Джеймс Паттерсон - The Games

The doctor reached into the open top pocket of the Cinder 55, pulled out the pistol, and shot the American dead at point-blank range.

Friday, August 5, 2016

2:30 p.m.

Four and a Half Hours Before the Olympic Games Open

The international broadcast facility for the Olympic Games was a ten-story temporary structure built at the far south end of Copacabana Beach, where it commanded a gorgeous view of the white-sand shore and, across the waves, Pão de Açúcar.

Huge glass windows dominated the north side of the building, where NBC and other television networks had their sets. Behind them was one of the most sophisticated broadcast facilities on earth.

Every image, every video clip, and every blip of the live feeds coming from various Olympic events would pass through the facility on its way to editing studios and satellites that would beam coverage of the games around the world.

For that reason alone, shortly after the World Cup, Mo-bot had recommended that General da Silva set up a temporary Olympic security command right behind the broadcast center and tie it into every feed. He’d agreed, and she’d been in on the design from the beginning.

There was a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall curved screen at the front of the command center, a large, windowless, and high-ceilinged single-room affair with tiers of workstations facing the big screen.

On the narrow left side, live video feeds from around Rio played. The narrow right side of the screen featured feeds from security cameras at various intersections and venues around the city. The vast majority of the screen, however, was dominated by a real-time satellite image of Rio de Janeiro, another of Maureen’s suggestions.

General da Silva was standing next to Jack in front of the screen, shaking his head.

“I can’t do it, Jack,” the general said. “I can’t pull the plug on the opening ceremony with less than five hours to go. It would destroy Rio’s reputation, humiliate—”

“How good is Rio’s reputation going to be if you don’t pull the plug and Castro gets some bioweapon inside Maracanã Stadium? What do you think will happen to you if your president and all her invited dignitaries are exposed, and the world learns you could have stopped it?”

Da Silva looked like he was a man trying not to drown. After several moments he said, “We are not stopping the opening ceremony.”

“General,” I said.

He waved me off. “As of now, I am banning the use of all cars, taxis, motorcycles, and bicycles within three miles of the stadium. As of now, I am calling in army units to seal off the area and enforce the vehicle ban. Access will be limited to residents, ticket holders, accredited media, vendors, and athletes. Period.

“Dr. Castro’s picture will be sent to the phone of every police officer, every soldier, every Olympic volunteer, and every municipal employee in Rio, including the bus drivers. We’ll give it to the media as well. That doctor is not getting anywhere near Maracanã Stadium. The people of Rio are going to hunt him down for us.”

Friday, August 5, 2016

4:30 p.m.

Two and a Half Hours Before the Olympic Games Open

I had to hand it to General da Silva. In a very short time his ham-fisted tactics had done a lot to ease my concern over the opening ceremony going forward.

Looking at that real-time satellite image in the command center, I could see that the streets for miles around Maracanã Stadium were now devoid of all vehicles except for the trucks of credentialed vendors, the buses ferrying volunteers, athletes, and coaches, and the strings of Mercedes-Benz limousines bearing foreign and International Olympic Committee dignitaries. Thousands of people on foot streamed toward the stadium.

Security got tighter within a fifteen-block radius of the Maracanã. Brazilian army tanks were already parked in every major intersection. BOPE and Brazilian army special forces units had closed off some streets, funneling all pedestrians through checkpoints where their identification, tickets, and credentials would be reviewed three times before they reached the stadium. Every single person involved in Olympic security had a picture of Dr. Castro on his or her cell phone, and the media had plastered his photo everywhere, telling everyone he was dangerous and that anyone who spotted him should call the police.

So far, there’d been no sightings.

Had da Silva’s drastic measures scared Castro off? It was possible, but I wasn’t betting on it as the digital clock in the security command center rolled toward zero hour.

“Jack, I’m going to the stadium at six p.m.,” the general said.

I understood. Da Silva wanted to be there if Castro somehow got his deadly virus in. The general was a proud man. He wouldn’t have it said that he had foreknowledge of a deadly threat and chose to ride it out in safety six miles away.

“I’ll go with you,” I said.

Justine and Mo-bot turned around at their workstations.

“That’s not a good idea,” Justine said.

“No, it’s a necessary one,” I said.

“Well, I won’t be going with you.”

“And neither will I,” Mo-bot said. “I draw the line at willingly exposing myself to a deadly virus.”

“I get it,” I said. “But I don’t have a choice in the matter, do I?”

“Sure you do,” Justine said, irritated.

“How’s that?”

“You have a choice,” she said. “But as usual, Jack, you just plow ahead, never thinking of the consequences.”

“I have thought of the consequences,” I shot back. “The consequences of not going, especially what that would do to Private’s reputation.”

“And how is Private going to look after the untimely death of its leader and driving force?”

Before I could reply to that, an excited Lieutenant Acosta came toward us with a wide-eyed and shabbily dressed boy who looked about eleven years old.

Acosta said, “This young man has a very interesting tale to tell.”

Felix Martins lived with his mother and brothers and sisters in Rio’s Laranjeiras, squatters on the third floor of a moldering palace that once belonged to the king of Portugal’s physician. Toward midday, Felix had heard a car roll into the courtyard parking area, and he went to look.

The car took the last available space. A man in gray work clothes got out, retrieved a large gray-green backpack from the trunk, and then threw his keys inside the trunk and shut it.

“Did you see his face?” I asked.

“I recognized him from the pictures on the television right away,” Felix told us. “I went straight to the police station.”

“Is the car still there?” Justine asked.

Felix knit his brow, seemed conflicted, but then shook his head and said the car had been stolen around one o’clock that afternoon.

Acosta said, “You know who stole it?”

The boy chewed his lip. “It was almost like he wanted it stolen.”

“Maybe he did,” I said. “Who’s got it?”

“I dunno,” he said. “Some friend of my mother’s. Ask her.”

Acosta said, “I will. When was the last time you saw him?”

“When he went out the gate.”

“Which way did he turn?” I asked.

Felix thought about that and said, “Right.”

Mo-bot found the decrepit palace and put it up on the big screen, giving us the aerial view. You could see the courtyard and wall plainly. Maureen highlighted the area on the satellite feed and then pulled back to show the winding road heading north until it dead-ended in the steep and choked jungle of the Tijuca National Park.