sheath in both hands and turned it over. It had fit into her palm so many times, for so many years. It had almost been part of her.

“My dad knows a guy who sharpens knives. I could get it fixed for you.”

Daria smiled her thanks, then tossed the sheath into the bedside rubbish bin. “Thank you. No.”

“I understand.” John had been there and knew where the broken blade had ended up. “There’s this, too.” He handed her an antique straight razor. Its handle was steel and was embossed with a symbol from Spain and the word
Sevilla
. Daria took it, pressed her thumb against the tang. The six-inch blade
snikked
free of the handle.

John said, “It looks old.”

“World War I, I imagine. Thank you.”

She used her other palm to slide the blade back into its handle. She slid it under her pillow. John pretended not to notice. Daria touched his knee gently. “I never thanked you properly for keeping me alive.”

“You know how you can thank me? At the cathedral, you mentioned an organization. The Club Sennacherib. CIA tells me they’ve scoured intelligence databases throughout the West. Nobody’s ever heard of them.”

Daria smiled and let her tongue venture around her parched, pale lips. “I was delirious.”

He smiled. “I looked it up. Sennacherib was an Assyrian king. Tried to lay siege to Jerusalem. Around 600
B.C.
or so. His army was wiped out, overnight, without the Jews lifting a weapon. Lord Byron wrote about it. ‘And the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword…’”

“‘Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.’”

She smiled through the fog of fatigue and nodded up at him. “You’re a nice man, Mr. Broom.”

“Who sprung Sahar from prison? Who bankrolled him? Who evaced him from the cathedral?”

She let her eyes flutter. “I’m feeling tired. I think I’ll sleep a little.”

John stood. “Okay. We should maybe talk later.”

She was asleep before he made it to the door.

John was as much a fan of physical comedy as the next guy. But he still was embarrassed to leave Daria’s room, stop by the commissary for a cup of coffee, walk to his private hospital room, step inside, see Khalid Belhadj standing there, and perform a textbook spit take.

Belhadj wore a shapeless olive jacket and thick trousers and sturdy boots. He was unshaven and an end parenthesis of hair, traced with gray, hung near his straight eyebrows. He leaned against the institutionally painted wall and folded his arms.

“Mr. Broom.”

They were on one of the largest U.S. military bases on Earth. John had seen dozens of closed circuit cameras and scores of army guards. Yet here stood the Syrian, looking just a little bored.

“Major Belhadj.”

They stood a moment. John used the back of his left hand to wipe coffee off his chin and his too-large, army-issue T-shirt.

“Tell me about golems, Mr. Broom.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Golems. Please.”

Thoughts pinballed off the inside of John’s skull as he nimbly cobbled together a rough understanding. “Ah … sure. Golems. In the Torah, they’re mythical beings made of clay. Brought to life by rabbis to protect the faithful. They appear in lots of literature, too. Frankenstein’s monster was a golem. You wanna, maybe, sit? Some coffee? There’s a vending machine?”