The Dark Hour (22 page)

“I’ll head there next. In the meantime, what do you want me to tell Fitzpatrick?”

Pearson picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, then looked in. It was empty. He set it back down on his desk in frustration. “In light of the article, and this morning’s meeting, I think it’s time we stepped back. Get ahold of Fitzpatrick. I want her to terminate the operation. Her life is more important.”

“I’ll let her know.”

“I mean it, Carillo. I want her on the first plane out of there.”

Carillo reached up, massaged the back of his neck. “Yeah. About that. You realize she’s not exactly the best at following rules these days?”

“Tell her to get on that plane if she wants to keep her job.”

Carillo walked out, then called Sydney’s cell phone and left a voice mail. “FYI, an article came out in the paper today about a double agent in France. No names. More that the timing of its release is suspect. Call me,” he added. “I have a bad feeling about this, never mind Pearson wants you off the case.”

He tossed his phone on the car seat, realizing it wouldn’t matter what he told Sydney. Too damned stubborn for her own good. A commendable trait at times. Unfortunately, one that could get her killed.

Chapter 36

December 11

Off the coast of Brazil

M
arc di Luca felt like a space alien in the full hazmat suit. He stood just out of hearing from several World Health Organization doctors sent to investigate the possibility that some unknown virus had stricken the crew of the
Zenobia
, after the freighter was found floating in the middle of the Atlantic by a passing naval boat. All aboard were dead, and at first it was believed that pirates were responsible. After all, the ship had been missing for weeks with no word. It was the sight of several corpses in the cabin, their skin unnaturally dark, dried blood crusted around their eyes, noses, and mouths, that made the authorities doubt that pirates were involved at all with the ship’s disappearance, and think that the real culprit was some unidentified illness. They quickly backed off without exploring further. Once word of the illness reached the WHO, then the National Institute of Virology in Johannesburg, South Africa, it wasn’t long before a full investigation was started.

Of course WHO knew only part of the story. They had no knowledge that Director McNiel had pulled Marc and Lisette from the
Desdemona
and flew them south off the coast of Brazil to pose as two of the several WHO doctors who were dispatched to the
Zenobia
. Even though Marc had no medical training besides basic first aid, HQ insisted that he accompany Lisette because of the possibility of terrorist action, and he found himself wondering if their assignment together bothered her as much as it did him.

Then again, maybe she was over him. Marc had a way to go yet, and he tried to put her from his mind, telephoning ATLAS headquarters as soon as they’d seen enough to report back. When their boss answered, Marc told him what the initial findings were. “No signs that any violence occurred. No signs of weapons. No signs of pirates. And definitely no AUV on board. Which is not to say it wasn’t here.”

Director McNiel was quiet a moment, then, “Any chance this was natural, and not part of some terrorist action?”

“Lisette tells me we really won’t know until further tests are run. In the meantime, they’re treating the scene as a biohazard. She wants to take a more thorough look without drawing attention.”

“Check back with me when you know more.”

Marc disconnected, finished suiting up, then waited with Lisette and the other doctors to board the ship. Once on deck, he and Lisette broke off from the main group. Their goal was to search places that might have been overlooked, and they started in the mess hall, since, if pirates or even terrorists had been on board, they would have had to eat, like the rest of the men. Lisette began examining the tables, while he started in the kitchen.

“Over here,” Lisette called out. He returned to the mess hall to where Lisette stood near one of the smaller tables in the far corner of the room. There were only two chairs set around it, as opposed to the larger table in the center, which seated twelve.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Small bits of broken glass.” She pointed to the floor in the corner.

He took a closer look, saw thin, curved clear pieces as though from a vial.

They moved the chairs, then lifted the table away from the wall. Lisette crouched down, not the easiest thing to do in their hazmat suits with the breathing apparatus. She opened her small equipment bag, found a wooden tongue depressor to scoop the bits of glass into a plastic tube, and used it. Once the tiny shards were safely contained, she dropped the tongue depressor in with them and was about to cap it shut when someone walked into the room. They both looked up, unable to see who it was because he also wore a biohazard suit and mask.

But then they weren’t looking at his face.

They were looking at the gun he pointed at them.

Marc stood, shielding Lisette. “Who are you?”

“You may call me Daron. Not that it matters.” His accent was thick. Somewhere from South America, Marc thought. “What does is why you two would be interested in trivial things.” He waved with his gun. “Step away from the table, so that I can see what you find so interesting.”

Marc remained where he was.

The man leveled his weapon. “You would die for your friend?”

“Yes,” Marc said.

“No,” Lisette interjected, moving from behind Marc. He felt her brushing up against him as she took her place on his right.

“And what is it you found?” the man asked.

“Broken glass.”

“Give it to me.”

She placed the cap on the tube, held it out, and Marc could see the wooden tongue depressor inside it.

The man took it, lifted it to the light, then gave it a shake. “Now the three of us are going to walk out of here, then off this ship, without alerting anyone as to what you’ve discovered.”

“And if we don’t go?”

“A lot of people will die between here and the shore. So if you care to see their executions, try to make a break. If you would like to save many lives, cooperate.”

Marc and Lisette both had weapons, but they were secured beneath their hazmat suits, rendering them useless. It was, unfortunately, a necessity, as they were there undercover, hoping not to alert anyone who might be watching the boat that they suspected something more. Apparently their efforts had failed. Or someone had been forewarned they’d be there. “We’ll cooperate,” Marc said.

“I thought so. You first,” he told Marc. “Dr. Perrault and I will follow, as though she were ill. If anything happens, she will be the first to go.”

Marc focused on Lisette, saw her give the slightest of nods. He turned, walked up the few short steps out of the mess hall onto the deck. Outside, he glanced back, saw their captor with one arm around Lisette as though physically assisting her to walk. One of the other doctors approached, and Marc said, “Dr. Perrault doesn’t feel well. We’re taking her back to shore.”

“Do you need help?”

“No. We’ll be fine.”

The others went about their business, paying the three of them little attention as Marc climbed down into the waiting boat—not a simple task dressed as he was. There they found a second man, dark hair, weathered face, wearing a hazmat suit without the breathing apparatus or hood. He was also armed. The twenty-foot sport boat was not the same one they came in on, and Marc wondered how it was that no one seemed to notice when it pulled up to the ship. Daron directed Marc to take a seat next to him, then had Lisette sit directly opposite in the U-shaped seating area at the back of the boat. As the vessel set off, their captor removed his hood and facemask, then his gloves.

“Are you sure that’s wise without being decontaminated?” Lisette called out over the roar of the boat’s motor.

“There is nothing on board the
Zenobia
that can harm you. The virus is long dead.”

Lisette removed her headgear, then set it on the seat next to her. “Hemorrhagic filovirus?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly? What does that mean?”

“You ask too many questions, Doctor.” He faced the front of the boat as it sped away from the
Zenobia
.

Marc wasn’t about to be dissuaded from learning what he needed to know, and he pulled off his own hood and respirator, the wind whipping through his hair as they picked up speed. “What’s so important about that broken vial?”

Daron looked at him, the expression on his tanned face one of annoyance. “Unfortunately it was lost at the time the virus was released. We wouldn’t want anyone to believe that what happened on the
Zenobia
was not the result of some natural transmission.” He gave a leering smile, adding, “But the two of you can rest assured, you’ll have a firsthand look at what causes the virus when we reach the compound.”

Which explained why the man had demanded that Lisette pretend to be ill. If she and Marc were found dead of the virus, wherever they happened to dump their bodies, who would question it? Their captors sure as hell weren’t going to let the two of them loose, not with the knowledge they held.

He glanced at the driver of the boat, who seemed intent on steering toward the shoreline, which from their position appeared to be nothing more than endless jungle. Both men were armed. The driver wore his gun holstered, while Daron held his pointed at Marc, probably determining that he was the greater threat. Marc glanced at Lisette in her hazmat suit, thinking no way could he or Lisette get to their Glocks.

It was time to even the odds.

He waited for Lisette to look at him. When she did, the fear in her eyes was replaced by determination as he massaged the web of his hand, then tilted his head toward the driver. She reached up, touched the corner of her right eye, then swept her finger back to her ear, rubbing the lobe. It was a signal they’d used before, a cue that she would follow his lead. Several minutes passed and they were nearing shore.

Marc presumed there were armed associates waiting for them, but a specific opportunity failed to present itself as Daron kept his gun pointed at Marc. Finally, though, Daron seemed to be growing tired, his arm lowering slightly with each jar of the boat. Not low enough, Marc thought, as they sped closer to land, where he was now able to discern specific vegetation. Time was running out. And then, finally, Daron dropped his arm, resting it on his thigh, the barrel aimed toward the bottom of the boat.

Now or never, Marc thought.

He dove across the seat, pushing Daron’s leg into the gun while grabbing the barrel, trying to keep it down.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the driver turn, reach for his own weapon. Lisette swung her face mask up into his jaw. The unexpected force knocked the man back into the steering column. The boat veered wildly, throwing Marc off balance. Daron pressed the gun to Marc’s chest, his finger on the trigger. If Marc’s grip on the slide failed, he was dead. He tried to twist the gun away, but the vessel bounced across the whitecaps. He and Daron fell to the bottom, still fighting for the weapon. He heard a shout, saw something large flying overboard.

Lisette . . .

He felt the slide of the gun slipping in his sweaty palm, felt it cutting his hand. He was going to die, and all he could think of was he had to save Lisette. And then he saw a flash of red hurtling toward his face as the boat jumped one last time, then crashed on the shore.

Chapter 37

December 11

Washington, D.C.

C
arillo drove to the newspaper office, hoping to speak to Merideth Garrett, the reporter who’d written the article about the double agent. Though he’d identified himself, the receptionist at the desk told him that Ms. Garrett had been inundated with calls and wasn’t taking any. “Not even the FBI?” he asked.

“You name the alphabet agency, they’ve been here,” she said. “And reporters, too. She’s asked to be left alone. But if she changes her mind, I’ll put you in line.”

“Thanks,” he said, not leaving a card. He returned to his office at HQ and ran a full computer check on the reporter. Apparently this wasn’t the first big Washington scoop she’d run. Judging from past entries, she had a source pretty high up. Though he doubted she was going to come out and reveal it, when it came to someone’s life being on the line, in his mind, it was worth trying, and he intended to pay a visit to her during the evening when she got off work. Since he had plenty of time to kill, hours in fact, he pulled out that report on the recovered files from the shooter’s computer. After reading it again, he looked at the photo of the pattern on the murder weapon that Sydney had sent, then drove out to the history department at the University of Virginia to speak with Professor Denise Woods, who taught conspiracy theory as part of her coursework. They’d used her before on Fitzpatrick’s last case, and Carillo figured she might be able to clarify a few issues with the case for him. Granted it was a lengthy trip, but he liked her work. And her, if truth be told.

Carillo knocked, then opened the office door. Professor Woods, a striking, petite blond dressed in a cream-colored turtleneck and dark slacks, was seated at her desk. Her look on seeing him was one of mild amusement, and he wasn’t sure if he should be offended. “Professor. Good to see you again.”

“A long way to drive just to visit. What brings the FBI to our hallowed halls this time?”

“I was hoping you might have some information on a symbol in history.”

“It doesn’t involve any of my students, does it?”

“Not this time. Since you’re one of the few experts on conspiracy theory that I know of, you were the only one I could think who might help. We’re drawing blanks here.”

“Then by all means . . .”

He crossed the small office and handed her the copy of the knife hilt sketch that Sydney had forwarded to him. “This was the pattern from an antique shipped to a museum in the Netherlands. The murder weapon.”