Carrion Virus (Book 2): The Athena Protocol (7 page)

Nope.

An open-plan room, the centre boasting three leather sofas orbiting an ornate glass table that may have been crystal. A compact, yet bountifully stocked bar slipped into an alcove in the wall. The windows would no doubt provide a spectacular view over the city come day. On the other side of the room, a wood-panelled double door waited.

“Sit. Wait here.”

Driver disappeared through the doors. Ryan stood alone with the sofas and the table, his head swimming with possible outcomes and theories as to what was going on. The more he thought about things, the more elaborate and desperate his situation became. He imagined the doors would swing open and a group of men would set upon him. Or the vents in the room would release some kind of noxious fumes. Maybe there was a deadly animal somewhere in the room, stalking him? A panther? A cobra? Only silence met him.

He moved to throw his bag onto the closet sofa, but checked himself, and placed it neatly on the floor, then moved up to the bar. Did he dare? This seriously, bad day deserved a shot of something, and it was equally possible that he was in fact a guest at this place after all. He plucked out a tumbler and poured himself what may or may not have been whiskey. He sipped. An expensive, smooth scotch. He took his drink back to the sofa, sat awkwardly as if his presence would somehow dirty the fine leather, and upset his captors, if it actually was a pair of captors that lay on the other side of those door. Ryan studied the craftsmanship of the table, the cuts in the glass, the reflection of the lights overhead in some of the sharper angles. At home his feet would have climbed onto that table and rested. Not here.

Ryan nervously flicked his fingers one at a time. He gulped from his glass, and winced as it went down. Surely if they wanted him dead, he would already be bloated, floating face down somewhere in Seattle’s harbours. He only guessed facedown because that’s how bodies are discovered in crime shows.

Ryan knew only what was required for the mission he undertook. No more than that. No names. No faces. No phones. No questions. What if they wanted him to repeat such a task, invade some poor, unsuspecting city and unleash another wave of the Carrion Virus. He placed two hands on his glass. What if they now wanted to become a host to a new strain of the virus?

No opening mechanisms or locks appeared on the windows. No escape. Anyway, he was pretty high up, he’d splat like a pancake. If he bolted for the lift, it would
bing
and that Japanese lady’s voice would call out a warning.

The double doors opened at the far end of the room. Driver appeared.

“Mr. Crispin will see you now.”

***

Gemma knocked on the open door. The sleepy guard, charged with watching the captive, paid little attention when she flashed her ID badge. At best she was stretching any authority she might have. At worst she was breaking the law. Gemma was not sure which way Dylan would see things. She felt a little guilty, but only a touch. This is what she was employed for after all.

The young man stood at the window, peering out into the dark of the night. Snow fluttered against the window. The man wiped his hand against the glass, clearing the build-up of condensation from his breath.

“Yes?” he asked, turning toward her.

“Can I come in?”

“That depends on who you are and what you want.”

The man seemed calm, perhaps resigned to the fact he was marooned on an island of desperation.

“Well,” said Gemma, stepping into the room, “I’m Gemma, and I want to hear your story. I heard what you said to the soldiers in the lobby. Nobody wanted to listen.”

“Nobody’s ever wanted to listen,” said the man, sitting down on a small wooden chair next to the table. “That’s the problem.”

“I’m here to listen, and to help. What’s your name?”

“George Reign.”

“Rain? As in?”

“Kings and queens, not horse equipment or water from the sky.”

“You don’t mind if I record our conversation and make some notes?”

“Why? What are you? A reporter?”

Gemma smiled. “I’m just trying to piece together this crazy event.” Gemma clicked on her recorder and opened the notepad.

George looked tired, defeated, dark circles hung below his eyes. In other circumstances he may have looked trendy in a teenage way. Sandy hair, with a long fringe, tanned, unnaturally white teeth. He shrugged.

Gemma sat down on the edge of the bed. It felt as if she lived most of her life from a hotel these days. “So, downstairs you were shouting about the outbreak. Do you want to tell me about it?”

He leaned back in the seat, and wiped a hand over his face. “It’s been so long. Let me think about things. I’ve not slept in a bed for ages. I’m so tired.”

“I know it’s difficult, but try, try to remember,” said Gemma, applying a soothing tone. This young man was keen to tell what he knew, but perhaps needed some gentle coaxing, a measure of patience, something he hadn’t been shown since his arrival here.

“Okay. I worked as a barman in the club on Belmont Street. The Church. You know it? It was a normal night, nothing out of the ordinary. I was on lates.”

“When was that?”

“Three weeks ago? Maybe longer. I was sweeping the floor, clearing out all the plastic cups that had been dropped. I swept under one of the seats and found something weird.”

“Weird? Try to be specific.”

“Like a thermal canister, one that old people use to keep their soup warm on picnics or something. But it was different, not like one I’d ever seen before. It was stainless steel, cold to the touch and the lid had some sort of clock face on it. The lid was open. I tried to fiddle with it, close it down but it wouldn’t close. I left it for my manager to see the next day when he opened up.”

Gemma scribbled away on her pad, using the shorthand she’d learnt as part of her trade. “And what happened with it?”

“Nothing. I forgot about it. I didn’t even really think about it much until after all this happened. But there’s more. About a week later, all my friends who were either at the club for a night out or working there came down with the flu, you know, the confusion and the bleeding sores. And all of them were taken to hospital. I’ve … I’ve not seen them since.”

Gemma knew not seeing a friend for a period meant they were either dead or worse. Either way, they were beyond hope.

“So why weren’t you taken ill?”

“I wasn’t there for long. I guess I missed the moment that everyone was exposed to it. Gemma,” he said, looking directly into her eyes for the first time, “I’ve seen movies and I’ve read stuff online. This outbreak isn’t natural. It was deliberate and all the signs point to that canister being the thing that released it, in The Church.”

Gemma leaned back on the bed, and stretched out her back, cracking her spine the way it always did after she had been seated for too long. What George was saying was the first piece of interesting information she’d received, despite how farfetched it seemed. She heard rumours about the outbreak not being a natural occurrence, or maybe even a bio-weapon. What sort of human would unleash such horror and devastation?

“You think I’m crazy, like the soldiers? They didn’t want to hear what I had to say either. They told me that if I caused a panic like that again, I’d go to jail, and for ten years.”

Gemma scribbled down the last few notes. “I’m sure they’re scared, too, George. I wouldn’t take it too personally.”

He returned to the window. “What do you think about what I’ve just told you?”

Gemma scratched the back of her ear with the pen. “I think you’re very brave for speaking up, George. It might be nothing. It could be something. Either way, I’m glad you told me. It’s got to be investigated.”

“Is that something you can do?”

“Perhaps. I’m not sure yet.”

George’s voice took on a monotone quality. “I’ve given you something, and now you’ve got to do something for me.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve got to get me out of the city. I don’t want to stay here anymore.”

“George, I can’t—”

“I don’t want to hear that. I’m useful. I know things. I want to get out of the city. I want to get out of this building. I’m not stupid. I know you work for the government. Why else would you be interested in what I have to say? So you can pull strings.”

While Gemma did not work for the government, George’s assumption was right, she was more than just a curious mind. But how much pull did she have?

“George. You’re safe here. Out there in the streets, it’s dangerous, even with an armed escort. Stay here, wait for the crisis to blow over and I promise to get you before someone high up.”

“You think this is safe? Let me tell you something about safe, Gemma. I’ve been to another displacement centre and it’s not safe. They missed one of them. The infected. Oh yeah, everyone was asleep, then screaming. Shouting. Shooting. It was a massacre. Those soldiers here to protect us? They were killing everyone. Didn’t matter.” He moved closer to Gemma and she saw the pain in his eyes. “I saw old people on their knees with their hands up, holding grandkids around their waist, shot dead. Nowhere in the city is safe. Nowhere.”

Tears came. Gemma reached out, touched his shoulder. He recoiled as if Gemma sought to do him harm.

“Don’t touch me! I won’t let anyone touch me here.”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” said Gemma, her hands raised in apology. “I’m going to do my best for you, George. I’ll look for you in the morning.”

“Nowhere is safe,” he repeated.

***

Ryan marched through the double doors expecting the worst in a situation he did not understand. Instead of cohorts of henchmen waiting to dispose of his body in the most untraceable of ways, he found a solitary man scribbling furiously at an opulent desk, tubular table lamps at two corners.
Mr. Crispin?

Crispin was unsmiling, and set aside his pen, sat back in his chair and tented his fingers. “Welcome, Ryan. Please, take a seat.”

Ryan smiled as if meeting a good friend — it couldn’t hurt — and took the offered seat. The man before him was older, maybe late sixties, small fashionable glasses perched on a slightly hooked nose. He wore a beard, more grey than black now. When he spoke, he did so with an accent of education. English, with the fading hint of an expatriate.

“I trust your journey here was uneventful despite the new restrictions at the border?”

Ryan nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr …”

“I’m Hector Crispin. You’ve come to know me as Mr. Nippon. A silly, little title designed to protect my identity when dealing with unknown factors. You should know, Ryan, that very few people meet me face to face. Our meeting tonight isn’t by chance. Everything results from a perfectly calculated decision. Had we not seen something in you that was worth our investment you would not be here.”

Ryan cleared his thought and shifted in his chair. “Of course, Mr. Crispin. I mean, Mr. Nippon.”

There was no clarification as to what title this man expected.

“What I require of you will become evident over the next few days and weeks. We’ll be spending time together. You proved yourself useful once to us, Ryan, and assets that prove useful are compensated for their efforts. There is no limit to what we can achieve together. Now, for the next few days, I’d like you to acclimatise yourself with your surroundings. Some of our associates will no doubt make themselves known to you. I would ask that you do not leave this building for the time being. Tokyo is a vast city, easy to become disorientated in when you don’t know where you’re going. Is all understood?”

“Yes … um, what do I call you? Mr. Nippon?”

“Mr. Nippon has served its purpose between us, Ryan. You may call me Hector. If there’s nothing else? I’m sure you’re fatigued.”

“Who are we, and who is us?” The words hung in the air. For one terrible moment, Ryan believed he stepped too far.

“We are The Owls of Athena, Ryan. And you are made welcome.”

***

A hand clamped down on Gemma’s mouth, violently rousing her from sleep. She fought the unseen assailant, fingernails digging into skin, her legs kicking out.

“Gemma. Gemma. It’s me. Dylan. You need to calm down.” He shook her. “Be quiet.”

The sound of the soldier’s voice reassured her enough to stop the fight as the bonds of sleep fell away. Dylan knelt on the edge of her bed. She pulled the covers tight to her chin. He pulled his hand away from her mouth. In the dark of her room it was difficult to focus, the light poor.

“What is it?” she hissed.

“Trouble. I need you to stay calm. Get dressed.”

He went to the door, rifle in hand, watching the corridor. Gemma grabbed at her discarded clothes and using her bedcovers to maintain some dignity, pulled them on. Not that Dylan took any interest. He stayed at the door, his back to her. She slipped from the bed and pulled on her boots. She had no idea how long she had been asleep.

“What’s happening?”

Dylan moved from the doorway to the corridor window. He motioned for Gemma to join him. She peered out into the night. The streets were empty, yellow streetlights guarding against the night.