The Dark Hour (33 page)

“Assuming he was successful. Unless you’re counting the two missing vials. It’d be nice to know how much damage they could do in the wild.”

“The ship was isolated. But if it killed everyone on board that quick, think what one vial could do in a crowded space like an airport? A week later, they’re dead.”

“And what do you have in there?” he said, nodding to the portable cryofreezer.

“More of the same,” she said, holding up one of the inert vials. “The actual virus was in a liquid medium. You don’t think I’d chance carrying around the real deal, even if there was any to be found?”

Marc peeked out into the hallway. It was, so far, empty. They stepped out, closed the door behind them, and started walking toward the main compound area. “I liked this plan better when we were just coming in for food and a phone call.”

“You’ll be fine,” Lisette said. “As long as no one here has actually seen the real virus.”

“Fine. How do we know that we won’t be exposed from being in there?”

“Like I said, there are no seals on the doors. If there was anything floating around, they wouldn’t need any guards. Everyone would be dead within a week of exposure.”

“I feel better already.”

“According to what I read, the UV rays kill it. The UV laser just works faster.”

Hence the UV lights mounted everywhere in the lab and down the hallways, he figured. Even their kidnapper had mentioned that what had killed those men on the boat was no longer active. Fedorov’s so-called shutoff switch must have worked. He hoped.

They walked about twenty yards to a T intersection, heard the sound of booted feet echoing down the hallway to the right. Marc and Lisette stepped out, Marc with his gun pointed toward Lisette’s back. When Marc saw the two guards who had entered the lab, he held up the portable freezer, saying in French, “I found her trying to steal the virus.”

The first guard stepped forward. “Who are you?”

“Marco. I just started a few days ago. Alvaro’s back in the lab, guarding it in case anyone else is there. I just came in from the perimeter and found her trying to get out the door.”

The fact Marc knew Alvaro’s name seemed to calm any suspicions, and the guard nodded, saying, “Bring her this way.”

“What about the virus?” Marc asked, lifting the freezer unit.

“You carry it.”

They followed the guards to a room near the front of the compound, where Marc saw a sat phone and radio communication equipment, TV monitors of the surrounding area, as well as a switchboard, which was undoubtedly where the call came in when Lisette had picked up the phone in the lab.

Two other armed men looked up, one standing as they entered. “What is this?” he asked, his tone telling Marc immediately that they were in the presence of the man in charge. If his voice wasn’t enough, the stars on his collar were. Guerrillas with rank. This one was a general.

Marc closed the door behind him, then stepped slightly away from Lisette so that his M4 was clear of her. He held up his cryo canister. “She took some virus from here.”

“What?” the man said, his gaze flicking from the canister to Marc. “Who are you?”

And Marc said, “The one who is going to save you from being killed. If she dies, the vial she is holding will fall and we’ll all be dead.”

Lisette held up the same vial she’d shown him in the office, her finger over the open top.

“Then take her out and kill her.”

Lisette held the vial even higher. “Only if you want to die with me. If anyone makes a move, I release it. I’m not afraid to die. Are you?”

The general froze, looked her right in the eye as though trying to decide if she was bluffing. And then he waved at the men to lower their weapons. “What do you want?”

“Your cooperation,” she said. “To communicate to our base, then safe passage out of here.”

He eyed the vial, weighing his choices. “So,” the general said, looking at Marc. “It was you who killed Daron?”

“I
did,” Lisette replied.

The general’s gaze narrowed ever so slightly, as he turned his attention back to Lisette. “Bring her the sat phone.”

One of his men brought it to her. She didn’t reach for it, saying instead, “Place it on speakerphone.” He did and she gave him the number to call. McNiel answered. “It’s Perrault,” she said, speaking English. “We were taken prisoner on the
Zenobia
. We’re in an enemy compound where the virus is being stored off the coast of Amapá, south of the
Zenobia
’s current location. We are being monitored on a sat phone.”

“Understood,” McNiel said.

“I have a sample of the virus and we want to go home.”

“We’re picking up the coordinates from the sat phone now, and they’re being transmitted to the navy as we speak. They have a battleship about ten minutes by air from your coordinates. And if anyone thinks of taking advantage of that time, or anything happens to either of you, a missile strike is a hell of a lot faster. Do they understand?”

Marc looked at the general, who apparently understood every word. The man took a deep breath, telling his men in French, “Put all your weapons on the floor. You will cooperate. That is an order.”

And Marc breathed his first sigh of relief since they left the stolen freighter.

Chapter 52

December 12

Paris, France

T
he desk clerk turned a bemused eye to Sydney. “I’m sorry, madame, but I do not understand. You have a very good room.”

“And now I’d like another.”

“Another?”

“Yes. My husband and I have had a fight.”

He gave an annoyed sigh, turned to the computer, saying, “We are booked.”

“There are empty rooms on either side of ours. You said so when we checked in. Privacy, you said.”

“Yes, but tomorrow the rooms are all booked. There is a big convention and every hotel in the area is booked. ”

“I only need it for the one night. I’m sure we’ll be over our fight by tomorrow.”

“You can promise this?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

Sydney paid him, took the key, then walked toward the staircase. Once she was out of sight of the clerk, she drew the handgun from her waistband. At the top floor, she trained the weapon toward her old room, sidestepping past it, before backing to the room she’d rented. Keeping her gun aimed, she glanced at the lock, inserted the key, opened the door, then slid in. The moment she bolted it shut, she leaned against the frame, taking a deep breath.

“You can do this,” she whispered, then glanced over to the window she’d come through earlier. She crossed the room, parted the curtain, looked out to the street below. No one moved about at this late hour, and she tucked the gun back into her waistband, opened the window, then stepped out onto the balcony.

The cold air hit her face, and she stood there a moment, taking deep breaths, trying to steady her nerves.

You can do this . . .
She took one last look around, willing herself to remain calm. Though she had every confidence that an ATLAS extraction team would be better equipped, the very thought that Griffin could be dying on that floor kept her from waiting. And what if this hit man decided to end Griffin’s life right there? Or his associate showed up?

She couldn’t risk it, and with that thought, she climbed over the balustrade, then started easing her way to the third room on the right. The wrought iron was cold beneath her bare hands. Her foot slid on a bit of icy snow. She caught herself, tried to slow her breathing as she hung there. Heartbeat racing, she gripped the vibrating iron railing with her arms. Just a few more feet. Righting herself, she started forward again, then stopped outside the window. She swung one leg over the balustrade, then the other, waiting for her pulse to slow.

The drone of the TV from her room covered any other noise and she took a step closer, peered through the same slit in the curtain. He was there, seated against the headboard, his gun gripped in his right hand, resting in his lap, its barrel aimed in her general direction. He appeared to be dozing, but she couldn’t be sure. On the bedside table was the bottle of brandy, and she hoped like hell he’d finished it.

She took a step forward, reached out, pushed on the window. Heard something smash on the floor inside. A trap.

He opened his eyes, raised his gun. She flung herself into the topiary.

A shot shattered one of the panes.

Sydney aimed at the window, waited, waited . . . saw him pull aside the curtain. She fired twice. Heard him fall to the ground. And still she didn’t move, kept her gun aimed into the room.

Finally she pushed herself out of the topiary, stood, reached into the broken window, keeping her weapon pointed within.

He was on the floor, bleeding against the marble tile, his gun lying about a foot away from his hand. Sydney unlocked the window, had to shove it open, moving his body as she did so. The glass he’d placed on the balcony door handles as an alarm had broken on the floor, and she used her foot to shove the shards aside before stepping in.

Bose. She remembered that Carillo had said his name was Bose, and she reached down, felt for a pulse. He’d taken a shot in the chest and the gut. If he wasn’t dead, he would be soon, and she moved around him, picked up his gun, then went to find Griffin.

She saw him lying on his stomach between the bed and the wall nearest the bathroom, his face slack, his skin cold and clammy and his breathing slow and shallow. His hands were cuffed behind him, and his fingertips were looking blue, which meant either the cuffs were too tight, or he was overdosing. She assumed this Bose had a cuff key, and returned to the man’s side, patted his pockets, found the key on a fob in his pocket. She unlocked the cuffs on Griffin, tried to rouse him, growing more worried by the second.

She phoned Carillo. “Is Tex still with you?”

“Right here.”

“Put him on.” He did, and she asked, “What’s the French equivalent of nine-one-one?”

“Two-one-one. Why?”

“The good news? I have Griffin, but he’s out like a light. The bad news, he’s turning blue, I need to get him to a hospital, and there’s a dead guy on the floor of our room . . .”

“Bose is dead?”

“Assuming that’s who I shot.” She paused, listened, heard sirens. “I think someone already called the police.”

“Syd, if the cops show up, you could both be in jail for days until we get this sorted out. Let them take Griffin to the hospital. You get out of there.”

“And what if Bose’s associate shows up? Or follows us? No way am I leaving Griffin.” She looked around the room, took stock of everything, imagined what the French police would make of the broken windows, the dead body, and Griffin, out cold.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, as the sirens grew louder. “But whatever it is, I better think of it fast.”

Chapter 53

December 12

Paris, France

“H
ow are you feeling, monsieur?”

Griffin opened his eyes, taking in the strange surroundings, the plain white walls, the sound of something beeping in the background. “What happened?”

“You were given another dose of naloxone. The first wore off and the morphine in your system took effect once more. Do you not remember what happened?”

He remembered waking up in the ambulance finding an IV in his arm, then arriving at the hospital, but his thoughts remained fragmented as he tried to recall how he had ended up here, escaped from the hit man who’d drugged him to begin with. He focused on the young nurse, her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, her gray eyes regarding him kindly. “I don’t remember.”

“Your wife said that someone attacked you?”

“Where is she?” Griffin tried to sit up, nearly pulling the IV from his hand.

“She is waiting in the lobby, monsieur,” the nurse said, pushing him back down, then checking the IV to make sure he hadn’t dislodged it. She rubbed her fingers over the tape, then pressed a button on a remote, raising the bed so that Griffin was sitting up. “There is someone here to see you. A priest.”

Griffin’s brain seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace. “A priest? Was I dying?”

“Had your wife not brought you in, you very well might have.” She looked toward the door, saying, “Ah, here he is now. Shall I close the door, Monsignor?”

“Merci
,” the priest said. Father Dumas stood facing Griffin, his hands clasped in front of him, his expression peaceful, calm, and unassuming, and looking nothing like the Vatican spy that he was.

“Where the hell is Sydney?” Griffin demanded, once the nurse stepped out.

“Monsieur Griffin. You should not agitate yourself or you will send the doctors running when they see your blood pressure,” he said, walking up to the equipment, peering at the numbers beeping on the screen. “And right now we need the time to come up with your cover story.”

“Did you know?”

“Know?”

“What they said. About my wife.”

Dumas leaned down, one brow raised in a sardonic arch, saying softly, “Which wife are we talking about? The woman posing as your wife in the lobby who
saved
your life or the other one?”

“My
real
wife, you god—”

“Tsk, tsk.” Dumas reached out, tapped the monitor, shaking his head. “You must calm yourself, Monsieur Griffin. This is not good for your blood pressure.” He pulled up a chair, taking a seat next to Griffin’s bed. “As I explained before, up until the moment that Tex telephoned me, asking if I could assist you with this case, I knew what you knew. I saw what you saw. And I believed what you believed. My conversation with Tex was brief, and as of yet, I still don’t know the particulars regarding Becca. Is she alive?”

Griffin stared into the priest’s dark eyes, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. He didn’t always trust Dumas, but at the moment he had no reason not to believe him. “You said Sydney is in the lobby?”

“She is being questioned by the police. Which is why we must quickly talk. They will be coming in to question you as soon as the doctor allows it.”