Final Epidemic (36 page)

Alexi shook his head again, smiling as if sharing a joke on himself. “I thought to distract you, playing on your unfortunate experience in my country. He was CIA, abandoned. You also. It was most effective, was it not?”

“Why involve me at all, Alexi?”

“A mistake. You are perhaps my private obsession, Beck Casey. This conspiracy of the virus—it has occupied my mind for almost two years. Each detail, so carefully planned. But all the while—I am serious, my friend—all the while I thought of you. Of
course
you were still of the CIA; of
course,
given your specialties, you would be targeted on any biological threat by terrorists. As I say, I felt a need to . . . distract you.”

“That’s not a mistake, Alexi; that’s crazy. I can’t read minds.”

Alexi made a dismissive gesture. “You are not psychic, this we both know; you are a trained analyst. Your logic, I did not fear. But, Beck—that gift you possess, that ability to transcend logic and make the intuitive leap—no, this I have seen. This, I feared.” He smiled genially. “Well, to err is human, no? To then erase the mistake for all time—that, my friend, is divine.”

Beck swallowed in a throat achingly dry.

“I don’t believe you are insane, Alexi. I really don’t. But the VIX infection has changed everything now. The game’s over; you’ve lost.”

“Your VIX deployment was unexpected, but I do not see it as an insurmountable problem,” the Russian retorted. “As I said, except as a point of debate, I do not really care how many this virus infects. Even supplying it to your militia crazies was merely an afterthought, you see—insurance, as well as another distraction. If you can stop this virus, please feel free to do so.”

Beck started to speak, stopped. His mind churned.
Alexi
no longer cares about the flu, one way or another,
he realized.
This was all about something else entirely. Okay—if he hasn’t given up on his plan, that means—

“You already have what you wanted,” Beck said aloud. “You wanted Putin, on a platter.”

Once again, Alexi grinned broadly at him.

“That is what I mean—you are gifted, Beck. Can anyone really think that even Vadoly Putin can survive the mass execution of several hundred thousand Russians? Yes, yes—in the past, it would perhaps have been possible. After all, Stalin killed tens of millions. But not today; not in a Russia that watched it happen on CNN.”

“Yes,” Beck admitted. “It might make it tough to find an impartial jury for the trial.”

“There will be no need for a trial, of course,” Alexi said. “Putin will be shot while resisting arrest.” Alexi pursed his lips, pretending to ponder for a moment. “I have not yet decided if he was also attempting to escape.”

“I think I’m starting to understand,” Beck said.

“Indeed?” Alexi raised an eyebrow. “Then you know that there will be need of a new President in Russia, very soon. A strong leader, but one whose actions in this terrible crisis were above reproach.”

“I imagine you have a candidate in mind, Alexi,” Beck said.

“If nominated, I will not decline.” Alexi smiled. “If I am elected, I will not refuse to serve.” He winked. “And I
will
be nominated and elected. It is, as you say, already a lock.”

“Your Russian billionaires,” Beck said, nodding. “They’ve decided to trade one ex-KGB man for another. My compliments, Alexi. You’ve
really
come up in the world. But how do your new friends feel about having a lethal virus set loose on them? Didn’t you think they’d want a vaccine?”

“Beck, Beck—there is a vaccine, of course,” Alexi said. “I have taken it myself, as have the others of whom you speak. It is quite effective, I assure you. Our dedicated
bio-genecist Anji engineered his virus with an exceptional sensitivity to the vaccine—it provides immunity within hours of its use.”

“Does your vaccine cure those already infected?” Beck asked.

“Sadly, no,” Alexi replied. “But it is available, in sufficient quantities—at least, to immunize everyone in Russia. We have stockpiled more than three hundred million units. The plans for mass immunization already exist; you know of our very excellent civil defense organization. Updating its procedures was one of the earliest tasks assigned to me, you see—by Putin, if you can appreciate the irony.”

“And you’ll be seen as the savior of your country,” Beck said. “That should help you—a presidential candidate known as a great humanitarian. Even if he unleashed a virus that would have decimated the planet.”

“Your own president’s plan is to save the world by setting off a second plague that will kill millions in its own right.” Alexi shrugged. “Well, I applaud
his
brand of humanitarianism. After he has set loose this VIX, we will announce that Russian research has developed a vaccine that is effective against the original killer influenza—too late to stop the VIX release, sadly. Still, as a humanitarian gesture, we will make our vaccine formulation available to the world. Meanwhile, your VIX will spread and kill—what? Five percent, three hundred million people? Fourteen million Americans? Very poor public relations, Beck. I fear it will be seen in a less kindly light than it perhaps might have been.”

He grinned suddenly, a flash of the old Alexi.

“Perhaps you too should consider making an arrest, Beck. Imagine: our two presidents, both arrested for crimes against humanity. How ironic, do you not agree?”

Before Beck could answer, another voice spoke in Russian.

“It is an interesting proposition, General Malenkov. Treason, of course—but interesting nonetheless.”

Both heads swiveled to the figure standing under the arched entryway that led to the suite’s balcony.

“I fear I must interrupt,” Ilya said, smiling politely. “Stand, please. There.”

He gestured with the gun steady in his hand and pointing unmistakably at the pair. When they had moved away from the table, Ilya sidled to it. He picked up the knife, examining it and nodding in appreciation.

“Quite clever,” he said, and looked up to address Alexi. “So I was to return tonight? To—how do you say?—finish my business with this man?”

Alexi watched Ilya with an interest that, to Beck, seemed remote, even academic; he could have been at a zoo, looking at an unfamiliar but mildly interesting specimen. But Alexi did not respond, not even when the other Russian shrugged and carefully dropped the unsheathed knife into his own pocket.

“General Malenkov,” Ilya said, as if he were presenting himself in a formal reception line. “It is a pleasure. I bring you the greetings of President Putin, who is as concerned about the state of your health as you are of his.” His left index finger pointed to Alexi’s belt. “Please. If you continue to move your hand, I will, of course, shoot you in the stomach.”

Ilya stepped forward and deftly plucked a small-caliber automatic from Alexi Malenkov’s belt. His lip twisted in derision—
Romanian-made,
his mind sneered.
Such a useless toy!
—as his thumb pressed a button above the pistol’s checkered grip. Ilya shook the weapon, and the magazine clattered on the hardwood floor. Cupping the pistol, he pressed back the slide with a single finger; his eyes flickered downward for an instant, checking the action.

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I compliment your good sense, General. It is much safer to carry even such a weapon as this without a cartridge in the chamber.” He threw the empty pistol into the bedroom.

Throughout, Beck noted, the intruder’s own weapon had
not wavered from a point midway between the two men. Ilya had climbed to the balcony, had entered unheard, had waited patiently while Alexi had detailed the entire plot before announcing himself and disarming his captives. It had all been done with practiced ease, providing no opportunity for resistance. That fact alone marked him as a professional, and Beck calculated his own chances for survival sharply downward.

“So—you suffer no ill effects?” the man said, and Beck realized the comment was addressed to him. “From our earlier meeting, I mean.”

“I’ll limp for a few weeks,” Beck said, his eyes steady on the Russian. “I hope.”

Ilya grinned at the jest.

“In truth, I have no orders to kill you,” he said. “Unless you are inclined to make it necessary, of course.” The pistol he held moved infinestimally to the left. “General Malenkov is another matter. For him, my orders are quite clear. I was quite interested to hear of his plans to expedite my country’s political process. Sadly, I cannot allow such ambitions to be fulfilled.

“It is good to find you here, General,” Ilya said. “I did not wish to miss the final act of this play. You have written it so well. Even President Putin is impressed—no, I speak the truth. He wondered only why the director of state security saw fit to promise American dissident elements an illegal chemical weapon—but chose not to report this activity to his president. I was already in this country and close to these groups; therefore, the assignment was given to me.”

“You knew about the sarin,” Beck said, “and the Japanese who reached out to the militia groups.”

“For some weeks. These militia rabble cannot resist the sweet music of their own voices. They spoke, far too often, of the gift this Japanese visitor promised.” Ilya shrugged carelessly. “An amateur, to be sure. He traveled always using the same passport; I knew his arrival time almost before he did. I killed him as he placed his luggage in the car he had
rented. A Japanese car—is that not ironic? He barely fit inside the trunk where he fell.”

He spoke directly to Alexi Malenkov.

“When I killed him, I did not know he carried your plague,” Ilya said, and grinned. “It is my good fortune I used a pistol and not a knife. Had I stood as close to him as I do to you now, I doubt that I would have survived the encounter.”

Ilya looked at Beck. “You are perhaps curious why I speak so freely in front of you? It is the expressed order of President Putin. He wishes to leave no doubt where the responsibility for this disaster lies.”

Ilya again addressed his countryman. “Alexi Ivanovich Malenkov, had I more time to waste on a traitor such as you, I would enjoy . . .
persuading
you to talk in greater detail about your wealthy patrons. But I am willing to—I do not wish to warn you again. Please keep your hand—”

He was too late.

In his left hand, Alexi held a small red-and-white can; his thumb pressed upward on the pull-top tab, which already flexed slightly under the pressure.

“I leave it to you,” Alexi said genially. “Please guess: Does this can contain the influenza virus? Or is it perhaps filled with sarin? In truth, I do not know myself. Not for certain.”

He looked squarely at Ilya. “If it is the virus, please remember that I have received the vaccine. Regardless of what else happens here, I am immune to it. You are not. Are you willing to chance that you will not die within the next day or two? It
is
a gamble, my young friend: you can perhaps be saved by this VIX of the Americans. Perhaps not, if you are one of those who succumb quickly.”

“But you will be dead,” Ilya said, and Beck heard no fear in his tone.

“This is so,” Alexi admitted, and he too sounded unafraid. “But please consider this: What if this apparatus contains
sarin? In that case, there would be no gamble. We will be dead within a few seconds. All of us.”

“Ah. So what do you propose, General?”

“At the very least, that you allow me to leave here unharmed.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Unless I can also persuade you that your own interests are best served by not chaining yourself to Putin’s future. I could find many rewards for someone of your talents.” He nodded toward Beck. “If you find this agreeable, you would also be asked to remove any other impediments. In whatever manner you wish to do so.”

Ilya nodded judiciously. “It is a difficult decision. As you say, I must consider my own best interests.”

And then he shot Malenkov once, in the forehead.

A mist of blood and pulverized bone jetted from the back of the Russian’s head, iridescent in the harsh backlighting. His hand jerked an instant before the fingers spasmed and opened; there was a metallic clatter, and a red-and-white labeled object spun across the carpet.

Alexi stood erect and motionless for a heartbeat, and then collapsed into himself. The body that in life had been Alexi Malenkov twitched furiously for a moment, its heels bouncing on the floor, and then was still.

“I am many things, General,” Ilya said, addressing ears that could no longer hear. “But I am not a traitor.”

Before the corpse had stopped moving, Beck was on his hands and knees, scrambling after the container. He snatched it up, holding his breath and knowing that, if Alexi’s dying act had been to wrench up the tab, it was a useless exercise.

Beck lifted the container with hands whose shaking he could not control.

The tab was bent upward at an angle—but not quite enough, Beck realized, to have pulled the metal disk away from its seal. Relief flooded him; he felt his heart pounding, and reveled in the sensation.

“Good shooting,” Beck said, and heard the tight nervous energy in his voice. He looked at the can he held in
still-shaking hands. “I’ll be interested in the lab report. It will be nice to know what almost killed me, sarin gas or a weaponized virus.”

“It is the virus,” the Russian said.

He reached into his pocket and removed an identical can, the one he had taken from Cappie Arnold before incinerating the militiaman’s body. “You see, I have one just like it.” He tossed it, with a light underhand, to the American. “With my compliments. I have no need for such vile things.”

Beck looked hard at the Russian. “Is what Alexi said true? Is there a vaccine?”

Ilya shook his head.

“I do not know.” He made a gesture toward the body on the floor. “He was a skilled liar. But he did not appear to fear his own virus.”

Beck thought furiously. “If there is a vaccine, and if there is enough of it—”

He looked up at Ilya. “We’ve got to contact Putin. He’ll know who among the oligarchs own pharmaceutical companies, drug manufacturers. He’ll do what is necessary. And we have to keep my people from releasing Agent VIX.”