Robin Cook - Vector

“No problem,” Steve said.

“We’ll need a lot of firepower,” Curt said. “I want to make a fast, definitive strike. I mean, I don’t want to shoot him just once and have him pull through.”

“I agree,” Steve said.

“All right, that’s it,” Curt said. He polished off the dregs of his beer and started to slide out from the booth.

“We’ve got one more issue,” Yuri said.

Curt held up.

“I want to move Operation Wolverine up to tomorrow, Thursday.”

“Tomorrow!” Curt echoed with disbelief. “I thought you were going to have trouble meeting Friday’s deadline with the anthrax powder.”

“I worked most of the night and all morning,” Yuri said. “With the second fermenter functioning as well as it is, we’re in good shape. By tonight we’ll have plenty for both laydowns.”

“I guess we could do that,” Curt said. “Thursday or Friday, there’s really no difference.” He looked at Steve.

“No reason why not,” Steve said. “The getaway is in place. That would be the critical issue.”

“I think we have to do it Thursday,” Yuri said. “As you mentioned last night, security is the issue. Even if we get rid of Jack Stapleton, we have no idea who he’s talked to. To wait another twenty-four hours is taking a risk.”

Curt gave a little chuckle. “You know, I think you’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” Yuri said. “Provided we want to see Operation Wolverine succeed, which, of course, we all do.”

“Absolutely,” Curt said. “What time do you want us to come by tonight for the sausages?”

“Better make it late,” Yuri said. “I’ll need time to get them properly packaged. Let’s say around eleven.”

“Perfect,” Curt said. “We’ll be there.” Curt slid out from the booth. Steve followed. Yuri stayed where he was.

“I want to finish my hamburger,” Yuri explained.

“See you at five,” Curt said. He gave a halfhearted salute before following Steve out of the bar.

Yuri watched them go. He thought their playacting at soldiering was pathetic, and he was embarrassed to be associated with them. Still, after their little meeting, he felt better than he had all day. It seemed that despite all the problems, everything was falling into place. As he chewed another mouthful of his burger he considered stopping at the travel agency on the way home to make his reservation to fly from Newark to Moscow Thursday evening. But then he thought maybe he should do it by phone, since he didn’t want to take too much time. After all, he had a lot of work to do before eleven.

Wednesday, October 20

2:15 p.m.

Jack coasted to a stop at the OCME’s loading dock and climbed off his bike. He was out of breath from the last frantic dash up First Avenue, when he’d kept up with the traffic. By doing so, he’d managed to keep the traffic lights in sync all the way from Houston Street and hadn’t had to stop once.

Hoisting the bike onto his shoulder, he climbed up onto the platform and walked into the building. The jaunt to Brighton Beach had been wonderfully rewarding even if he’d failed to accomplish the original goal. Yet he’d done what he could in that regard. The rest was up to the phlegmatic bureaucracy of the Department of Health, or Yuri Davydov himself.

Jack stopped off in his office and hung his coat behind his office door. He noticed Chet’s microscope was out on his desk with its light on and papers spread around it, suggesting he was in the middle of working on something, although at the moment he was nowhere to be seen. Jack guessed he’d ducked down to the vending machines on the second floor. Chet liked to snack in the afternoons.

Before sitting down at his own desk, Jack walked down the hall toward Laurie’s office. He was still eager to give her the credit for the startling botulinum toxin diagnosis. Unfortunately, her door was closed, which was not normal. Jack could not remember another time when Laurie or her officemate had the door closed in the middle of the day. With a shrug Jack turned back to his office.

Jack had taken only a few steps when he heard a male voice raised in anger. He couldn’t make out what had been said, but the disturbing part was that it seemed to have come from behind Laurie’s closed door. Jack hesitated. A moment later he heard it again with a thump that sounded like a fist striking a metal desk or file cabinet.

Concerned, Jack returned to Laurie’s door. He raised his hand to knock but wavered. Given the closed door, he worried about interfering, but then he heard a distinctive slew of swear words and another percussive thump. Then he heard Laurie’s voice in a pleading tone say, “Please!”

Prompted by instinct more than thought, Jack knocked and opened the door at the same time. Laurie was backed up against the wall next to the file cabinet. She wasn’t cowering, yet her face reflected a mixture of fear and indignation. Paul Sutherland stood in front of her, dressed in a dark business suit. His tanned face was flushed and his right index finger was no more than six inches from Laurie’s nose. Jack’s entrance had seemed to freeze him in place.

“I hope I’m not interfering,” Jack said.

“But you are interfering!” Paul snapped, coming to life. “That’s why the goddamn door was closed.” He faced around toward Jack and challengingly perched his fists on his hips.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Jack said. He bent slightly to the side to have a better look at Laurie around Paul’s stocky silhouette. “Laurie, do you feel the same way?”

“Hardly,” Laurie said. “I think this discussion, if you can call it that, was getting out of hand.”

“Get out of here!” Paul snarled. “Laurie and I are going to have this out here and now.”

“This is neither the time nor the place,” Laurie said. “I already told you that.”

“Well, it seems there’s a disagreement here,” Jack said lightly. “I don’t mind offering my services as an arbitrator.”

“I’m warning you!” Paul said. His eyes narrowed. He took a threatening step forward.

“Paul, please!” Laurie said angrily. “I think you should leave!” Paul did not take his eyes off Jack. “Get the hell out of here!” he repeated.

“I heard you the first time,” Jack said airily. “But this is Dr. Montgomery’s office, and her wishes reign. I think it’s time you left, unless you’d like to discuss the issue with Sergeant Murphy downstairs.”

Paul lunged forward in an attempt to hit Jack with a roundhouse blow. Anticipating the punch, Jack leaned back out of reach. Then, taking advantage of Paul’s momentary loss of balance, Jack grabbed a handful of his silk suit and yanked him out through the open door, into the hall. The maneuver was accompanied by a distinct ripping sound.

Paul quickly regained his footing and assumed a crouched position with his fists raised by his head, giving Jack the impression he knew how to box. Recognizing his own limited abilities in the sport, Jack debated whether to run or envelop the man in a protective bear hug. Luckily, Jack did not have to make a decision. A yell sounded from down the hall as Chet came running at them, an open bag of potato chips and a can of pop in hand.

Faced with overwhelming odds, Paul straightened up from his threatening stance. With angry gestures he examined his finely tailored jacket and found that it had been ripped.

“Sorry,” Jack said, seeing the damage he’d caused. “Luckily, it looks like it was just a seam.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Chet asked.

“Paul and I had a momentary disagreement,” Jack said. “But thanks to you, I think it’s ironed out, so to speak.”