Jonathan Maberry - Patient Zero

Chapter Eighty-Six

Crisfield, Maryland / Thursday, July 2; 8:44 P.M.

“YOU LOST ME,” Dietrich admitted. “I thought you were saying this was all about shifting the U.S. budget away from war and into research. So… what, are we talking about an axis of evil formed by Walgreens and CVS?”

“Think bigger,” Rudy said.

“Doctors, hospitals? Drug companies?”

“Bingo,” I said. “That’s who would stand to make more money if word of this thing got out.”

“Then this whole thing is some kind of goddamn advertising campaign?” Dietrich asked.

“In a way,” I said. “Show the big scary bug to us, prove to us that terrorists are capable of releasing it, then let us stop the first wave so that we feel like we’ve caught a break. But at the same time make us so afraid that the bug might still be out there, still in the hands of terrorists, that we have to scramble to get treatments. Everything that happened at the plant supports that. They handed us the first steps in developing the treatment, sure, but even Hu said that it would take billions to fully research it and maybe trillions to distribute the cure.”

“So who’s the bad guy?” asked Dietrich.

“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” Grace said. “I’m sure whoever is behind this will make sure they’re one among many companies making fortunes. They won’t be so rash as to stand out or try to come to market with the only treatment.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed.

Church pursed his lips and we waited. Finally he nodded. “I think you’ve hit it, Captain. Excellent work.”

“Do I get a cookie?”

“And you are still a world-class smartass.”

I bowed in acknowledgment.

“So where does that leave us?” Rudy asked. “Do you know how many pharmaceutical companies are out there?”

“Too many,” Church said. “But not all of them could have funded something like this.”

“We need to find one company with pockets deep enough to hide the kind of expenditure required for the research and development of this kind of disease. Or diseases, ” I corrected. “Or a group of them who have pooled their resources.”

“Surely there must be some way to narrow that list even further,” Rudy argued. “Not all pharmaceutical companies deal with disease pathogens. Not all of them deal with preventive medicine.”

“Will that matter?” Dietrich asked.

“Sure,” Rudy replied. “If they aren’t prepared to do the research or mass-produce the treatments then they wouldn’t be in on the first wave of cash. The big-money wave. Their factories wouldn’t be configured for it. But even discounting those, we’re still looking at a lot of companies.”

“It’s likely to be a great deal more complicated than that,” Grace said, “because a lot of the big companies are multinational, with divisions peppered liberally all around the world. I doubt any of them would be so daft as to orchestrate this inside the borders of any of the superpowers. The governmental regulations on materials and money would be too risky. I’ll bet these bloody bastards have an R and D facility in some third world country. How would we know where to start looking?”

“MindReader,” said Church. “Though we’re going to have to make a lot of guesses as to what the search arguments are going to be; and this whole thing is still speculation, so we are likely to trip over some of our own assumptions. This presents its own complication, however. No matter who we ultimately discover as the culprit behind this, we still have to bring this to the President and then ask for help from the pharmaceutical companies to prepare in case the disease is ever released, whether that happens deliberately or, more likely, by accident.”

“Oh man,” Dietrich said, “that means that we’re probably going to be making our bad guy pretty damned rich.”

“Right up to the moment we put a bullet in his brain,” Grace said. She wasn’t joking and no one took it as such.

“In the meantime,” I said, “we still have to bear in mind the possibility that actual terrorists are involved in this. My guess is that our phantom pharmaceutical company has been funding terrorists to encourage their cooperation.”

“It makes sense,” Church said. “The terrorists get to benefit from the shift of resources in the superpowers, which gives them a real victory in the eyes of the world. They know that taking hostages didn’t work. Hijacking planes and crashing them into buildings didn’t work. Blowing up subways didn’t work. They may have done a lot of damage, but in the global scheme of things their batting average is low. Now with this they get to rack one up in the ‘win’ category.”

Dietrich chewed on that. “So, they’re something like hired guns for the drug company behind all this.”

“Something like that,” I said, “but one thing we know about terrorists is that they don’t give up easily, and they are seldom satisfied with a subtle victory. They’re not great team players, they resent being someone else’s flunkies, and they suck at sticking to the rules.”

“Meaning…?” Rudy asked.

“Meaning,” I said, “that just because our bad guy has paid them to arrange some demonstrations of this disease, it doesn’t mean that they’re going to pack up shop and go home now that the scheme worked. A lot of their people have been killed in the process. If El Mujahid is involved, then hurting the U.S. economy might not be enough to satisfy his needs.”

“What needs?” Rudy asked.

“Religious needs,” I said.

“Oh crap,” Dietrich said softly.

Sebastian Gault / Afghanistan / Thursday, July 2

“LINE?” ASKED THE American.

“Clear,” said Gault. Toys was right there with him, listening in on the call.

“I have some bad news for you. The Boxer slipped the punch.”

Gault heard Toys hiss quietly. “How?” Gault asked.

“He KO’d the other players. I think he had a corner man. Police found the vehicle at a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike. No trace of the Boxer. Seems like they already had another play running, and the knock-down order reached them too late.”

Gault stood up and walked across the tent and stared out into the Afghani darkness. The Red Cross camp was quiet and the sky above was littered with stars.

“What about the chocolate box?” Gault asked, then abruptly swore in frustration. “For Christ’s sake, let’s skip the sodding code. Tell me what happened?”

After a long pause the American said, “The trigger device has already been picked up. Someone identifying herself as the wife of Sonny Bertucci picked it up an hour ago. The woman fit the description of the woman that’s been sleeping with Ahmed Mahoud, El Mujahid’s brother-in-law.”

“Then they’re already two steps ahead of us,” Gault said. “That means that you’re going to have to find some way to stop him when he makes his run,”

The American swore and the line went dead.

“Bloody hell,” Gault said. “It’s all coming apart.”

“Don’t start,” Toys snapped. Since the moment when he’d slapped Gault the dynamic of their relationship had undergone a change. He’d stepped up into a position of greater power even though Amirah’s betrayal had only made Gault stumble rather than collapse. They had not drifted back into their old pattern, and maybe never would. Both of them were aware of it though neither put the topic on the table. “Now we have to be very careful, Sebastian. If the Yank has to spill his guts to the authorities in order to stop El Mujahid then your name is going to be mud on five continents.”

Gault snorted. “Oh, you think?”