The Panic Zone Page 14

“We want to be paid now,” Valmir said.

  “Valmir, you were part of the recovery team in the case of this Wyoming boy?”

  Subtly, Valmir pushed his chest forward. “Yes.”

  “Your instructions were to obtain the baby. That accident could have killed him. You took a stupid risk.”

  Valmir shrugged as Sutsoff’s computer printer came to life.

  “There was miscommunication,” Valmir said. “Our team was advised that you only needed his tissue. Whether he was dead or alive was no concern. But we grabbed him. He lived and we brought him to you as instructed. The mother and father died, so there is no problem.”

  Sutsoff handed him a news article.

  “The father died, but the mother lived, Valmir. You made a dangerous error, risking everything. Fortunately, everyone assumes the baby died.”

  Valmir sucked air through his teeth. “So? It’s a win-win. Pay us our fucking money if you want us to continue.”

  Sutsoff could barely contain her loathing of these two. She’d come to employ them through her international networks: Valmir, the onetime security agent turned human trafficker from Albania and Elena, the prostitute. Dr. Sutsoff hated them but needed them, as she needed the others like them. They were essential to the overall operation. But there was little reason for them to live beyond that. She would happily erase them later. For now, she pulled a thick envelope from her desk and tapped it in her hands.

  “You are supposed to be convincing as proud parents. Valmir, you reek of cigarettes. Drink some mouthwash, shave, bathe and lose your tasteless jewelry. Elena, lose the gum, wear clothing that covers your tattoos and suggests you have a brain and are a good mother, not a moronic whore.”

  Sutsoff tossed the envelope to Valmir, who fanned the American bills, seventy-five thousand dollars in all.

  “We’re going to the casino now.”

  “Listen to me,” Sutsoff said. “Stay sober. We have new passports for you and your son. Pick up the boy in five hours. We’ve arranged for you to join a cruise ship tonight. You are to conduct yourselves as a family on a Caribbean cruise. When your cruise ends, you will fly back to Nassau and stay in this resort. All your tickets and expenses are taken care of.”

  “That’s it?” Valmir asked.

  “You have one assignment on the ship.”

  “What is it?”

  “A man and woman from Indianapolis will be staying in the cabin across the hall from yours. All you have to do is ensure that at some point the boy innocently touches the man’s skin.”

  Valmir looked at Elena then back at Dr. Sutsoff.

  “That’s it?” Valmir asked.

  “That’s it.”

  27

  As Lucy Walsh watched the Leekas leave Dr. Auden’s office, her breathing quickened. The parts of their conversation with the doctor that she’d overheard confirmed her fears.

  For the past several weeks, she’d grown increasingly suspicious that the child-care center was a cover for something illegal.

  Something sinister.

  Lucy had arrived in the Bahamas from Ireland a year ago after answering an online advertisement for nannies. At the time she thought the center to be a world-class service with humanitarian leanings, secretly aiding families facing difficult adoptions and custody matters.

  But she became troubled by Dr. Auden’s payments and calls to medical labs and law firms around the world, by her odd dealings with mysterious and scary people, by the cryptic behavior of some of the staff. It led Lucy to believe that the center was involved in illegal adoptions or child smuggling.

  Or, Lord above, something worse.

  On a recent trip home to Dublin, Lucy confided her worries to a man at her church who worked with a human rights organization. He advised her to covertly gather evidence. When she returned to the Bahamas, she started keeping a journal, collecting files and sending them to her friend in Dublin, who promised to pass them along “through the appropriate channels.”

  Lucy was typing new notes on the Leekas in her confidential online e-mail account when Dr. Auden suddenly appeared at her desk.

  “I need you to arrange an additional flight for me.”

  “Of course, Doctor. First class and both seats, as usual?”

  “Yes, here are the details.”

  The doctor left her a slip of paper.

  After she returned to her office, Dr. Sutsoff closed her door and reread the e-mail she’d just received from her team’s African field station.

  Our tests confirm we have what is needed. We have a small window to harvest and will make arrangements for your arrival.

  Pleased with the information, she picked up a novelty float pen and turned it playfully in her fingers. It was custom-made to her specifications. The barrel showed a sailboat on an azure sea. It floated from one end to the other when the pen was tipped. She unscrewed the cap and slowly emptied the barrel of the liquid, then sterilized it with an antiseptic. She then refilled the barrel with the liquid from the brown bottle in her medical bag, the same liquid she’d tapped into Alek Leeka’s juice.

  Her latest formula.

  She resealed the cap and held the pen up to the light.

  It would pass through any security system. She would give it to Elena and Valmir and advise them on how to administer the solution to Alek.

  Now it was time to run her test.

  Her confidential phone line rang.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Dr. Auden, this is security.”

  Upon recognizing Drake Stinson’s voice she grew angry.

  “I told you to never to call me here.”

  “Our risks are mounting. Vulnerabilities are emerging out of Dar es Salaam, the U.S. and elsewhere.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Are you aware that aspects of the operation were infiltrated in Brazil? Files were stolen. Countermeasures were taken under the pretense of a drug war but an American wire service reporter is digging deep into our actions. I diverted his attention but take nothing for granted. We must remove him now.”

  “No. Not yet. You’ve already removed two journalists. Remove another one and a hundred more will follow. Monitor him but take no action without my authority.”

  “But think of the risks—”

  “Risks? Look at what the Leekas risked in Wyoming for our best specimen. My God, where did you find these people? We needed the best for this operation—now it’s too late to replace them.”

  “I’d warned you that with the large number of operatives you’d demanded we would face a quality issue. And what about the risk you took with your apocalyptic video?”

  “We needed to get our message out at a critical time. We did it through the guise of a cult. My identity was masked and the video is untraceable.”

  “I don’t think you understand that our investors are furious at not seeing any tangible results yet. This will be raised at your meeting with the inner group. They want to know how much longer before we launch.”

  “I’ve told you, a prototype will be released any day now. I will review the results. Then I will go out in the field to seek the final component. I assure you we will launch the operation on schedule. I will deal with the inner group’s worries at our upcoming meeting. Now, I must go.”

  Sutsoff returned to her computers and her work.

  She downloaded an array of data relating to Alek. At the same time Sutsoff watched a large screen linked to a camera monitoring the dimly lit room where Alek had joined some twenty other children watching cartoons.

  Everyone was in good health. No indication of any illness.

  For the moment.

  Dr. Sutsoff adjusted some switches on a control panel and the light in the room faded. Children giggled. Some worried. She put on special glasses and using electromagnetic radiation technology was able to see everything and everyone that Alek Leeka had touched. It was because of the liquid she’d administered. Blue hand prints, smears and smudges radiated as if something had run rampant in t
he darkness.

  Even on the skin of the other children.

  Good.

  She began manipulating the computer, entering commands and passwords. As the computer screens displayed a response with color bar levels and digitized monitoring, Sutsoff watched Alek.

  Within thirty seconds of Sutsoff’s commands, Alek released a small tickle cough. Sutsoff’s keyboard clicked as the camera zoomed in on Alek.

  Within one minute, Alek coughed a bit harder. Sutsoff watched the large flat screen that captured glowing droplets spraying from Alek’s mouth and traveling in the air. Some were inhaled by the other children. Some landed on hands that were then dragged over faces and eyes.

  Sutsoff made another adjustment, increasing her level, and within thirty seconds, Alek sneezed. The magnification camera showed the spray of droplets traveling throughout the room and bombarding the other children.

  Within ten minutes, all of them were coughing and sneezing. The levels on the computers monitoring them showed that they had each started presenting symptoms of a common cold.

  It was astounding.

  Sutsoff’s pulse quickened.

  But she was not done. She typed more commands, inputting passwords and codes. Within five minutes the sneezing and coughing subsided.

  Within ten minutes it ceased.

  Sutsoff studied the computer monitoring the children’s levels. Everything had returned to normal.

  It was over.

  Sutsoff cupped her hands to her face.

  Another trial had worked.

  Like the others before it.

  Sutsoff pressed her intercom and requested to see Alek. She made notes while waiting for the staff member to return Alek to her office for a follow-up examination. Alek was placed on the table while the doctor checked all of his signs again.

  Perfect health. Not a problem

  Alone, Sutsoff savored what she had dreamed of for years.

  Everything she had been working for, everything she’d been struggling to achieve was now within her grasp.

  She possessed the power at her fingertips to control who got sick. With the right synthetic biological agent, with the right microbe, she could determine who lived and who died.

  Anywhere. Anytime.

  She was poised to take the world into a new age.

  She glanced up at the TV monitors. One was showing a report on the upcoming Human World Conference in New York. It was going to be one of the largest gatherings in history. As she watched footage of the preparations for crowds that would be in the millions, she reflected on Oppenheimer’s breakthrough and his invocation of Vishnu. It was now more applicable to her achievement, she thought, as she considered the scale of the conference.

  “Now I have become death, the destroyer of worlds.”

  Let’s get things started.

  Dr. Sutsoff went to another computer and entered commands on the keyboard until a head shot of a man appeared alongside some biographical information.

  Name: Roger Timothy Tippert. Age: forty-one. Nationality: American. Residence: Indianapolis, Indiana. Occupation: teacher. Marital Status: married. Spouse: Catherine.

  Sutsoff stared at Roger’s face. Then at Catherine’s face.

  The Tipperts were cruise-ship passengers.

  She’d selected them randomly for the next experiment.

  If it worked, only one of them would be returning to Indianapolis alive.

  28

  Near Bimini

  The Spanish luxury liner, Salida del Sol, steamed toward the Florida coast and the end of a seven-day cruise of the eastern Caribbean islands.

  Before leaving his cabin, Roger Tippert, the school-teacher from Indianapolis, took one final look in the mirror, approving the shorts and flowered shirt he’d bought in Nassau.

  He was headed to Twisters Cocktail Lounge high up on deck 14. Cathy, his wife of ten years, was somewhere on deck 11 with her new friends, enjoying the ship’s power-walking club.

  He whistled softly as he strolled to the elevator and waited a moment. It chimed and the doors opened to that young couple in the cabin across the hall, the family with the cute baby. They’d come aboard in Nassau. Roger had greeted them a few times and by their accents guessed they were Russian or something.

  The little boy had one arm extended over his head, holding his mother’s hand. She smiled. “Alek, say hello to the nice man.”

  The toddler broke from her grip—or did she nudge him?—and made a teetering beeline for Roger, stumbling into him.

  “Hey there, cowboy.” Roger felt the boy’s little hands slapping at his legs as he squatted down and helped him back to his mother.

  “Thank you.”

  Roger caught something under the woman’s smile. Was it the hint of a come-on? Whatever, Roger dismissed it.

  “No problem.”

  He stepped by her husband, who had the warmth of a zombie. The man eyed him while the doors closed. Alone in the elevator, he shook his head. Man, it was yesterday when his kids were that size. As he strolled into Twisters, he thought happily of his wife. Waiting for her in the lounge had become their predinner ritual during the trip.

  He took in the ocean view, knowing he was one lucky son-of-a-gun.

  Cathy, a dental hygienist, had survived a recent battle with breast cancer. Their two beautiful children, Simon, who was nine, and Melissa, who was seven, were treasures.

  At times he thought that he didn’t deserve this family.

  About three years back, Rosita, a thirty-year-old, divorced ex-beauty queen and substitute teacher had run her hand inside his thigh under the table at a school district lunch and offered to “rock his world.”

  Roger was going to accept Rosita’s offer but on his way to meet her at a motel, he turned around. He knew it was wrong. He was happily married.

  He never told Cathy about it.

  Seven months later, she found a malignant lump.

  But she beat it and in the process became his hero as her strength made him realize that she was too good for him. So it was while they were in the grip of an unrelenting winter that he surprised her with this tropical cruise for an anniversary present.

  She cried.

  It was something she had always dreamed of doing.

  Now, as he sipped a Dutch beer alone at the bar, he reflected on all the places they’d seen—St. Thomas, St. Maarten, Nassau—and how much Cathy had loved every minute of the cruise so far.

  This had been one of the best times of their lives.

  “So we meet again, Tippert.”

  A rugged-faced man in his mid-sixties took the stool next to him.

  “Hey there, captain.”

  Jimmy Stokes, a retired car dealer from Fort Worth, Texas, had been joining him at the bar around the same time every day. Roger liked their conversations on sports, politics, history and life in general. Jimmy was vacationing alone. His wife had died of a stroke five years back. They never had any children and Jimmy was genuinely happy for Roger’s situation.

  “Sounds like you got things set just right on the home front, son.”

  Stokes was also a Vietnam vet, who did two tours over forty years ago. After he started into a beer, he opened up to Roger about his time there. “Funny,” Stokes said. “For years I couldn’t tell anybody about the god-awful things I’d seen when I was in the shit.”

  Stokes would gaze out at the sea as if something evil waited at the far side of the ocean. Today, Jimmy wanted to talk about 1968. Roger hadn’t even been born then.

  “Do you know about the battle of Khe Sanh, son?”

  Tippert only knew what he’d seen on the History Channel.

  “Well I was there.” Stokes pulled on his beer then started his story. “We was in Quang Tri Province…”

  Roger spasmed.

  He dropped his beer and the glass shattered on the floor.

  His fingertips tingled. Gooseflesh rose on his skin.

  “What’s the matter, son?”

  It felt like a switch h
ad been thrown, his brain pulsated and his tongue started to swell. It wouldn’t stop swelling.

  Oh, God—can’t breathe!

  “Is everything all right?” a bartender asked.

  “Call the ship’s doctor!” Stokes said. “My friend’s going into some kind of shock or seizure!”

  Clawing at his throat, Roger fell to the floor.

  “Son, take it easy!”

  Roger didn’t notice the alarmed people who’d gathered around him. His insides were on fire. He was burning up. His breathing was tortured. His vision blurred. His hearing felt like he was underwater. His panicked heartbeat was deafening.

  Oh, Christ! Somebody help me!

  The pressure was increasing as if something was trying to explode from him.

  He convulsed.

  Something hot oozed from his mouth, his nose, his ears.

  He touched it.

  Blood.

  Jesus!

  The pressure. No, please—stop the pressure! His brain was expanding. His head was swelling.

  “Dammit! Is anybody here a doctor?” Stokes shouted.

  Stokes was holding Roger just as he’d held his Marine friends in the mud at Khe Sanh, and he watched in disbelief as Roger Tippert’s blood-laced face contorted.

  “What the good goddamn?”

  In all his time in Vietnam, Stokes had never witnessed anything like this. Tippert screamed as his eyes melted into bloody pools that overflowed down the sides of his face. His abdomen gurgled as if his organs were boiling in his stomach.

  Then his heart stopped.

  Two decks below the spot where he died, Roger Tippert’s wife, Cathy, was exchanging e-mail addresses with a friendly woman she’d met from Indianapolis, whose husband worked for the Colts’ administration.

  “I can get you a deal on tickets for your husband,” the woman said.

  “His birthday’s coming up,” Cathy said. “Roger’s going to love this.”

  29

  Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

  Sarah Kirby moaned coming out of sedation.

  “You’re lucky,” the doctor said.

  Death had missed her by a sixteenth of an inch.

  The doctor flipped through her chart, telling her that the bullet had grazed her neck, and other than the loss of blood and a scar, she would be fine. He poured water in her cup and waited for her grogginess to pass. Then he asked if she was ready for a visitor and turned slightly to the door.