Джеймс Паттерсон - The Games

The doctor believed him but didn’t know what to say.

“I’m flattered, but it’s a little creepy, Ricardo,” he said finally.

“I know,” Ricardo said with desperation in his voice. “And I completely apologize. I was wrong to invade your privacy.”

“It was wrong,” Castro said. “It is wrong.”

The young man held up his palms. “I’m sorry, Dr. Castro. I was stupid. I guess I don’t know many people here in Rio, not many that I’d consider friends, anyway, and it was just something to do. Nothing more than that.”

The doctor gazed at him for several moments. “Who were you going to call to help you with your scooter?”

“Uh, my cousin, probably. Diego.”

“Does Diego know you’re here?”

“No one knows I’m here,” Ricardo said. “I just followed you kind of spur of the moment, that’s all. What is this place? Is this your company or do you just work here? Like, moonlighting?”

After a pause, Castro tilted his head, smiled softly, and said, “No, this company is all mine. Since you’re here, would you like the grand tour?”

That pleased Ricardo a great deal. His head bobbed. He broke into a grin.

“Yes, Dr. Castro,” he said, his eyes bright and shiny. “I’d like that very much.”

Dr. Castro stood aside, smiled wider at Ricardo, and said, “Come in, then.”

The young medical student bowed his head as he passed the doctor and then looked around the small office at the chair, the desk, and the crate with some disappointment. Who knew what his imagination had conjured up about this place?

“From the U.S.?” Ricardo said, tapping the crate. “What’s in there?”

Castro double-bolted the outer door and said, “A new toy.”

“More rocket stuff?”

“Something like that,” the doctor said. He moved by Ricardo and opened the inner door. “This is where the work is done. My personal infectious-diseases lab.”

Ricardo walked eagerly into the airy warehouse space and gaped at the big tent with its air ducts, hoses, and electrical lines.

“Air locks?” the medical student asked.

“And a state-of-the-art decontamination system. I designed it myself.”

Ricardo looked at him in wonder. “So you’re set up to handle the truly dangerous viruses?”

“You have no idea.”

Ricardo shook his head. “Must have cost a fortune to build.”

“Cost me everything I had,” Dr. Castro admitted. “Would you like to go inside? See what I’m up to?”

His student acted like he’d been handed the keys to heaven, and he followed Castro into the air locks. The doctor helped Ricardo into a dry hazmat suit; he took the wet one he’d already used that morning.

He didn’t bother duct-taping his wrists and ankles or Ricardo’s. With Hydra-9 sealed and on ice, there really wasn’t any need. Castro turned on Ricardo’s radio and microphone.

“Hear me?” he asked.

“Loud and clear,” the medical student said.

Dr. Castro unzipped the final portal and crouched to step through and get inside. Ricardo followed, gazing all around like a sailor in a titty bar. The doctor told him to explore while he took care of a minor task.

His student didn’t need to be told twice. He walked past the hospital bed to the glass cages, peered into the ones that held live rats, while Castro busied himself at one of the cabinets.

“Are they infected with a virus now?” Ricardo asked. “The rats?”

The doctor continued what he was doing, said, “Yes, but those rats are very resilient, very resistant to the strain. They’ve survived it.”

“So you’re developing a vaccine?”

Castro turned, nodded, walked toward him. “You’re a smart young man, Ricardo. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“For who?”

“For mankind.”

“Well, yeah, of course,” his student said. “But, like, who’s funding this? You must have a big research grant. Is it from the government? Or a drug company?”

The doctor realized that he’d underestimated Ricardo.

“I’m funding the research personally,” Castro said, stepping up beside him.

Through the hazmat suit’s glass visor, he could see his student’s confusion.

“But this all had to cost over ten million reais ,” Ricardo said.

“Twenty-two million reais ,” the doctor said. “More than two million dollars U.S. Every penny of the settlement I got from the government after my wife was killed in a... well.”

Ricardo looked down. “Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor. I... I didn’t know.”

Dr. Castro considered him a moment before saying, “Ricardo, I’m sorry to say that there are many things you will never know about me.”

He plunged a hypodermic needle through his student’s hazmat suit, felt it pierce the young man’s abdomen before he mashed the plunger. Ricardo made a sound like pillow plumping and doubled over, staring down through the shield at Castro’s hand and the barrel of the syringe.

“What?” he said, gasping, already feeling the effects of the drug.

Castro yanked the needle free, grabbed Ricardo under the armpits.

The young man tried to straighten up, looked at the doctor with eyes that were widening. “Why?”

“Because you have seen too much, Ricardo,” Dr. Castro said. “And I need seven pints of your blood.”

“Seven?” his student whispered drunkenly as his muscles started to go slack. “That’s too much, Doctor. I’ll...”

“I know, Ricardo. I’m really sorry it had to be you.”

The bear adjusted his knapsack, pulled on the helmet, and made the sign of the cross before climbing onto the motorcycle behind the driver. Urso hated taking motorcycle taxis, especially the ones in Vidigal favela, south of Leblon. The Vidigal drivers were insane.

The motorcycle engine revved. The driver let out the clutch and gunned it. They shot straight up the hill. Fifteen seconds into the ride they almost collided with tourists coming down out of the slum. That was the new thing: wealthy foreigners coming to Rio and staying in hostels in the favelas.

Why would anyone willingly vacation in a slum? the Bear wondered. Would they do the same thing in South Central or Compton?

The narrow tarred road turned supersteep and switchbacked. Shack shops that sold everything from cigarettes to plumbing supplies crowded the street, which meant people and motorcycles crowded the street, which meant people and motorcycles often smashed into each other on the street.

By the time they reached the top of the favela, Urso was soaked with nervous sweat. He handed the driver his fare and the helmet and hesitated at a path that led past the highest shack, which was right up against the jungle and in the shadow cast by the more eastern of the Dois Irmãos Mountains.

The Bear climbed past the shack and continued on into the jungle. Even in August, the dead of winter in Brazil, since there was no sea breeze penetrating the canopy of trees, the late-day heat was oppressive.

But the heat felt good to Urso. He followed the path through roots and along rock ledges. He could feel the towering cliff of the mountain’s east flank above him, and through holes in the jungle canopy he caught sight of the sheer gray rock face.

He passed a few other travelers coming down the mountain, always seeing them before they saw him, which gave Urso the chance to study them, evaluate their threat. Rio’s jungles were spectacular places, but given their remoteness right in the middle of a city, they could be utterly lawless.

The Bear was not a regular on this path. Not by any means. But he knew enough about these woods to understand that any smart gangster would hide in a ravine just beyond where the path buttonhooked along the flank of the hill. If the men were in the jungle, they’d be waiting above the pinch point.