Brian O'Grady - Hybrid

A respiratory therapist eyed his approach and addressed him more formally than usual. “He’s extubated; his breathing is stable, rate of twenty with good tidal volumes.” She finished a note in the chart and walked away without comment.

Damn them , he thought.

“A spy, a Russian spy!” Martin screamed.

“Dr. Martin, you are not helping matters,” Martha whispered. “I think you should take a break; walk around a little bit and clear your head. Let me handle this.”

He didn’t like being “handled,” but he saw her logic. Without another word, he walked out of his office. The last thing he heard was Martha demanding that everyone leave the room.

Nathan gave her twenty minutes and then crept back into his office. He lifted Maria’s head, and her eyes opened dreamily. Given the dark hair strewn across her face, the half-open but piercing blue eyes, and the torn blouse revealing flawless breasts, it was easy for Martin to see how this woman could have infiltrated his department. She radiated raw sexual energy, and even now, when he wanted nothing more than to strangle her, a part of his mind had reverted to teenage form and wanted nothing more than to touch her. “What did she tell you?”

“Everything,” Martha said, frowning at her boss.

Nathan looked up at his secretary, and although she was striking in her own right, he couldn’t help but notice how much older she looked. “Tell me,” he said, letting Maria’s chin drop unceremoniously back onto her chest.

“She’s from Bosnia, educated in Berlin. Recruited to the SVR seven years ago and has worked for Avanti the last five. The Russians wanted him almost as much as we did.” Martha had donned her reading glasses and read from her notes. “I gotta hand it to her, she is good. Aside from her obvious talents, she’s got other things going for her. She worked out Avanti’s contacts; even he didn’t know who he was really working with.”

“Who?” Spies, undercover agents, and international intrigues were all very interesting, but what he really wanted to know was why she was here. What was so important that Avanti would risk putting a mole right under his nose?

“A group of eight men. In this incarnation they were funneling money and guidance through a Saudi prince named Al-Rhodan, who doesn’t exactly share his great uncle’s Western bias. On the surface he appears credible enough, in fact eight years ago the Saudi royal family issued a death warrant for him. She didn’t know what he did to deserve that, but it had to be something for the royals to want to kill one of their own.” Martha answered.

“So he’s Avanti’s contact, but someone else is pulling his strings,” Martin clarified. “So who are they?”

“That’s where things start to get a little fuzzy. She turned up only two names; one here in the States: David Moncrief. He’s a French national living in upstate New York.” Martha paused to see if Martin recognized the name. “I hadn’t heard it, either. Avanti never even knew these guys existed, so I’m guessing she’s found herself another source.”

“It was nothing like that,” Maria said unexpectedly. Her words were slightly slurred, but she was starting to speak on her own volition. “We knew of the Group of Eight from Igor Nachesha.”

Martin looked at Martha for an explanation. “Ugo oil,” she said without elaboration. Martin was still lost.

“He used his stolen fortune to join the group. One billion American dollars was the enrollment fee.” Maria said thickly, trying to shake off the effects of the drugs. “You can release me. I am not your enemy.”

“Your handgun says otherwise,” Martin answered. “Why did Avanti send you here?”

“On a fool’s errand. I altered your computer files, but there was nothing in them. He knew much more about the virus than you did. After that, he just had me watch you. We used the Internet to communicate.”

Martin was disappointed. He had hoped that she had taken something or destroyed something that they could use. “So what was your escape plan, or were you supposed to die along with the rest of us?” Martin couldn’t believe a Russian agent would allow herself to die just to preserve her cover story.

She looked into Martin’s eyes with a gaze as steady as the drugs in her system would allow. “I knew nothing of this. For two years, I worked as a translator for him, and later as one of his aides. Then he sent me here. It was only supposed to be for a couple of months, just long enough to gain access to the computer files.

“I may be a Muslim, but I am not a fanatic, nor am I suicidal. If I had known about any of this, I would have reported it to my superiors and disappeared.”

She may have been putting on an Emmy-deserving performance, but Martin believed her. “Why don’t we let her go,” Martin said to Martha, who nodded her head in agreement and then undid the cuffs. “Once you found out what was happening, why didn’t you come to one of us?”

“I found out when you found out. Apparently the bastard wanted me dead as much as he wanted you dead.” She looked up at Martin and adjusted her torn scrub top.

“The military is coming to get you.” He was starting to lose interest in her. Twenty minutes ago, he had thought she would have all the answers, but now she was just another dead-end.

“Why would this Group of Eight want to destroy the United States?” Martha wasn’t done yet. She wanted every last bit of information before the military claimed her.

Maria smiled. She had been blown and would soon be a prisoner of the United States. She needed a bargaining chip. “I don’t think I want to share that just yet.”

“Young lady, people are dying, right here, right now, and if you think I will hesitate in using all means available to me—”

“Knowing the motivations of the Group of Eight will not stop people from dying. When the time is right, and the crisis is past, I will tell the appropriate people what you want to know.” Maria was a well-trained professional and knew how to play the game better than Martha did.

Martha’s blood pressure was topping out just below the level that caused strokes in healthy people, but she knew Maria was right. “Fine, but I want you to remember that in a short while, you are going to be taken out of this sealed environment and brought to a place where the likelihood of infection is high. If the

virus is released, you die along with the rest of us.”

“I am well aware of that,” Maria said, her voice taking on the slightest trace of an Eastern European accent. “As I told you a moment ago, I have no desire to die, or to see any of you die.”

“What happened to the real Rachel Hill?” Martin rejoined the conversation.

“That is a very good question.” She turned to face Martin, who had sat back down into his chair. “When I first came here, I met a man named Kameel Neser. He gave me all of Rachel Hill’s papers and accompanied me to Tampa. We spent four days together setting up her new identity in Florida. Just before he left, I asked him about the real Rachel Hill. He said that he had taken care of her, and that there was no possibility of her reappearing. He left no doubt in my mind that he had killed her. I passed on his name and photograph to my control officer, and I forgot about Neser. Two months ago, my control officer contacted me; Neser had been arrested. I was told that he was in possession of a firearm that had been used in a double homicide, and that I was exposed. I was supposed to come in, but I had invested five years of my life getting close to Avanti, and I wasn’t willing to throw that away.”

“Kameel Neser. Was that his real name?” Martha was writing again.