Final Epidemic (33 page)

He again tasted the coffee, savoring it before speaking again.

“You see, Beck—we believe Ilya is no longer acting as a Russian, much less as an SVR agent. Did I mention Ilya had a previous posting in Japan? It is in his record, there before you.”

Beck waited, feeling the chill that rippled the back of his neck.

“We believe,” Alexi said, “that he is Aum—in fact, that he is one of the teachers, these sensei who now lead them. His task, I am convinced, is to ensure this virus continues to spread. He wishes, I think, to kill millions of your countrymen.”

Alexi Malenkov again sipped at his coffee, and studied Beck over the rim of the cup.

“I am here,” he said, “to help you stop him.”

Montgomery, Alabama
July 23

An hour later, Beck lowered himself into a lounge chair on the concrete apron around the hotel swimming pool; as he did, he could feel every minute of the past two days in his joints. His leg throbbed; only the possibility that someone might hear gave him the strength to bite back the groan.

Beck had expected the hotel to be deserted, or close to it. He had not factored in the effect that a near-complete shutdown of transportation would have. Across the country, a tremendous number of people were stranded far from their own homes. Here, in the Heart of Dixie, the Holiday Inn had assumed the role of sanctuary for a significant number of these refugees.

One might not have known that, fewer than two hundred miles away, a plague raged unabated.

Around the pool, a cornucopia of browning female flesh competed for his attention. From behind the protection of his sunglasses, Beck still found himself compelled to look, though without the component of casually omnivorous lust he remembered from other places, other years.

For one thing, his mind was still tumultuous with concern for Katie, despite April’s frequent, reassuring analyses of
why she had still not been located. Then there was the simple requirement of staying alive; between the dark man and the virus, Beck sensed that the odds had dipped depressingly low. For another, Beck had begun to realize that the most voluptuous figures—those that climbed from the water with a lithe womanly grace that was achingly lovely, those whose lowered eyes noted his glance with a studied, seductive indifference—were, upon closer examination of the males who attended them, no older than fifteen.

It was a realization that might have depressed him, simply as a mature man; as a father of a teenage daughter, it left him feeling more than a bit like the worst kind of dirty old man. He was certain that he did not desire the romantic attentions of a girl-child, and not simply because he recognized both the complications and the inevitable embarrassment it would entail.

His relationships with real women had been difficult enough, he knew; he had not lied when he told Alexi Malenkov that he did not believe himself a divorced man. After the decree, Beck had been surprised to discover that casual sex held no appeal to him; on the rare occasions he had engaged in it, the experience had left him empty and morose. In alarm, he had realized that celibacy was possible—perhaps even preferable.

He needed no further complications to an issue that was, to Beck, already nothing less than perplexing. Having been unable to share his life, his secrets, his fears with Deborah, he found little hope that he could craft a bridge to any other woman.

All this he knew. And still he looked, a bittersweet affirmation of something in himself that he had half believed was dead, or dying.

A part of him envied the boys who attended these young goddesses—envied them the freshness and wonder and even the pain that each young Venus represented. But most of him simply wished them all well, hoped for them a fortunate
journey to what a lethal virus suddenly had turned into an uncertain future.

“They’re too young for you,” April O’Connor said, materializing as a dark silhouette standing next to his chair.

“No kidding,” Beck replied. “
You’re
too young for me, and some of those kids could be your—”

“Sister,” April warned. “Kid sister, of course.”

“Of course,” Beck agreed. “But they’re all the age of my daughter. Maybe a little younger.”

April nodded, suddenly serious. “Have you heard anything?”

“Have
you
?”

April colored. “I called Frank Ellis, Beck. He was not happy I’m in Alabama, but I guess we’ll deal with that later.”

“Can he use FBI resources and pass the information to us?”

“He’s agreed to do what he can. Katie is not on any of the quarantine zone lists, Beck. It’s pretty chaotic in there; she may have gotten out before the quarantine was declared. Or—I’m sorry. You’ve already thought about all the possibilities.”

“Yes,” Beck said. “I have.”

“By the way, you might have told me you were tight with the Russian government,” she said. “Ellis says that earlier today the State Department routed one General Alexi Ivanovich Malenkov—he is director of Russian state security, as if you didn’t already know—through Washington to Montgomery, Alabama.”

“He’s still in the restaurant,” Beck said, “trying to decide between sweet and regular iced tea. He thinks we’re an item. I think he’s just eager to meet a G-
woman
.”

As if on cue, an electronic buzz rose from the bag April carried loosely over her shoulder. She reached inside and snapped open a cellular phone.

“O’Connor,” she said brusquely. She listened for a moment. “Thank you. No—I’ll come there, if you don’t mind.
There’s a General Malenkov in your restaurant. Would you ask him to join Dr. Casey and me in your office?”

She folded the phone and looked at Beck.

“No rest for the wicked,” she said. “Looks like CDC’s tracked you down, and they know I’m here too. There’s a package of stuff waiting for us in the hotel office, so I guess we better look at it. You want to see what they sent, or stay here and leer at the young girls?”

Before he could answer, he saw April’s eyes flicker upward and look past his shoulder.

“I think you have company,” she muttered. “Somebody’s coming straight your way, and seems upset—the look you’re getting, you might want to borrow my pistol.”

Beck twisted in the lounge chair, and looked up into the face of his former spouse.

“Hello, Deborah,” he said evenly. He was determined she not see his surprise—nor the rush of pleasure that, to his astonishment, he felt at her presence.

“You son of a bitch,” she replied. “Where is my daughter?”

Her face was flushed and animated, belying the long hours of driving that had brought her to this place. She glared daggers at Beck, and for a moment it appeared she was about to strike him.

“I don’t know—not yet,” Beck said. “You shouldn’t be here, do you understand that? You’re not going to do Katie any good by catching this virus.”

“Go to hell.”

Beck flared. “And that’s helpful too. Look—you can’t go into the Quarantine Region, Deborah. Even if they let you pass through the cordon, you don’t know where to look. There are people already there, trying to locate Katie. Let them do their job.”

“I am going to find Katie,” Deborah said. “You can either help, or stay out of my way. Make up your mind, Beck. I don’t care either way.”

Deborah walked away, her normally loose-limbed stride now stiff and angry.

“I probably should keep my mouth shut,” April said, watching Deborah disappear into the hotel. “But nobody gets that angry if they
really
don’t care.”

“I don’t know,” Beck said. “She looks pretty uninterested to me.”

April shrugged. “It’s an act.”

“Uh-huh. Well, she’s
really
good at it.”

April went ahead alone into the hotel manager’s office—a glass-fronted cubicle, really, though it had a door for the privacy she needed; Beck lingered in the outer office to await a tardy Alexi. The manager, unaccustomed to the ways of federal agencies, was eager to please: before leaving, he pointed April to a shipping box the size of a ream of paper, addressed to her and Beck and prominently hand-marked
CDC
:
CONFIDENTIAL MATERIALS.

The box was sealed, reinforced with strips of cellophane tape along the seams of the flap. April looked at it curiously. As Beck watched idly, April produced a small penknife, working the blade under the flap and neatly slicing the tape along the top seam. Then, seizing the loosened flap, she pulled upward.

Through the glass of the window, Beck saw it happen.

April stiffened, her eyes suddenly wide and staring. The box fell from hands suddenly clenched into claws. And then the convulsions began, even as April O’Connor’s legs collapsed beneath her and her body fell to the carpet as if poleaxed. A mad St. Vitus’s dance flung her limbs akimbo, and her head violently twisted from side to side.

Beck rushed forward, had his hand on the doorknob when he was seized from behind.

“Stop!” Alexi held him in a tight embrace, both hands locked against Beck’s chest. “Listen to me! We must get
outside!” Alexi’s voice sounded peculiar, almost strangled. “Quickly!”

“Let me go, Alexi. We have to—”

He lifted Beck bodily and staggered backward until the far wall was against his back. Only then did he loosen his grip, and only long enough to push the door behind him open. Then he half pulled, half carried Beck through.

In the hallway, Alexi slammed the door shut. “Your jacket,” he demanded, in the same tight voice. He ripped the light coat from Beck, tugging it violently off his arms. Then Alexi bent and stuffed it, hard, against the bottom of the closed door.

“You cannot help her, my friend. And if you try to do so, you too will die in there.”

The Russian gestured at the closed door with his head; to Beck, the movement appeared callous and impersonal.

“Do not act the fool, Beck. You recognize the signs as well as I. It is sarin gas.”

Montgomery, Alabama
July 23

Beck sat in the dark of the suite, trying not to think. His right hand held a plastic tumbler filled with vodka and crushed ice in roughly equal proportions. The minibar in his room, at least, was performing its task competently; it stood at the ready, waiting to fulfill any need he might encounter in himself.

Hours before, after the FBI hazardous-materials team had finally decided the sarin had dissipated sufficiently to allow April’s body to be removed, he had stood in silent impotence as the double-sealed body bag was wheeled to the waiting ambulance. He had talked with Billy Carson three times, and Larry Krewell double that number. Neither man had anything to add or ask, nor orders to guide Beck. Both had now refocused their concentration on the larger decisions and actions yet to be taken.

For the moment at least, Beck was on his own.

The package, of course, was a fake. Beck had not been allowed to examine it—the concentration of sarin absorbed by the cardboard was much too high for him to handle it safely, they had told him—but the photographs provided by the FBI technicians had been sufficient. The pressurized tank,
remarkably similar to a CO
₂
cartridge for an air pistol and no larger than a Bic lighter, had been rigged with a simple linkage to the box lid. Both his name and April’s were block-lettered in heavy black marker on the otherwise unlabeled carton; the hotel’s address was accurate, even to the ZIP code. But there had been no postage affixed, nor any of the various labels that would have indicated a delivery by messenger.

Alexi, peering over his shoulder at the photos, had said it first.

“He was here, Beck—this man Ilya. He has tracked you to this place.”

But for what reason, neither he nor Beck himself could envision.

Unbidden, an image of April came to his mind’s eye: the gas hitting her, the sudden, horrible realization in her expression, if only for the split second before the convulsions began.

He shook the picture from his mind, and drank deeply.

Deborah had not answered his call to her room; like the majority of the other terrified guests, she might have checked out, left his life as abruptly as she had reentered it. He was surprised, then dismayed, at his automatic reaction to that possibility; he had not realized how much he still cared.

Maybe,
he thought,
I ought to have another drink.

As if to answer him, there was a quiet tapping at the door. Beck frowned. It was too late for a call by Jehovah’s Witnesses, and none of his neighbors had the appearance of people who socialized easily or well. He had half decided to ignore it when a voice, low and tentative, spoke his name.

He opened the door. Even in the dim light, Beck recognized the figure who stood there.

“All the lights were off,” said a voice that had once been familiar to him. “I wasn’t sure you were here. I’m glad you’re still awake. Or have you started sleeping in your clothes?”

“Hello, Deborah,” he said. “Come in.”

Deborah was dressed in a blue oxford shirt that was too
large for her slight form. He wondered if it was one of his, though a darker corner of his mind suspected it was not. She had rolled the sleeves to just below her elbows. The shirttail was tucked into a pair of white shorts that emphasized her trim thighs. Many women might have pulled their hair into a ponytail to match the gamine look of the outfit. Not Deborah; hers fell in a fine ashen cascade that emphasized the compact beauty of her face. It made Beck remember how soft her hair had felt beneath his hands.

She walked directly to the sofa and sat in a way that invited Beck to sit beside her. Instead, he drew a chair from the suite’s dinette set. He settled across from her at what he hoped was a safe distance for both of them.

They sat in silence for a long moment as Deborah surveyed his lodgings. Before she could speak, he did.

“Motel decor,” Beck said, trying to make a joke of it. “I’ve always wondered where they found decorators psychotic enough to take on the job.”

She nodded. Beck wondered if she had noticed the vodka on his breath.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “About your . . . friend.”