Plague Ship (28 page)

Hooking up with Thom Severance had been good for him. It got him out of L.A. before the police closed in on his auto-theft business again. He had a huge house facing the ocean just down the road from the compound and any number of willing women for his bed from the transient population of Responsivists who came to Greece on retreat. Part of him even believed that there were too damned many people on the planet. He didn’t believe any of that garbage about alien membranes, but he was a consummate salesman and could feign belief better than the most devout.

As for Thom and Heidi’s master plan, what did he care about a bunch of rich people on cruise ships?

It was only around Kovac that his façade cracked. The big Serb was a psychopath, plain and simple. Gil didn’t know the man’s background but could only assume he’d been involved in the ethnic cleansing he’d read about in Yugoslavia back in the late nineties. The rescue of Kyle Hanley had been a disaster, but Martell felt he could handle the fallout. He didn’t need Kovac watching over his shoulder and reporting every little detail back to Thom and Heidi. He admitted he should have anticipated his office had been bugged, but he’d said nothing substantive before turning on the jamming device. It was a minor lapse that didn’t warrant Thom calling in his creepy lapdog.

Kovac held a finger to his fleshy lips in a shushing gesture before Martell could speak. When Kovac reached the desk, he shut off the jammer, then took a small piece of electronics from the inside pocket of his black leather jacket. He systematically swept the room, his small eyes never leaving the electronic readout as he moved the device over bookshelves, furniture, and the carpet. Satisfied, he slipped it back into his pocket.

“So there weren’t any—”

The weight of Kovac’s stare pressed Gil Martell farther into his chair.

Kovac upended the desk lamp and peeled the tiny eavesdropper from the base. He wasn’t familiar with the particular brand, but he recognized its sophistication. Because the bug was so small, he knew that somewhere within a mile or so of the compound a booster transceiver retransmitted whatever the bug heard to a circling satellite. Searching for it would be futile.

“End transmission,” he said into the microphone, doing his best to mask his accent. He then crushed the bug between his thick fingernails, grinding it until it was as fine as particles of sand. He finally looked to Martell. “Now you may speak.”

“Was that the only one?”

Kovac didn’t bother answering such an inane question. “I will need to sweep everywhere the intruders penetrated.” It would be tedious but necessary. “Have the guards draw up a map of the possibly infected areas.”

“Of course. But I can tell you that they only entered my office and the dorm.”

Feeling his head throb at Martell’s utter stupidity, Kovac had to physically calm himself. When he spoke, his English was heavily accented but clear. “They had to breach the perimeter wall and cross the compound to this building and then make their way to the dormitory. They could have dropped bugs along the paths, thrown them into bushes, stuck them to trees, and even left some on top of the walls.”

“Oh. I didn’t understand.”

Kovac gave him a look that said:
You are right. You don’t understand.
“Was there anything on your computer pertaining to the upcoming mission?”

“No. Absolutely not. All that stuff is in my safe. It’s the first thing I checked after getting off the phone with Thom.”

“Give me that material,” Kovac ordered.

Martell considered defying the Serb and calling Severance, but he knew that Thom trusted Kovac on all matters concerning security and that his protests would fall on deaf ears. The less he had to do with their scheme the better. In fact, maybe it was time to move on from here. The break-in might be a sign telling him to cash in while he could. He’d skimmed almost a million dollars from the Greek retreat. It wasn’t enough to live on for the rest of his life, but it would certainly establish him well enough until he found something else.

He got up from behind his desk and strode across to his office sitting area. Kovac did nothing to help him move the furniture off the Oriental rug or fold it back to reveal a trapdoor and, below, a midsize safe embedded in the floor.

“The chairs and tables were in their exact position when I came in, so I know nothing was moved,” he explained as he worked. “And look, the wax seal over the keyhole is intact.”

Kovac didn’t bother telling Martell that a professional team, like the one who’d entered the retreat, would know to replace the furniture in its correct position, and, while a wax seal was a good touch, it could be duplicated if they’d had enough time. But he wasn’t all that worried that the safe had been their objective. He’d glanced at the file they had on Kyle Hanley, and he suspected the young Californian’s family had hired a hostage-rescue team to return their son. No doubt they would have hired a deprogrammer as well. Most likely Adam Jenner.

The very thought of the man’s name balled Kovac’s hands into fists.

“Here we go,” Martell said, and pulled a strongbox out of the safe. There was an electronic keypad on its lid. The facility’s director tapped a numerical sequence and smirked at Kovac. “According to the box’s memory, it hasn’t been opened in four days, which is when I got the latest updates from Thom.”

A child could have reprogrammed the strongbox with a UBS cord and a laptop, but, again, Kovac held his tongue. “Open it.”

Martell entered his pass-code numbers. The box beeped and the lid lifted slightly. Inside was a three-inch-thick manila folder. Kovac stretched out his hand for Martell to hand him the file. He glanced through the pages quickly. It was lists of names, ships, ports of call, schedules, as well as short biographies of crew members. Completely innocuous to anyone who didn’t know their significance. The dates mentioned weren’t too far in the future.

“Close the safe,” Kovac said absently as he thumbed the file.

Martell complied, settling the lockbox back into its niche and securing the door. “I’ll put on the wax seal later.”

Kovac glared.

“Or I’ll do it now.” Martell’s tone was flippant. He kept the wax in his desk, and the seal was the prep school ring he wore but had never earned. A few minutes later, the kilim rug was back down and the couch, chairs, and coffee table in their places.

“Did Kyle Hanley know anything about this?” Kovac held up the file like a zealot proffering a holy book.

“No. I explained it to Thom. Hanley had only been here a short time. He’d seen the machines but knew nothing of the plan.”

Martell’s casual response triggered a look of suspicion on Kovac’s face. The room seemed to chill a few degrees. Gil made his decision. As soon as Kovac left, he’d head to his house, pack up a few things, and hop the next plane to Zurich, where he kept his numbered account.

“It’s possible he might have heard rumors,” he amended.

“What sort of rumors, Martell?”

Gil didn’t like how Kovac said his surname and swallowed. “Ah, a few of the kids here are talking about a Sea Retreat, like those that went on the
Golden Dawn
. They make it sound like a big party.”

For the first time, Kovac’s cool veneer seemed to slip. “Do you have any idea what happened to that ship?”

“No. I don’t let anyone here watch the news or use the Internet. I haven’t either. Why, did something go wrong?”

Kovac recalled Mr. Severance’s words when he’d phoned from California this morning:
Do what you think is right
. Now he understood what the Responsivist leader had meant. “Mr. Severance doesn’t trust you much.”

“How dare you. He put me in charge of this retreat and the training of our people,” Martell blustered. “He trusts me as much as he does you.”

“No, Mr. Martell. That is not the case. You see, two days ago I was on the
Golden Dawn
and participated in an experiment. It was glorious. Everyone on that vessel died in ways I haven’t imagined in my worst nightmares.”

“They what?” Martell shouted, sickened by the news and the reverent way Kovac said it, as though he were talking about a favorite piece of art or the peacefulness of a sleeping child.

“They are dead. All of them. And the ship scuttled. I had to secure the bridge before releasing the virus, so nobody could report what was happening. It swept through the ship like wildfire. It couldn’t have taken more than an hour. Young and old, it didn’t matter. Their bodies couldn’t fight it.”

Gil Martell backed around his desk, as if it could act as a barrier to the horror he was hearing. He reached for the phone. “I have to call Thom. This can’t be right.”

“By all means. Call him.”

Martell’s hand hovered over the handset. He knew that if he made the call Thom would verify everything the twisted thug had said. Two things flashed through his mind. The first was that he was in far over his head. And the second was that Kovac wasn’t going to let him out of his office alive.

“Just what did Mr. Severance tell you about the operation?” Kovac asked.

Keep him talking
, Martell thought frantically. There was a button under his desk that buzzed his secretary in the outer office. Surely Kovac wouldn’t attempt anything with witnesses.

“He, ah, he told me that our team of researchers in the Philippines had engineered a virus that causes severe inflammation of the reproductive ducts in both men and women. He told me that three out of every ten people exposed who are infected will become sterile and will never be able add to the earth’s population, even if they tried in vitro techniques. The plan is to release it on a bunch of cruise ships, where everyone is basically trapped, so they all become infected.”

“That’s only part of the story,” Kovac said.

“So what is the truth?”
Where is that damned woman?

“Everything you said about the effects of the virus is true, only there is something you don’t know.” Kovac gave a triumphant smile. “You see, the virus is highly contagious for about four months after infecting a host, even though it shows no symptoms. And, from a handful of cruise ships, it will spread around the globe, infecting millions upon millions, until every man, woman, and child on the planet has been exposed. That three-out-of-ten sterility number is closer to five in ten unable to breed, once the infection has run its course. This isn’t about preventing a few thousand passengers and crew from having children. It’s about stopping half the world.”

Gil collapsed into his chair. His mouth worked to form words but no sound came out. The past three minutes had been too much. The
Golden Dawn
. He knew a hundred of the people on that ship, probably two hundred. Now this. This monster telling him that he’d been working for two years on a plan to intentionally sterilize three billion people.

He wasn’t going to lose any sleep over the sterilization of a couple thousand cruise ship passengers. They’d be depressed, but life would go on, and, as a bonus, he bet a few orphanages would be emptied.

He should have seen it was going to go far beyond that. What was it Dr. Cooper had written in
We’re Breeding Ourselves to Death
:

“We have taken Dr. Cooper’s words and turned them into action,” Kovac said, giving voice to the horror echoing in the empty chasm that had once been Martell’s soul.

Martell thought he was safe behind his desk for the moment, but he hadn’t counted on the big man’s strength. As if the desk were no more than a cardboard box, Kovac shoved it into Gil, pinning him in his seat against the back wall. He opened his mouth to shout out to his secretary. Kovac wasn’t especially quick, and the Responsivist director managed a hoarse croak before his throat was closed with a jab to his Adam’s apple. His eyes bulged from their sockets as he fought for a breath he could not draw.

Kovac looked around the office. There was nothing he could see that would make this look like a suicide until he spied the pictures hanging on the wall. He scanned the faces quickly and knew which one he would use. Leaving Martell struggling to fill his lungs, Kovac crossed to a photograph of Donna Sky.

The actress was too skinny for his tastes, but it wasn’t much of a stretch to believe Martell would be in love with her. He snatched the picture off the wall and carefully slid the glossy from the frame. He smashed the glass on the edge of the desk.

Kovac pressed Martell into his seat with one massive hand, while, with the other, he selected the largest glass shard, a dagger at least five inches long. He released Martell’s head and grabbed one of his arms, making sure to keep his grip loose enough so he didn’t bruise the tanned skin.

The glass cut into his flesh with spongy resistance and dark blood welled up from the wound, pooling on the desk before drizzling to the floor. Gil Martell struggled, thrashing in his seat, but he was no match for the Serb. He could only manage a rough cawing sound that wouldn’t be heard beyond the office walls. His movements became slower and more uncoordinated as his strength ebbed through the gash until he finally went limp.

Careful not to leave bloody footprints, Kovac slid the desk back to its proper position. He hefted Martell’s body from his seat and reversed the chair so he could set the corpse astride it. He lowered Gil’s head until the bruise on his throat was hard up against the chair’s wooden seat back. The coroner would attribute the bruising to his head tipping forward when he passed out from blood loss. The final detail was to arrange the photograph of Donna Sky so it seemed to be the last thing Gil Martell saw before his death.