Begin Reading

Table of Contents

Copyright Page

1

Above Northern Uganda

November 12—0203 Hours GMT+3

THE ROAR IN CRAIG RIVERA’S ears combined with the darkness to make everything he knew—everything

real—disappear. He wondered if astronauts felt the same sense of emptiness, if they wondered like he did

whether God was just at the edge of their vision.

He looked at a dial glowing faint green on his wrist. The letters were Cyril ic, but the numbers tracking his

altitude and coordinates were the same as the government-issue unit he trained with.

Rivera tilted his body slightly, angling north as he fel through fifteen thousand feet. A hint of warmth and

humidity began to thaw the skin around his oxygen mask, and below the blackness was now punctured by

widely scattered, barely perceptible points of light.

Campfires.

When his GPS confirmed that he was directly over the drop zone, he rol ed onto his back for a moment,

staring up at a sky ful of stars and searching futilely for the outline of the plane he’d jumped from.

They were alone. That, if anything, had been made perfectly clear.

He knew little about the country he was fal ing into at 125 miles an hour and even less about the man

they’d been sent to find. Caleb Bahame was a terrorist and a murderer so cruel that it was difficult to know if

the intel igence on him was accurate or just a bizarre tapestry of legends created by a terrified populace.

Some of the stories, though, were undeniable. The fact that he demanded his men heat the machetes they

used to hack the limbs from infants, for instance, had considerable photo evidence. As did the suffering of

the children as they slowly died from their cauterized wounds.

The existence of men like this made Rivera wonder if God wasn’t perfect—if even he made mistakes.

And if so, perhaps his hand was directly involved in this mission.

Not that those kinds of philosophical questions real y mattered. While Bahame wasn’t good for much, he

would probably be just fine at stopping bul ets—a hypothesis that Rivera was looking forward to testing.

Preferably with multiple clips.

He glanced at his altimeter again and rol ed back over, squinting through his goggles at the jungle canopy

rushing toward him in the starlight. After a few more seconds, the glowing numbers turned red and he pul ed

his chute, sending himself into a fast spiral toward a clearing that he couldn’t yet see but that the intel geeks

swore was there.

He was just over a hundred feet from the ground when he spotted his LZ and aimed for it, beginning a

sharp descent that sent him crashing to earth with a wel -practiced rol . After gathering up his canopy, he ran

for the cover of the jungle, dropping his pack and retrieving his night-vision goggles and rifle.

The wel -worn AK-47 felt a little strange in his hands as he swept it along the tree line and listened to his

team touch down at thirty-second intervals. When he counted four, he activated his throat mike.

“Sound off. Everyone okay?”

These kinds of jumps were impossible to ful y control and he felt a little of the tension in his stomach ease

when al his men checked in uninjured.

Rivera moved silently through the jungle, the roar of the wind now replaced by the buzz of insects and the

screech of tropical birds. They’d picked this area because the brutal terrain discouraged people from

settling it. About twenty miles into the hike out, he imagined he’d be cursing the choice, but right now the fact

that no one was chasing them with red-hot machetes was a big check in the plus column.

His team coalesced into an optimal y spaced line as they moved north. Rivera fel in behind a short, wiry

man wearing a black sweatshirt with cutoff sleeves revealing arms streaked with green paint. The Israeli

machine gun in his hands swept smoothly from left to right as he glided over terrain that would have left a

normal man stumbling hopelessly from one tree to another. But he wasn’t a normal man. None of them were.

Their equipment and clothing were a patchwork col ected from around the world. None of them had any

tattoos or other identifying marks—even their dental work had been altered to make its country of origin

indeterminate. If they were captured or kil ed, there would be no fanfare or place in history. No heroic stories

for relatives and friends to take comfort in. Just a tiny headstone over an empty grave.

“Approaching rendezvous point,” the man on point said, his voice slightly distorted by Rivera’s over-the-

counter earpiece. “Approximately ten meters.”

The neat line of men dissolved into the jungle again, surrounding a smal patch of land that had been

recently burned by a lightning strike. Rivera peered through the foliage at the blackened trees, final y

spotting a tal Ugandan standing alone in the ash. He was completely motionless except for his head, which

jerked back and forth at every sound, as though the earth was jolting him with leftover electricity.

“Move in,” Rivera said into his throat mike.

He’d seen it a hundred times in training, but watching his men melt from the jungle always made him feel

a twinge of pride. On neutral ground, he’d put them up against anyone in the world, be they the SAS,

Shayetet 13, or hel ’s own army.

The man in the clearing let out a quiet yelp at the ghosts materializing around him and then threw an arm

over his face. “Take off your night-vision equipment,” he said in heavily accented English. “It was our

agreement.”

“Why?” Rivera said, peeling his goggles off and signaling for his men to do the same. It had been a

bizarre precondition, but it was indeed part of the deal.

“You must not look at my face,” the man replied. “Bahame can see through your eyes. He can read

minds.”

“Then you know him?” Rivera said.

The Ugandan was only a shadowy outline, but he sagged visibly as he answered. “He took me as a child.

I fought for many years in his army. I did things that cannot be spoken of.”

“But you escaped.”

“Yes. I chased a family that ran into the jungle when we attacked their vil age. I didn’t harm them, though. I

just ran. I ran for days.”

“You told our people that you know how to find him.”

When he didn’t respond, Rivera dug a sack ful of euros from his pack and held it out. The Ugandan

accepted it but stil didn’t speak. He just stared down at the nylon bag in his hands.

“I have six children. One—my son—is very sick.”

“Wel , you should be able to get him help with that money.”

“Yes.”

He held out a piece of paper and Rivera took it, sliding his night-vision goggles in front of his eyes for a

moment to examine the hand-drawn map. The level of detail was impressive, and it seemed to more or less

match the satel ite photos of the area.

“I have done my part,” the Ugandan said.

Rivera nodded and turned back toward the trees, but the man grabbed his shoulder.

“Run,” he said. “Tel the men who hired you that you could not find him.”

“Why would I do that?”

“He leads an army of demons. They cannot be frightened. They cannot be kil ed. Some even say they can

fly.”

Rivera shrugged off the man’s hand and slipped back into the jungle.

Hel ’s own army.

2

Off the Eastern Coast of Africa

November 12—0412 Hours GMT+3

YOU MUST UNDERSTAND, ADMIRAL , that it is precisely the destructive reign of Idi Amin that makes

Uganda such a shining example. We have made tremendous strides—economical y, political y, in the

control of disease. But the world doesn’t see this. It doesn’t see how far my country has come. And because

of that, donors are pul ing back. Problems that were so close to being eradicated are reemerging.”

Smoke from one of Admiral Jamison Kaye’s personal stash of Arturo Fuentes flowed from Charles

Sembutu’s mouth as he continued to pontificate about the world’s moral obligation to the country he led.

Kaye kept his expression impassive, exercising his wel -practiced gift for hiding his distaste for

politicians. He himself had grown up dirt-poor on a farm in Kentucky, and no matter how bad it got, his

family had never gone looking for a handout. His father always said that no one had the power to pick you

up. Either you did it yourself or you stayed the hel down.

“So you can see the importance of what we’re doing here, Admiral. You can understand the magnitude of

the threat.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

His wife constantly admonished him for judging politicians too harshly, and she was usual y right. Not this

time, though. Sembutu had taken over Uganda in a bloody coup that had ended in the deaths of the former

president, his family, and no less than a thousand of his supporters.

There was a quiet knock on the door, and the admiral watched grateful y as his captain entered.

“The feeds are up and running, gentlemen. If you could please fol ow me.”

The control center for this operation was buried in the depths of the carrier—a cramped space designated

for monitoring events that weren’t ever going to hit the papers.

The two women manning the room’s sophisticated electronics leapt to their feet when the admiral and his

guest entered, but a dismissive wave sent them immediately back to their seats.

“These are pictures from your soldiers?” Sembutu asked, pointing to five live monitors. Each cast a

greenish glow, depicting a hazy view of the jungle as it slid slowly past.

“Each man has a camera on his uniform that transmits to us via satel ite,” Kaye said.

Sembutu moved forward, reading the names of the individuals scrawled beneath their respective

monitors while Kaye dialed a number into a secure phone.

He was feeling distinctly queasy as it rang. As far as he was concerned, fighting was the natural state of

Africa—war didn’t occasional y break out there; peace did. Sending his boys into a situation that they didn’t

ful y understand and, in his opinion, was none of America’s business had too many shades of Somalia. But

there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. This wasn’t some harebrained operation dreamed up in a

forgotten corner of the Pentagon. Not by a long shot.

The phone clicked and the unmistakable voice of Sam Adams Castil a came on.

“Yes, Admiral?”

“They’ve made contact and are on the move.”

“Anyone hurt in the jump?”

“No, Mr. President. So far, everything’s by the numbers.”

3

Northern Uganda

November 12—0609 Hours GMT+3

THE LIGHT OF DAWN WAS beginning to penetrate the jungle canopy, dispel ing the darkness that had

become so comfortable. Lt. Craig Rivera slipped past the man in front of him, wanting to take point

personal y until the confusing twilight final y gave way to day.

The condensation on the leaves was already starting to heat up, turning into mist that weighed down his

clothes and felt thick in his lungs. He eased up a steep, rocky slope, dropping into a prone position at its

crest. More than a minute passed as he scanned the tangle of leaves and branches for a human outline.

Nothing. Just the endless shimmer of wet leaves.

He started to move again but froze when a voice crackled over his earpiece. “Keep your eyes on the sky.”

Rivera pressed himself against the broad trunk of a tree and looked up, putting a hand to his throat mike.

“What have you got?”

“Bahame could swoop down on us at any minute shooting firebal s from his ass.”

The quiet snickers of the men closest to him were audible in the silence, and he started forward again,

trying to decide how to respond. “Radio discipline. Let’s not forget what happened to the other guys.”

An African Union team had gotten a tip on Bahame’s location and come after him about six months ago.

Al that was left of them was an audio recording.

He’d never admit it to his men, but Rivera could stil hear it in his head—the calm chatter and control ed

fire devolving into panicked shouts and wild bursts on ful automatic, the screams of attackers who sounded

more animal than human. And final y the crash of body against body, the grunts of hand-to-hand combat, the

bloody gurgles of death.

After he and his team had listened to it, they’d blown it off with the expected bravado. African Union

forces? Hadn’t they gotten taken down by a Girl Scout troop in Cameroon? Weren’t they the guys whose

mascot was a toy poodle?

As team leader, though, Rivera had seen the dead soldiers’ files. They weren’t reassigned meter maids

from Congo as one of his men had suggested after polishing off the better part of a twelve-pack. They were

solid operators working in their own backyard.

Rivera threw up a fist and crouched, aiming his AK through the trees at a flash of tan in the sea of

emerald. Behind him, he could hear nothing but knew his men were fanning out into defensive positions.

He eased onto his stomach and slithered forward, control ing his breathing and being careful not to cause

the bushes above him to sway with his movement. It took more than five minutes to cover twenty yards, but

final y the jungle thinned and he found himself at the edge of a smal vil age.

The woven straw wal of the hut in front of him was about the only thing that hadn’t been burned—and that

included the residents. It was hard to determine precisely how many blackened bodies were piled next to

what may have once been a soccer goal, but forty was a reasonable guess. It seemed that their intel was

good. This was Bahame country.

Behind him, he heard a quiet grunt and something that sounded like a body hitting the ground. Swearing

under his breath, he headed back toward the noise, finger hooked lightly around the trigger of his gun.

“Sorry, boss. Nothin’ I could do. She came right up on me.”

The woman was cowering against a tree, holding her hands in front of her in frozen panic. Her eyes

darted back and forth as his men materialized from the foliage and surrounded her.

“Who you figure she is?” one of them said quietly.

“There’s a vil age up there,” Rivera responded. “Or at least there was. Bahame got to it. She must have

given him the slip. Probably been living on her own out here for the past few days.”

There was an infected gash in her arm and her ankle was grotesquely twisted to the right, bones pushing

at the skin but not quite breaking through. Rivera tried to determine her age, but there were too many

contradictions—skin the color and texture of an old tire, strong, wiry arms, straight white teeth. The truth was

he didn’t know anything about her and he never would.

“What are we going to do with her?” one of his men asked.

“Do you speak English?” Rivera said, enunciating careful y.

She started to talk in her native language, the volume of her voice startling in the silence. He clamped a

hand over her mouth and held a finger to his lips. “Do you speak any English?”

When he pul ed his hand away, she spoke more quietly, but stil in the local dialect.

“What do you think, boss?”

Rivera took a step back, a trickle of salty sweat running over his lips and into his mouth. He didn’t know

what he thought. He wanted to cal back to command, but he knew what Admiral Kaye would say—that he

wasn’t there on the ground. That it wasn’t his cal .

“She’s no friend of Bahame’s based on what he did to her vil age.”

“Yeah,” one of his men agreed. “But people are afraid of him and don’t want to piss him off. They think

he’s magic.”

“So what are you saying?” Rivera said.

“If we let her go, how do we know she won’t talk? Hel , we can’t even tel her not to.”

He was right. What was it their contact had said? That Bahame could see through people’s eyes?

Legends had roots in reality. Maybe people were so terrified of the man that even the ones who hated him

told him everything they knew in hopes of working their way into his good graces.

“We could tie her to the tree and gag her,” another of his men said.

This was stupid. They were exposed and wasting time.

“Boss?”

“We can’t tie her to a tree. She’d die of thirst or an animal would get her.”

The man standing behind her silently unsheathed his knife. “She’s not going to last out here on her own

anyway. We’d be doing her a favor.”

Rivera stood frozen for what he knew must have seemed like far too long to his men. Indecisiveness was

not a particularly attractive quality in his profession.

The knee-jerk reaction was always to fal back on his training, but this kind of situation had never been

dealt with in a way that meant anything when actual y faced with contemplating ending the life of an innocent

woman.

“We’re moving out,” he said, turning and starting in a direction that skirted the burned-out vil age. There

would already be a lot of explaining to do in the unlikely event that he ever laid eyes on the Pearly Gates.

Murdering helpless women wasn’t something he wanted to add to his list.

4

Southern Namibia

November 12—1358 Hours GMT+2

DR. SARIE VAN KEUREN THREW a hand out, grimacing as her fingers closed over a branch covered in

thorns. There had been no rain for weeks, and the dirt on the embankment she was scaling could barely

hold her fifty-four kilos.

She ignored the blood running down her sweaty palm and hauled herself forward, fighting her way to the

tripod-mounted video camera set up on the ridge.

She blew the dust from the lens and peered into the leafy bush it was trained on. Even under the glare of

the African sun, it took her a few moments to find what she was looking for among the berries—an ant from

a nearby colony.

Normal y, members of this species were slim black ground dwel ers. But this individual had been

transformed by the invasion of a tiny parasite. Its abdomen had swol en and now gleamed bright red,

perfectly mimicking the surrounding berries. Even worse, the parasite had infected the ant’s brain,

compel ing it to climb into the bush, clamp its jaws around a stalk, and stick its colorful abdomen in the air.

At first, it had fought to get free, six legs pul ing mightily against the grip of its jaws. But now al its

appendages appeared to be paralyzed—probably because its clever little invader was chewing through the

nerves.

She glanced into the washed-out blue of the sky, looking for the birds the parasite was trying to attract.

This particular nematode could breed only in avian guts and had no means of transportation of its own. A

match made in heaven. Unless, of course, you were an ant.

Van Keuren sat, wrapping her arms around her knees in an effort to get as much of herself as possible

into the shade of her oversized hat. Below, the dry landscape stretched endlessly in every direction. The

only way she could be sure that the modern world even existed was her Land Cruiser, broken down at the

base of the slope.

She tried to calculate how many species she’d discovered over the years but soon found her mind drifting

back to the first. It had been twenty-five years ago this week that her father had come home with a slightly

dented VCR and a box of tapes—an unheard-of luxury in the Namibian farming community where she grew

up. She’d been barely eight at the time and was absolutely mesmerized by the children’s videos, sitting for

hours examining every nuance, memorizing every line. After a while, though, they’d started to get boring and

she’d dug into the box again, finding a worn copy of Alien beneath a flap at the bottom. Her father had

insisted that it would give her nightmares, but she’d watched it anyway, transfixed by the creature that

grabbed people’s faces and gestated inside them.

Who would have thought that a horror movie hiding in the bottom of a box would spark an obsession that

would define her life? Thank God it hadn’t been a copy of Rocky. She’d probably be getting beat up in

some ring right now.

The angle of the sun continued to dip, but that did nothing to diminish the temperature she guessed was

creeping up on forty-five Celsius. Time to retreat back to the shade of her truck.

Down was easier, the loose dirt al owing for a semicontrol ed standing slide to the bottom. Once back on

solid ground, she dabbed a little water on a rag, looking in the side-view mirror as she unstuck the blond

hair from her cheeks and wiped the dust and salt from around her mouth.

Her hat was large enough to border on sombrero but wasn’t enough to keep her skin from turning deep

red and her nose from looking like it was molting. Despite her family tracing its history in Namibia back for

generations, she was cursed with the smooth, fair skin her mother had taken such pride in.

Deciding it was hopeless, she reached into a cooler ful of melted ice and pul ed out the makings of a gin

and tonic. A couple of prospectors had driven by six days ago and assured her that they’d tel the Toyota

people in Windhoek that she was out there, but now she regretted refusing their offer of a ride out.

Sometimes her single-mindedness could be a virtue, but mostly it just got her into trouble.

Sarie pressed her back against the vehicle and slid down the hot metal, settling in against the slightly

cooler rear tire. She had no more than a day’s water left in her primary container, but there was a spring a

few kilometers away. Her food stores were a bit better, but it didn’t real y matter—she could live off the land

pretty much indefinitely if she had to. The real problem was the gin. There were only a few centimeters left,

and that was just unacceptable.

She frowned and sighed quietly. When the sun went down, she’d have to start walking out. It was probably

two days to the road and another day of waiting around for someone to drive by. What had happened to the

note she’d written herself to buy a satel ite phone? Probably in the glove box with al the other unread

reminders.

Halfway into her third drink, a distant shape began to form in the heat distortion. At first she just thought it

was the alcohol, but soon it coalesced into an outline that was distinctly human. She reached back through

the truck’s open door and pul ed out her rifle, sighting through the scope at the approaching figure.

It was a boy of about sixteen with skin turned almost obsidian by a life spent outdoors. He was shoeless,

wearing only a pair of khaki shorts and carrying a canvas sack over his bare shoulder.

She poured the last of her gin in celebration, sipping happily at the hot liquid as he drew nearer.

“Howzit!” she said when he came within earshot. “If you have an alternator in that sack, bru, then you’re my

hero.”

He stopped in front of her, a look of confused concentration on his face. She tried Afrikaans with no more

success and final y succeeded with the now very rusty Ndonga she’d learned from the people who had

worked her family’s farm.

“Yes,” the boy responded, nodding wearily. “The car men in Windhoek gave it to my father and he told me

to bring it here.”

She dug a Coke and some food from her sweltering cooler, handing it to him before crawling into the

back of the vehicle for her tools. “Rest in the shade. With a little luck, we’l be driving before dark.”

5

Northern Uganda

November 12—1739 Hours GMT+3

LT. CRAIG RIVERA DROPPED TO one knee and reviewed the hand-drawn map again before scanning the

jungle ahead. The foliage had thinned somewhat, with trees spread out at about ten-foot intervals in a sea of

knee-high bushes. Easier to punch through, but not much in the way of cover.

He glanced back, managing to pick out the man closest to him—low to the ground and stone stil . The rest

of the team was completely invisible, even to his practiced eye.

“We’re getting close,” Rivera said into his throat mike. “Anybody have any problems?”

Al negatives.

They’d been hiking almost nonstop for fifteen hours, and he thanked God for the grueling training they’d

undergone in Florida. His CO’s philosophy was “Train twice as long, twice as hard, and ten degrees hotter

than you’d ever have to face in the real world.” It was ops like these that made al the suffering worth it.

“Everybody stay sharp. We’re moving.”

According to the map, the camp they were looking for would be fairly spread out, with equipment under

camouflage netting and most of Bahame’s soldiers sleeping on the bare ground. The outer ring would be

children armed with light assault rifles—cannon fodder to warn Bahame of incoming danger. The next ring

would be more-seasoned adult troops, and then the guerril a leader’s personal guard.

Assuming they actual y found the camp, the plan was to quietly penetrate its outer defenses under the

cover of darkness, dig in, and wait for Bahame to wander into range of their sniper rifles. Unfortunately, that

plan left a lot to chance. Would they be able to find positions that al owed them to stay hidden but stil offered

a decent line of sight? And even more important, would they have a clear path for an extremely hasty retreat

after they put a bul et in a guy whose troops thought he was God-made-flesh?

Al were questions that had been left up to his discretion. There just wasn’t enough solid intel to do

anything but show up and get creative.

Ahead, the trees became even more sparse and Rivera spotted a stump that had the mark of human

tools. He signaled for his men to stop and dropped to his bel y again, crawling forward to investigate.

The winding, grassy track that he final y stopped at the edge of was a good fifteen feet wide but seemed

to have been created specifical y to be difficult to spot from the air. He slid ful y beneath the bush next to him

and looked down the path to the south, seeing nothing but a lone cow grazing on a smal patch of flowers.

“I found the road,” he said quietly into his throat mike. “We’l paral el it heading…Wait. Stand by. I’ve got

activity.”

A young girl appeared around the corner, naked except for a three-foot-long chain hanging from her neck.

Her breathless wailing was shockingly loud as she ran, and Rivera tried unsuccessful y to make sense of the

words she got out between sobs.

The cow broke from its daze as she passed, but instead of watching her, it looked back the way she’d

come. Dust bil owed from its back as it stamped and bucked nervously, seemingly uncertain what to do.

Rivera remained completely motionless, wanting the girl to be wel out of sight before he broke cover.

Instead of passing by, though, she crashed into the jungle less than ten feet from him and began desperately

pul ing back the edges of bushes as though she was searching for something.

A moment later, what she had been fleeing became visible around the bend in the road about a hundred

yards to the south.

It looked like the entire population of one of the tiny local vil ages, each person sprinting so desperately

that they could barely stay upright. Blood coated their faces, mixing with sweat and fanning out across their

clothing and skin. Adult men and women were in front, with children and the elderly lagging a bit—physical y

slower, but apparently just as motivated.

“Hostiles coming from the south,” Rivera said quietly into his radio.

The leaves above him parted and he grabbed the girl, pul ing her to the ground and clamping a hand over

her mouth. She squirmed beneath him, but her size and exhaustion made her easy to control.

Using his free hand, he touched his mike again. “Thirty-five, maybe forty total. No weapons visible. Pul

back. We’re going to try to walk away from this fight.”

He began sliding from beneath the bush but then froze when he saw the cow bolt for the jungle. At least

five of the people coming up the road changed their trajectory and hit the frightened animal broadside,

knocking it off its feet. Rivera barely noticed when the girl squirmed from beneath him and started pul ing on

his sleeve, trying to get him to run.

The cow struggled to get back to its feet, but the weight of the people on top of it kept it pinned on its

side. They screamed in rage and frustration as they tore into the helpless beast with fists, feet, and teeth. A

man wearing nothing but camo shorts got kicked powerful y in the face and Rivera assumed he was dead

when he col apsed in the dirt. A moment later, though, he was crawling unsteadily back toward the

weakening animal.

Rivera leapt to his feet, grabbing the girl and starting to run back the way he’d come. They hadn’t made it

more than ten yards when he heard the unmistakable crash of people entering the jungle behind.

A muzzle flashed in front of him and then another and another. The reassuring crack of gunfire drowned

out the otherworldly screeching of his pursuers and he felt the hint of panic that had overtaken him dissipate.

His boys never missed. Never.

Finding a defensible position between two large trees, he stopped and turned, taking in the entire scene

through the sights of his AK.

No one was chasing him anymore—they had been distracted by the more obvious fixed positions of his

men and were going down left and right as they ran into withering fire. Their compatriots didn’t seem to

notice, running past—and sometimes over—the fal en, focused only on the men shooting at them. In some

cases, the people who had been hit didn’t seem to understand what had happened. They tried repeatedly to

get up before final y succumbing to a wound that should have dropped them like a sack of potatoes.

His second in command had four people bearing down on him from fifteen yards away. One was a child

no more than six years old and another a woman with what appeared to be a badly broken arm. Rivera

ignored them and trained his gun on one of the two uninjured adult men in front, taking a gulp of air and

holding it before pul ing the trigger. The target went down but the other three got through, col iding with his

old friend in an impact that reverberated through the trees.

Rivera tried to get another clear shot, but it was impossible—al he could see was a jumble of flesh, the

flash of a knife, the color of blood. There was nothing he could do. His friend—a man he’d fought and

trained with for more than five years—was never going to leave this place.

“Retreat!” he said into his throat mike.

His men broke cover and he tried as best he could to slow their pursuers.

Donny Praman was running hard for the relative safety of a ditch with a plump woman in the bloody tatters

of traditional dress angling in on him. Rivera initial y dismissed her but then blinked hard, thinking his eyes

were playing tricks. She was overtaking him.

He fired a round, but his heavy breathing and confusion caused him to go wide, taking a chunk out of a

tree next to her shoulder.

Gunfire was becoming more uncontrol ed and the shouts of his men more desperate as he lined up for

another shot. She was nearly in his crosshairs when she leapt on Praman’s back and they went rol ing down

a steep embankment together.

The girl behind him was crying and babbling again, but he barely heard, stunned by the image of a fat

woman taking down the best soldier he’d ever worked with. Maybe the best alive.

She final y jumped in front of his gun and pointed. When he fol owed her finger he saw that his shooting

had attracted the attention of no fewer than five Africans, who were now bearing down on them. Fast.

Rivera fired into them, knocking the lead man down and causing two others to trip over him. They didn’t

look down as they fel , seeming unconcerned by any rocks or branches that could injure them, instead

staying locked on him and the girl.

He lined his sights up again, but it was hopeless. The two who had fal en were already back on their feet,

and there were another three coming in from the east.

He grabbed the girl’s arm and ran, trying to ignore the intermittent fire and shouts of his friends going

silent.

6

South Dakota, USA

November 12—0830 Hours GMT–7

DR. JONATHAN SMITH SHUFFLED slowly through a stack of charts as the nurse gave him a rundown of the

changes in his patients’ conditions. He glanced up at her every few seconds—mostly so she knew he was

paying attention but also to admire the red hair flowing over her shoulders and ivory skin unblemished by so

much as a freckle.

“Jon Boy!”

Dr. Derek Canter appeared at the end of the hal way and began hurrying toward him, huffing audibly. The

gray halo of hair ringing his bald head bounced in rhythm with his bel y and, combined with the outsized

wingtips slapping the floor, made him look a bit like an off-duty clown. It was one of many reasons the kids in

the ward loved him.

“Derek. Just the man I wanted to see,” Smith said. “I was at the grocery store yesterday and they stil won’t

let me pay.”

“I talked to them, JB, but the fact is, your money’s no good here. Hel , I’m actual y looking forward to writing

a check to the tax man this year.”

Smith scowled. This was getting out of hand. The owner of the old cowboy motel he was staying in

brought him home-cooked dinners every night, and yesterday, when he’d flagrantly run the stop sign in front

of the police station, the sheriff had just smiled and given him the thumbs-up.

Canter pointed at the nurse hovering over Smith’s shoulder. “So how are things looking, Stace?”

“I think we’re out of the woods.”

“Even Tina?”

“Visibly improved since last night.”

Canter clapped his hands together loudly and then darted off, his voice echoing through the building. “I

wonder if there’s a line for tips on the 1040. Somebody cal my accountant!”

Smith went back to his chart, shaking his head and laughing quietly.

“It’s starting to snow,” Stacy said. The nervousness in her voice was obvious enough to make him look

through the window at the widely spaced flakes. Not a storm that should concern a girl born and bred in this

little South Dakota town.

“Dangerous driving for people not used to it,” she continued. “I could give you a ride back to the hotel

tonight…”

He tossed the chart on the counter between them and searched her face for even a hint of a wrinkle.

Coming up empty, he silently calculated her age at about twenty-five—nineteen years his junior.

“Oh, and you know, Jon, my brother owns the best restaurant in town. We could maybe stop off and grab

a bite on the way.”

It was likely that she took him to be significantly younger than he actual y was. His shoulders were stil

broad and his waist trim, but she would be blissful y unaware of the ever-increasing effort it took to keep

them that way. His short black hair was stil thick, complementing natural y dark skin that had so far proved

impervious to the brutal conditions he regularly subjected it to.

Smith’s initial reflex was to say no—the lifestyle he’d chosen didn’t real y lend itself to personal

entanglements. On the other hand, dinner with a smart, beautiful woman looked pretty good when compared

to another night watching reruns on the one channel the hotel got.

“Do they have steak?”

She smiled broadly, though it wasn’t enough to conjure even a smal crease in the corners of her eyes.

“Like you’ve never had.”

He started toward the makeshift quarantine unit they’d set up in back of the facility. “Then you’ve got a

deal.”

At the end of the hal way, Smith slipped through a duct-tape-and-plastic curtain, then through a set of

double doors.

“Al right, how is everyone feeling?”

There were eight children in beds lined up neatly against the wal s—some playing video games and

looking about ready to go home while others struggled a bit to sit up.

“Good morning, Colonel Smith,” they said in a practiced chorus.

He sat on a low stool and kicked off, gliding graceful y to the bed of a young girl who had just entered the

fifth grade. “I hear you’re kicking butt, Tina.”

She coughed, clearly trying to make it sound better than it was. “I’m feeling way better than yesterday.”

“Wel , I’m very glad to hear it,” he said, slipping on a pair of gloves and checking her lymph nodes.

Growing up in a smal , close-knit community could be wonderful, but, like everything, it had its downsides.

This town happened to have a very charismatic woman who was convinced that vaccinations caused her

son’s autism and had gone on a devastatingly successful campaign to get her neighbors to skip or delay

vaccinating their children.

The first case of measles had sprung up about a month ago in a six-year-old boy living on a ranch to the

north and had been passed to his classmates in the town’s only school. The speed with which the disease

spread surprised everyone, its transmission bolstered by the fact that the vaccination rate had dropped

below what was necessary for herd immunity.

When a young girl died of complications, the overwhelmed medical staff started making desperate cal s

to the government and Centers for Disease Control. Eventual y, word had made it to Fort Detrick, where

Smith was an army infectious disease specialist. It had been too long since he’d actual y sat down with a

patient, and he immediately volunteered.

“How’s my neck feel?” Tina said, looking up at him hopeful y.

“Feels great. You’re official y on the mend.”

“Real y?”

“Swear to God.”

His cel phone rang and he reached into his pocket to check the number, frowning when it came up al

dashes and a tiny encryption symbol appeared.

“Who is it?” Tina asked.

“My mom,” Smith lied smoothly—a skil he’d picked up during his time with Military Intel igence. “And you

know you can’t blow off your mom, right?”

7

Northern Uganda

November 12—1853 Hours GMT+3

LT. CRAIG RIVERA DROPPED his empty rifle and yanked a pistol from the holster on his hip, concentrating

on not letting his pace slow even a fraction. A jumble of loose rock beneath the carpet of vines nearly

tripped him, and he dared a quick glance over his shoulder as he regained his balance. There were stil four

of them and they were gaining fast. The young girl next to him had been keeping up out of sheer terror but

was now starting to fal behind, fatigue final y trumping adrenaline.

He put a round into the chest of a man in a blood-soaked Manchester United shirt and scooped up the

exhausted girl, trying to coax a little more speed from his cramping legs.

The incomprehensible truth, though, was that the people chasing him were faster than he was on his best

day. And with the added weight of the girl, it was now a matter of seconds before they ran him down. Rivera

angled right into a stand of bushes with leaves the size of elephant ears, hoping to confuse his pursuers as

they plummeted in after him.

The wet vegetation slapped painful y at his face, obscuring his vision and throwing off his equilibrium as

the girl began to squeal and squirm. They were no more than a few paces behind. He wasn’t going to make

it.

Rivera felt a hand claw the back of his neck, and then the gloom of the rain forest suddenly gave way to

blinding sunlight. The sound of his footfal s and those of the people behind him went silent, and he was

tumbling through the air, his mind trying to make sense of a spinning universe—the red and brown of the

people fal ing with him, the green of the jungle, the blue of the sky.

The pain of the impact surprised him. Based on the length of the fal , he’d expected to die instantly.

Muddy water swirled around him as he fought to keep hold of the girl and figure out which way was up.

The burning in his lungs started quickly, but he ignored it as long as he dared, waiting until he was in

danger of losing consciousness before surfacing. Only one of his pursuers was visible, thrashing wildly,

unable to keep his head above the churning river. The others seemed to have already gone down for the

last time.

Rivera looked up at the sixty-foot cliff he’d fal en from, focusing on the people standing at its edge. Their

eyes were locked on him, but they seemed unsure what to do.

He turned to face the direction the water was taking him, adjusting his grip on the motionless girl to get a

more solid hold. When her head hit his chest, though, he saw the unnatural angle of her neck beneath the

chain stil secured there, and he reluctantly let her body drift away.

Above, the Africans were beginning to track him, fol owing along the top of the cliff, trying to find a way

down. He swam for the opposite shore, but the current was too strong, funneling him and al the other debris

to the river’s center.

A submerged tree trunk hit him hard from behind, flipping him forward and pul ing him under. He tried to

kick away from it but found that his right leg was useless. Water fil ed his mouth and forced itself into his

lungs as he struggled to get back to the surface.

He could see the light of the sun, he could imagine its warmth, but the more he fought the more distant it

seemed to become. He remembered the lake that he and his family used to go to when he was young, and

suddenly he was there swimming with his brothers. He was so tired. Wasn’t it time to rest yet?

* * *

CHARLES SEMBUTU WATCHED impassively as Admiral Kaye barked orders at the women manning the

computer stations. Three of the video feeds had gone black, and another was permanently fixed on the sky.

The fifth showed a motionless Caucasian hand holding a knife buried in the throat of a young boy.

“Can we get anything on Rivera?” Kaye said, though the answer was obvious.

“Radio’s dead, sir. Along with the video feed.”

He leaned over one of the women’s chairs. “Replay the last thing we have from his camera. Slow it down

this time.”

She brought the monitor assigned to Rivera back to life and they watched leaves col iding with the lens, a

flash of the people chasing him, and then the fal .

“Sir, that looks like water at the bottom of the ravine, and our satel ite photos confirm that there’s a river

cutting east to west close to where the skirmish started. He could stil be alive. Can I give the extraction

team his last known coordinates?”

Kaye glanced back and Sembutu met his eye, making sure to hide his anger. Normal y, when someone

failed him, that person’s life became very short and very unpleasant. No such remedies were available when

the Americans were involved.

It had been a perfect scenario for him—let the foreigners get rid of a man the world had come to despise

and then take credit for it. In one brief moment he would neutralize the growing threat to his own power and

make himself a hero to the rural population taking the brunt of Bahame’s attacks.

But the Americans had botched the operation as he had suspected they would. For al their skil , first

world soldiers were too mired in tradition and meaningless moral codes to operate effectively in Africa.

He now had no choice but to accept the partnership the Iranians had offered. It was a dangerous gamble,

but he was quickly running out of options. Bahame’s army continued to creep south, trying to get into a

position that would al ow a ful -scale assault on Uganda’s capital. Something had to be done.

But it had to be done with the utmost care. If the Americans discovered the Iranians’ plot and his

involvement in it, there was little doubt that their retaliation would decimate his country and leave him dead

or on the run.

Kaye took a hesitant step back, demonstrating his weakness through his concern for a single,

inconsequential soldier.

“No,” the admiral said. “Tel the extraction team to stand by at the rendezvous point.”

“But, sir, the fal . He’s probably—”

“You heard me, Lieutenant. We’l wait seventy-two hours. After that, we’re pul ing the plug.”

8

Washington, DC, USA

November 12—0900 Hours GMT–5

PRESIDENT SAM ADAMS CASTILLA put his feet up on a heavy pine coffee table he’d brought with him from

the governor’s mansion in Santa Fe. The décor in the Oval Office had evolved since he’d first moved in,

objects from home being slowly replaced with things he’d received on his official travels. A reminder of the

magnitude and scope of his responsibilities.

“Any questions, sir?”

Lawrence Drake, the director of the CIA, was sitting across from him in a wingback chair that had been a

gift from the French—a people that would immediately declare war if they ever saw the native American

blanket it had been reupholstered with.

“About North Korea?”

“Yes, sir.”

Castil a frowned thoughtful y. It seemed like these intel igence briefings got more complicated and more

depressing every time he sat down to one. China, Russia, Israel, the Middle East—impossibly complex

individual pieces intertwined into an utterly unfathomable whole.

“No, let’s move on, Larry. What’s next?”

“Iran.”

Castil a’s frown deepened. There was only one thing he wanted to talk about that day, and it seemed they

were never going to get around to it. He waved the DCI on impatiently.

“Thank you, sir. The antigovernment demonstration last week in Tehran numbered at least ten thousand

—”

“Were there casualties?”

“Our information is a little shaky, but we’re estimating a little over a hundred injured. Two confirmed dead

—one person was trampled after tear gas was thrown by government forces, and one died in the hospital

from injuries sustained in an attack by riot police.”

“I saw the video on CNN,” Castil a said. “A lot of chaos for a country that likes order.”

Drake nodded gravely. “Iran’s destabilizing faster than anyone anticipated, sir. Ayatol ah Khamenei is

getting more and more hard-line in the face of the opposition. We have reports of the secret police going

after dissidents’ families al the way out to cousins. And there are rumors of an upcoming purge of

government workers who’ve been deemed too liberal. We’ve seen this a thousand times throughout history.

When the paranoia hits this pitch, col apse can’t be far behind.”

“Time frame?”

“Hard to say. There are a lot of variables and we’re fairly blind in that country. Having said that, I wouldn’t

be surprised if we saw it happen within the next eighteen months.”

Castil a drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Can’t say that I’l be sad to see them go.”

The edges of Drake’s mouth tightened perceptibly.

“What?”

“Sir?”

“I know that look, Larry. What?”

“The enemy of our enemy is not necessarily our friend.”

“Farrokh.”

Drake didn’t bother to hide his distaste at the utterance of the Iranian resistance leader’s name. “The

sanctions we put in place have been somewhat effective, but much more important is the fact that the

government just doesn’t have the support of young people or intel ectuals. And let’s face it, building a nuke

without those two groups can be pretty time-consuming.”

“But Farrokh does have the support of the youth and intel ectuals.”

“Yes, sir. We stil don’t know much about him, but we know he’s a wizard with technology—particularly cel

phones and the Internet. The way he uses music from alternative Middle Eastern artists and historical video

to drum up support would put most Western campaign consultants to shame. What we have to focus on,

though, is that his message isn’t pro-West. He wants change, but at his core, he’s a nationalist.”

“Come on, Larry. You can’t be suggesting that having a progressive democracy in there could be worse

than what we have now.”

Drake didn’t answer immediately, and Castil a waited. He’d made it clear from his first day in office that

everyone was free—in fact obligated—to speak their mind inside the wal s of the Oval Office. The best way

to lose your job in his administration was to hand out political y sanitized information that caused him to get

caught out in front of a camera.

“Sir, fundamentalists tend to be backward-thinking people who can be played off each other, isolated,

and bribed. Farrokh is different. Under someone like him, Iran could very easily get over the technical

barriers keeping it from becoming a nuclear power. But that’s not al . So far, Khamenei’s success in using

the region’s instability to increase Iran’s influence has been fairly limited. People are suspicious of the

Iranians, and the Sunnis aren’t anxious to see an increase in Shia power. Farrokh is seen as being much

less divisive by the people trying to shake up the status quo—and I’m not just talking about liberals and

progressives. There’s a very real danger that, under someone like him, we could see the Middle East unify

into something resembling the Soviet bloc. Only with a much more convenient and effective weapon…”

“Oil.”

“Yes, sir.”

Castil a leaned back and sank a little deeper into the leather sofa.

Farrokh was a ghost. In fact, many people in the intel igence community didn’t even believe he existed,

hypothesizing that he was just an avatar for the people pul ing the strings of the Iranian resistance. As a

career politician, though, Castil a knew better. Composites couldn’t take the reins of power—that was

something reserved for individuals. And whoever this Farrokh was, he wanted his hands on those reins

something awful.

The truth was that as unstable as the region looked, it was actual y worse. The Iranians were financing any

group sympathetic to them or antagonistic to the United States, the Israelis had their fingers hovering over

the button, and the few remaining stable Muslim governments were using back channels to urge U.S.

military action. Of course, if America did move against Iran, those same governments would provide little

more than a quiet thank-you while publicly declaring jihad on the Christian invaders.

“The devil you know, right?” Castil a said final y.

“I think we need to consider that a takeover by Farrokh might actual y turn out to be detrimental to our

interests. And in light of that, I think we should act on—”

Castil a held up a hand. “We’ve been over this before, Larry. I’m not going to keep an entire country in the

Dark Ages over a bunch of ‘maybes’ and ‘coulds.’ Change can be dangerous as hel , but it can also provide

opportunities. Giving up the possibility of a decent relationship with a democratic Iran in favor of

perpetuating the current disaster is too defeatist for my blood.”

“Is it defeatism, Mr. President? Or realism?”

Castil a folded his hands over a bel y that seemed to expand and contract with his stress level. “I figure

that when you have no idea what you’re doing, you’re better off not doing anything. Now, let’s move on.”

“But, sir—”

“We’re moving on, Larry.”

As usual, Drake’s face was an impenetrable mask—something that had always made Castil a

uncomfortable. He relied on his gift for seeing through people and it made him nervous when he couldn’t.

“The only thing we have left on the agenda is the matter in Uganda.”

Castil a’s feet slid to the floor and he leaned forward, focusing his ful attention on the DCI. “Have we

figured out what happened?”

“Apparently, the same thing that happened to the force the AU sent to track down Bahame. We believe

our entire team was wiped out, though it’s possible that the team leader survived. We have people waiting

for him, but honestly, I think we’re wasting our time—”

“Like hel we are!” Castil a said, his voice rising to something just below a shout. “No one saw that man

die, and we’re not going to abandon him.”

“I wasn’t suggesting we should, sir.”

The president stared down at the carpet for a moment. He’d sent those soldiers in against everyone’s

recommendation. As much as it horrified him to get into bed with Charles Sembutu, the atrocities being

perpetrated by Caleb Bahame had become too grotesque to ignore.

“I’m sorry,” Castil a said when he final y looked up again. “I know that’s not what you were saying, Larry.

And I know you were against this from the start.”

Drake watched Castil a settle back into the sofa again. Politicians liked action without consequence—to

create a show that would please their constituents but not actual y cause anything to happen that would be

tangible enough to garner criticism. And while Castil a was more impressive than most, he was no different.

Sometimes you rol ed the dice and lost. Sometimes you sent men to die.

“Did you watch the video?” the president said final y.

Drake didn’t al ow himself to react but felt the anger wel up inside him. Kaye. That overambitious navy

hack had made an end run around him and sent the raw feeds from the soldiers’ cameras directly to the

White House.

“Yes, sir. I reviewed it this morning.”

“Have you ever seen anything like that? What the hel was going on out there? Have your people been

able to come up with an explanation?”

Drake considered his answer careful y. The information he’d been feeding the White House on Uganda

was careful y massaged to include only the bare minimum necessary to keep the CIA from looking like it

was withholding—and even that had been enough to get them into this pointless and extremely inconvenient

skirmish. Did Castil a know more than what was included in the agency briefings? Did he have other

sources?

“I’m sorry, sir. An explanation?”

Castil a’s exasperation was obvious and expected. “Our top special ops team was wiped out by a bunch

of unarmed Africans, some who looked like women and children to me. You don’t think that demands some

sort of explanation?”

There was nothing in the president’s demeanor that suggested he was suspicious, and Drake had no

choice but to move forward based on that very dangerous assumption.

“No, sir, I don’t. Bahame was tipped off that they were coming and he sent some of his soldiers to

intercept them.”

“Soldiers? Those weren’t soldiers, Larry.”

“I respectful y disagree. That was a typical representation of the army Bahame’s put together by raiding

vil ages and giving the people living in them the choice of dying or fighting for him. In the context of Africa,

this isn’t new.”

Castil a was clearly shaken, as anyone who saw that video would be, and Drake decided to take

advantage of the president’s momentary weakness.

“Sir, Bahame is as bad as they come, and you tried to help. I feel for the Ugandans, but this is an African

problem. What can we do? Send a battalion? Neither the AU or Sembutu are going to go for that, and even

if we could convince them, where would we get the troops? We’ve been down this road before, sir, and it

doesn’t lead anywhere.”

“So you’re tel ing me that you don’t think there’s anything on that tape that’s unusual?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t. Our men were outnumbered eight to one by a bunch of people brainwashed into

thinking Bahame is some kind of god. To some extent, a smal team’s survival in this kind of a tactical

situation hinges on generating fear—if you shoot enough people, the others wil break and run. That didn’t

work in this case.”

“Your recommendation?”

“We bury our dead and walk away.”

Castil a nodded slowly but didn’t speak.

“Is that al , sir?”

“Yeah. That’s al . Thanks, Larry.”

Alone again, President Castil a walked to the windows behind his desk and looked out at the clouds boiling

over DC. He didn’t turn when the side door to his office opened. “You heard?”

“I did.”

“Thoughts?”

“I gave you that video because I knew you’d want to see it, Sam. But in this case, I have to agree with

Larry.”

Castil a turned and watched Fred Klein settle into a chair. He looked a lot older than he did a few years

ago—his hair had receded another inch and he’d lost so much weight that his suit seem to swal ow him.

Being the president’s most trusted friend wasn’t an easy job.

“I sent them there, Fred. And now everyone just wants to forget about them.”

“No one wants to forget. It’s just that this is a fight you’re never going to win.”

“You’ve spent most of your life in intel, Fred. Tel me you’ve seen something like that video before.”

Klein took off his glasses and wiped them on his tie. “I can’t say that I have.”

“Something isn’t right here,” Castil a said, taking a seat on the sofa across from him. “I want you to use

your resources to look into this for me. I need to know what happened, Fred. I need to be able to sleep at

night.”

A nearly imperceptible smile flickered across Klein’s lips as he continued to polish his lenses.

Castil a’s eyes narrowed. “God, I hate being predictable.”

9

Western Cape, South Africa

November 12—1701 Hours GMT+2

THE TOWN OF PAARL, South Africa, and the granite domes that framed it, were just visible in the

afternoon light. Grapevines radiated in every direction, the neat rows eventual y disappearing into rol ing

hil s.

Sarie van Keuren swung her Land Cruiser onto an empty rural road and squinted into the sun. She should

have stopped for the night in Springbok but hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. Twenty-one hours,

thirteen cups of coffee, and an embarrassingly large bag of farm-stal sausages later, home was less than a

kilometer away.

She slowed and veered onto a gravel track, skidding to a stop in front of the century-old wal she’d spent

two years restoring. At the press of a button, the flower-covered gate began to swing open and she eased

through, stopping in front of a meticulously whitewashed Cape Dutch farmhouse.

None of her friends understood why she lived alone in what they referred to as the “hinterlands,” and

sometimes she wasn’t sure either. Every six months or so she got to thinking about moving into Cape Town

and leaving behind the forty-five-minute commute to the university where she worked, but when it came to

actual y cal ing an estate agent, she could never bring herself to do it.

Two of the many reasons for her reluctance came barreling around the house as she turned off the

ignition. They jumped up on the car door, adding to the deep gouges their claws had made over the years

and fighting to get their faces through the open window. Sarie pul ed away, but she was a fraction too slow

to avoid getting a wet tongue in her ear. “Hal a! Ingwe! Down!”

They ignored her, barking joyously as she stuck a foot against the door and shoved it open against the

weight of the two Rhodesian ridgebacks. A rack of specimen jars with ants stil clinging to the stalks inside

were resting on the passenger seat, and she held them over her head as she fought her way to the front

door.

She set the jars next to the mail her caretaker had piled on an old sideboard and knelt, rubbing the dogs’

heads and trying to keep out of slobbering range.

“Did Mandisa feed you today?” she said in Afrikaans. “No? Okay, let’s get you two troublemakers

something to eat.”

Maybe her friends were only half right, she mused as she lugged a heavy bag of dog food from the pantry.

It could be that living in the country wasn’t the problem. Maybe the problem was the alone part. It was so

easy for her to bury herself in work, to shut everything else out. But where would that leave her in the end?

* * *

DEMBE KAIKARA PEERED over the lip of the irrigation ditch at the gate across the road. Through the bars, he

saw the woman begin unloading her truck, teetering back and forth beneath armloads of cameras, camping

gear, and scientific equipment.

When he was told she was a col ege professor, he’d pictured a sagging old woman with gray hair and

thick glasses—the stern, disapproving face of the Belgian nun who had come to his vil age so many years

ago to teach reading and the white man’s religion.

Sarie van Keuren was none of those things. Even from this distance, he could see the wel -defined

muscles in her arms and the athletic grace of her movement. Her hair, like the Land Cruiser, was covered

with a layer of dust, but when it was cleaned it would once again be the sun-bleached blond he found so

exotic.

She would fight. He could almost feel her beneath him, trying to use the strength that she was so confident

in until she final y understood that she was nothing and succumbed to his power. Maybe when she was no

longer of use, she would be presented to him as a reward for his loyalty.

Kaikara retreated back into the ditch and pul ed a phone from his pocket, dialing a number from memory.

“Yes.”

“She is here.”

“And the road?”

“There is no traffic and no other houses for more than a kilometer. It wil be easy.”

“Nothing is easy!”

The sudden anger in the voice caused a jolt of adrenaline to course through him. “She is just a woman.

I’ve never failed you before. And I never wil .”

“Wait until night when she’s asleep.”

The voice was calm again, and Kaikara let out a silent, grateful breath. “I understand.”

“The code to her gate is four-three-nine-six. Do you understand?”

He pul ed out a pistol and used the barrel to draw the numbers into the dirt just like the Belgian woman

had taught him. “Yes, I have it.”

10

Prince George’s County, Maryland, USA

November 13—1112 Hours GMT–5

JON SMITH LEANED OVER the wheel of his 1968 Triumph, bringing his face close enough to the

windshield that a bank of wel -hidden cameras could ID him. A moment later a gate designed to look much

less formidable than it real y was swung inward, al owing him to idle onto the lush grounds of what the sign

said was the Anacostia Seagoing Yacht Club.

He weaved through the utilitarian buildings, final y turning to paral el a lengthy dock ful of what appeared

to be wel -maintained boats. In truth, they were unused boats—brought in and out at intervals designed to

make things look credible to the other marinas in the area.

It was hard for him to get used to the fact that Covert-One had grown to the point that it rated an honest-to-

God headquarters. When the president had first authorized it, they’d been nothing but a loose col ection of

independent operators with complementary areas of expertise and a convenient lack of personal

entanglements. Funding had been—and stil was—completely black, consisting of tax dol ars quietly

diverted from much more mundane government projects and agencies.

Covert-One was partial y a victim of its own success and partial y a victim of the failures of the traditional

intel agencies. The creation of Homeland Security, which was supposed to streamline communication

between critical branches of government, had instead created a battleship of a bureaucracy paralyzed with

turf wars, politics, and ass covering.

C1’s unique ability to move quickly and decisively, unfettered by the normal approval process and

administrative battles, made it a formidable, if entirely il egal, weapon in the president’s arsenal.

“Jon,” Fred Klein said, standing and extending a hand over his simple desk. “I’m sorry to take you away

from those kids.”

“No problem. They’re al out of the woods, and a friend of mine at the CDC agreed to keep an eye on

things for me. So what’s up?”

Klein looked strangely uncertain as he sat, pul ing a pipe from his drawer and lighting it. An overhead fan

started automatical y, drawing the smoke upward.

“I’m honestly not sure we should be getting involved in this at al , Jon. As you know, I spend a lot of time

finding ways not to use Covert-One.”

Smith nodded. The secrecy surrounding the organization was both ridiculously oppressive and entirely

necessary. Every time Klein unleashed his people, he risked exposure—something that would be a disaster

for both the administration and the country as a whole.

“I take it the president wouldn’t agree to keep us out of it?”

“He has his teeth into this thing and we’ve been friends long enough for me to know when I’m not going to

be able to change his mind. My hope is that this wil turn into a very quick and very quiet wild-goose chase.”

He paused for a moment. “Have you ever heard the name Caleb Bahame?”

“Guerril a leader with delusions of godhood,” Smith responded. “He’s got a force of mostly child soldiers

that he’s using to create a lot of chaos in northern Uganda.”

“I’m impressed. What you don’t know is that we recently sent a special ops team after him.”

“Good,” Smith said. “That guy’s a nasty piece of work. Did they get him?”

Klein took a deep drag on his pipe and let the smoke rol slowly from his mouth. “The team was wiped out

over the course of a few minutes. Their leader, a SEAL named Rivera, managed to escape and spent two

days crawling through jungle to get to an extraction point.”

“I hadn’t heard that.”

“Neither has anyone else. The president is exposed political y on this. People are getting tired of

watching our boys die in fighting that never seems to get us anywhere. And as hopeless as the Middle East

is, sub-Saharan Africa is seen as being ten times worse.”

“If it’s so unpopular, what were we doing there?”

“Bahame’s become more effective lately. His forces are overrunning vil ages almost daily—completely

wiping them out. There’s a panic starting that could destabilize not only Uganda but Kenya and the DRC.

We’re talking about a humanitarian nightmare that’s hard to imagine, and the president felt we had a moral

obligation to step in.”

“I can’t say I disagree with him,” Smith said. “But how does Covert-One fit in? This seems more like a UN

or AU issue.”

Klein tapped a few keys on his laptop and then turned it so Smith could see the five separate videos

starting to play.

He watched intently until they al went dark and then slid his chair back, feeling the need for a little

distance between himself and the screen. He’d spent half his life getting into situations that he didn’t have

much chance of getting out of, but in al those years, he’d never seen anything like what those soldiers had

come up against.

“Jesus,” he muttered final y.

“Thoughts?”

“I’m stil processing.”

Klein nodded knowingly. “I’ve probably watched it twenty times and I can tel you it doesn’t get any easier.

My initial thought was mass hypnosis. By al reports, Bahame makes Charles Manson look like an amateur.

I figured some kind of ritual sacrifice to get everyone riled up; then he paints them with blood and turns them

loose. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Why not?”

“I put our research people on it and they came across some chatter in Iran about Bahame. Something

about a new weapon.”

“Is it solid?” Smith asked.

“No. High-level, but brief and ambiguous. We dug deeper and found another comment from a less

reliable Iranian source—it mentioned Bahame and the possibility of some kind of compensation or

negotiation.”

“Does the CIA or NSA have anything?”

“No indication that they’re aware of the connection. Or, if they are, it’s not something they’re pursuing.”

Smith looked past Klein at an antique globe positioned to display the continent of Africa. The strange

reality of the intel igence business wasn’t that there was too little data; it was that there was too much.

Limited manpower forced you to prioritize, and it was easy to see how a few quick mentions of an African

guerril a leader could get shoved to the bottom of the pile. Something crazy was always happening in Africa.

“Have any experts looked at that video?” Smith asked.

“Just you.”

“I’m a microbiologist, Fred, not a psychologist. What I don’t know about mass hysteria is a lot.”

“But based on what little you do know, do you think it could be a credible explanation?”

Smith shrugged. “Occam’s razor—the simplest explanation is usual y the correct one. It doesn’t take a

very hard look at history to realize just what human beings are capable of. It’s why you and I have jobs.”

“Okay, but I want you to do a little digging,” Klein said. “Hopeful y, you’l just confirm the psychological

hypothesis and that wil be the end of it.”

“Can I get a copy of the video?”

“I’l have Maggie get you one before you leave for the airport.”

“Airport?”

“The surviving SEAL is in the hospital at Camp Lejeune. I assumed you’d want to talk to him.”

“My CO’s expecting me back at Fort Detrick, Fred. People are aware that I left South Dakota, and you

know how the army is about people showing up for work.”

Klein’s expression turned a little bored, and he leaned far enough right to see through the open door to

his office. “Maggie!”

Maggie Templeton, his longtime assistant and the only other person who understood the entire scope of

Covert-One, appeared a moment later carrying a large manila envelope.

“Here you go, Jon. An indefinite leave of absence signed by General Stapleton, plane tickets, and

information on the contact who wil be picking you up from the terminal in Wilmington. Also, hotel

reservations, and a flash drive with the raw video footage you wanted. Oh, I almost forgot…” She hurried out

the door and reappeared a moment later holding an army uniform that stil had the dry cleaner’s plastic on it.

“Maggie, you are truly a force of nature.”

She smiled. “Chop-chop. Your plane awaits.”

11

Western Cape, South Africa

November 14—0102 Hours GMT+2

SARIE VAN KEUREN COULD see her father—the broad shoulders supporting his overal s, the tattered

cowboy hat he’d bought on a trip to America, the pale blue eyes that seemed to see and understand

everything.

He was standing in front of their barn holding a sharp-edged farm tool that she couldn’t identify. Curious,

she started running toward him but couldn’t get traction. It was as if gravity had suddenly lost its power to

hold her to the ground and her feet just skidded uselessly over the fertile soil.

He approached and she reached for him, but he stopped a few meters away, leaving her to stare down at

her tiny hands, confused by the smooth skin unblemished by years working in the African wilderness.

He hefted the enormous blade, raising it high above his head. The sun glinted off it for a moment, and

then it came down, arcing toward her neck as she raised her arms and screamed.

Sarie jerked upright in bed, unable to breathe until she recognized the room floating around her in the

glow of her alarm clock. She lifted a shaking hand and wiped the sweat from her forehead, trying to wil her

heart to slow.

She hadn’t had the dream in years, and it had never ended like that before. He always just turned and

faded away while she cal ed out and struggled to reach him—not something it took a genius to analyze.

What the hel had this been al about?

Certain that she wouldn’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon, Sarie grabbed a pair of sweatpants and

padded to the kitchen for a quick tour of the refrigerator. A few gulps of orange juice that had gone off a bit

helped calm her down but failed to pul her ful y back to the present.

She closed her eyes, trying to blank her mind like she’d been taught, but it didn’t work. Sometimes the

past refused to rest.

She remembered her father trying desperately to unlock the gun cabinet and the cruel laughter of the men

who had broken into their home. She remembered being slammed to the floor so hard that she couldn’t

even scream as the clothes were ripped from her young body.

Her father tried to get to her, but a thick club cracked into the back of his head, sending him careening to

the floor. They’d beaten him for what seemed like hours, and when he final y went stil she’d turned numb.

Her mother reached out for her as they were repeatedly raped, but as it had in the dream, gravity conspired

against her.

Eventual y, the men had gone, stealing everything they could carry and leaving them for dead. Sarie

hadn’t regained consciousness until the heat of the sun found her through the windows. She’d looked over at

her parents and saw them staring back at her, the morning light reflecting off their dead eyes.

She’d wanted to die, too. To be with them in the heaven they taught her about every Sunday. But her

twelve-year-old heart just wouldn’t stop beating.

She’d final y dragged herself out of the house, naked and bleeding, unable to stand because of a

shattered pelvis and dislocated knee. When the farmhands coming to work spotted her, they’d sprinted

through the fields, men shouting furiously and women shrieking in despair.

Their farm in Namibia had been sold shortly thereafter, and she’d been shipped to her aunt in Cape Town

for a proper upbringing and education. But now even that kind, wonderful woman was gone.

As a sense of loneliness that she wasn’t usual y susceptible to started to take hold, Sarie became aware

of the silence. Where were the dogs? They never failed to make a noisy fuss when she got up at night.

“Hal a? Ingwe?” she cal ed, walking to the back door and pushing it open. “I’ve got some boerewors left

over. Come in and get a treat.”

Something moved in the darkness and she sank to her knees, arms outstretched. Sometimes a good

face licking was the only answer to your problems.

The force of the impact sent her sprawling back into the house, but it wasn’t from the dogs. The outline of

a man appeared in the doorway and she rol ed to the side, using her momentum to carry herself toward the

living room.

He dove but came up short and landed hard on the ancient wood floor, cursing as she scrambled to her

feet.

The sofa was only a few meters away, and she went for it, pitching forward when the man managed to

swat one of her feet. She didn’t bother to try to maintain her balance, hitting the floor and sliding forward with

a hand outstretched.

The holster screwed to the bottom of the frame held one of many guns stashed throughout the house. She

wouldn’t make the same mistake her father had.

Her fingers grazed the cold metal, but before she could unsnap the strap securing it, a powerful hand

clamped around her ankle.

Sarie rol ed immediately onto her back and kicked hard for the man’s groin. Miraculously, her bare foot

connected and he released her, again cursing loudly in a tribal dialect she couldn’t place.

Her heart was hammering in her chest as she went for a tiny side table that contained an even tinier .22

pistol. Not her first choice, but stil stout enough to make an impression if the bul et happened to hit you in

the face.

Again, she was a fraction too slow, and this time the hand clamped around the back of her leg. A moment

later, she was being lifted into the air. The ceiling fan was stil running, and she clipped it with her shoulder

as she sailed over the sofa, landing across an old armchair that flipped backward with the sound of

cracking wood.

The man, just a ghost in the darkness of the room, was almost on her but slipped on the old floorboards,

polished by more than a century of foot traffic.

Cut off from the rest of the house, Sarie sprinted toward the island that dominated her kitchen, grabbing a

knife from the block on it. She spun just as he came up behind her, thrusting the knife out and feeling it

penetrate flesh just before his thick forearm came across her throat and slammed the back of her head into

the tile countertop. She slid to the ground, fighting to stay conscious as he stumbled backward, staring down

at the knife protruding from his side. She watched as he pul ed it out and gritted her teeth at the pain flaring

in her head. A paring knife. In her panic, she’d grabbed the smal est thing in the block.

He rushed her, and she tried to stand but didn’t have the strength even to bring a hand up to deflect the

bloody knife coming at her.

He shouted, spittle hitting her in the face as he shook her and pressed the blade to her neck.

“Why don’t you just shut up and do it,” she said, her voice sounding strangely distant.

He backed away, his rage clearly growing to the point that he was having a hard time putting together

coherent thoughts. He dropped the knife and picked up a floor lamp, holding it above his head just like her

father had in the dream. But instead of crushing her skul with it, he hesitated and let it fal to the ground.

A moment later she was being dragged through her front door by the hair, her hands clawing weakly at

the man’s forearm.

The sight of her dead dogs lying in the driveway robbed her of what little strength she had left, and she

didn’t resist when she was dragged onto the asphalt and rol ed onto her stomach. Consciousness came

and went with her only vaguely aware of the sound of tape being pul ed from a rol and the sensation of it

being wound around her wrists.

Maybe she wasn’t supposed to have survived al those years ago. Maybe fate had final y come back for

her.

12

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, USA

November 13—1826 Hours GMT–5

DR. RONALD BLANKENSHIP PUSHED through the metal door, and Jon Smith fol owed him into an empty

stairwel at the Camp Lejeune Naval Hospital.

“So what’s Fort Detrick’s interest in a beat-up SEAL?”

When he didn’t get an answer, Blankenship stopped and leaned against the railing. “I mean, I reviewed

the kid’s chart, and beyond looking like he spent a few hours in a washing machine with his bowling bal

col ection, he couldn’t be healthier. Not so much as a sniffle to get one of you virus hunters excited.”

Smith just smiled amiably.

“Don’t even give me that look, Jon. Am I helping you out here or what?”

They’d known each other for years, having done part of their residency together and serving in MASH

units al over the world. Smith had cal ed him from the airport and asked him to make sure his discussion

with the injured sailor was kept quiet. Or better yet, dead silent.

Ironical y, it wasn’t his association with Covert-One that was the problem this time; it was his day job at

USAMRI D, the army’s infectious disease research group. While details of the SEAL’s operation were

classified beyond top secret, it was impossible to keep the fact that he’d been in Africa from the medical

team treating him. The sudden appearance of an army microbiologist charged with tracking deadly

diseases and bioweapons was bound to raise eyebrows.

“Yeah. You’re helping me out,” Smith said. “But there isn’t much to tel . My guess is that al this is nothing

but a waste of perfectly good tax dol ars.”

Blankenship frowned and started up the stairs again. “You’re back in intel igence, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Come on, Jon. I went from MASH units to three kids and a pool that leaks no matter how much I spend to

fix it. Do you know what the most exciting thing that happened to me in the last month was? My wife told me

she wants to quit her job and become a ful -time artist. And that’s not exciting in a good way, you know? So

throw me a bone, here. Tel me how the other half lives.”

Smith enunciated careful y. “I swear to you that I am not working for Military Intel igence.”

“And this guy isn’t carrying some supersecret bug we should know about.”

“I think you’re moving into tinfoil-hat territory now, Ron.”

Blankenship slammed the bar handle of a door leading to an empty hal way. “You win, Jon. Just like

always. Go down there and take a left. It’s the second door on the right.”

“I owe you one, Ron.”

They shook hands and Blankenship clapped him on the shoulder. “Next time you’re in town let’s have a

drink. Since you don’t like the subject of current events, we’l get hammered and relive the glory days.”

“Sounds good. Maybe even take a dip in your pool if it has water in it.”

His old friend grimaced and ducked back into the stairwel as Smith made his way down the hal . He

found the door and paused with his hand on the knob, mental y running through the list of questions he’d put

together and wondering again about the best way to handle them.

When he final y entered, the young sailor struggled to his feet.

“At ease, Lieutenant.”

Rivera ignored him and, teetering on his casted leg, gave a sharp salute. “Good evening, Colonel.”

Smith returned the salute. “Good evening. Please. Sit.”

He did, and Smith took the only other chair, placing Rivera’s personnel folder on the table between them.

Blankenship’s description of a washing machine and bowling bal s was right on—in addition to the leg, the

young man’s face was bruised and stitched, and his left shoulder was in a harness.

Despite that, though, he was in a dress uniform meticulously altered to work with his injuries and complete

with gleaming sidearm. A soldier’s soldier.

“I appreciate you agreeing to see me on such short notice,” Smith said. “I know how difficult this has been

for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve read your report, but I’d like you to tel me what happened in your own words.”

“My entire team was wiped out,” he said, the bitterness clearly audible in his voice. “Except me. I

understand they made a movie about it. You should try to catch it sometime.”

Smith kept his expression impassive and didn’t respond. Eventual y, the silence went on long enough that

Rivera felt compel ed to fil it.

“A kid came running up the road with people chasing her. She seemed to know we were there. She

wanted us to help her. To save her.”

“The people behind her weren’t normal soldiers, though.”

“Not the way we think of soldiers, sir. It just looked like random people from a vil age or a market or

something.”

“Were any of them armed?”

Rivera shook his head in shame. “A few may have had sticks. I’m not sure. Some of them didn’t even

have clothes. They were covered in something that looked like blood…” His voice trailed off and his

expression turned blank.

“You fired into them,” Smith prompted.

“Didn’t real y want to kil them, sir. Just get them to back off so we could disappear. But they didn’t back

off. It was like they didn’t care. Like they didn’t even notice.” He paused for a moment. “They tel me you

know who we are. Who we were…”

“The very best of al our special forces combined into one elite team.”

“That’s right. And the best of us was a guy named Donny Praman. He was a high school footbal player

from Ohio, and even by my standards, the guy wasn’t human. He never got scared, he never got tired, he

never got hurt or sick. And I watched a fat woman chase him down like he was nothing. How does that

happen, Colonel? Can you tel me that?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. But I’m going to find out. What happened next? After Praman went down?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his bitterness becoming more and more intense. “I was too busy running.”

Smith looked down at his pen, rol ing it back and forth across the tabletop with his index finger. “Could

you have saved them, son?”

He could feel Rivera’s eyes lock on him but didn’t look up.

“It doesn’t matter if I could save them or not, sir.”

“I disagree. If you couldn’t, then it was your job to survive and report back.”

“Report back? Report what? That I let my team get kil ed by a bunch of unarmed women and children?

That I walked into an ambush?”

“Calm down, Lieutenant.”

“You look like a pretty hard man, Colonel. But with al due respect, you’re just a doctor. You have no idea

what we’re talking about right now.”

Smith let out a quiet breath. In fact, he knew exactly what they were talking about. He’d watched friends

die when he’d managed to walk away. He’d spent endless nights playing and replaying what had happened

—what he could have done differently. But the operations that he’d been involved in were so classified that,

technical y, even he wasn’t cleared to know about them.

“I should have kil ed the woman,” Rivera said, now fixated on an empty wal , talking to himself. “She must

have gotten word to Bahame that we were there. The safety of my men was my responsibility, and I copped

out.”

“Kil ing an injured woman that you have no reason to believe is connected with your target is a serious

decision, son. In your position, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“It doesn’t matter what you would have done!” Rivera shouted. “I was in command! The bitch was probably

going to die anyway. And so she could live a few more hours, I watched my men get butchered. And then I

ran—not to come back and report. Not to try to flank the people tearing them apart. I ran because I saw

those people. I looked into their eyes and I panicked!”

“Enough!” Smith said, slamming his hands down on the table.

Rivera was breathing hard, and one of the wounds on his forehead had started to seep, creating a thin

red line along the bridge of his nose.

Smith’s phone rang, and he looked down at it. Klein.

“I don’t have time for al this navel gazing,” he said, standing. “I’m going to take this cal , and while I’m

gone you’re going to think about what details you left out of your report that could help me figure out what

happened to you and your men. Are we clear, Lieutenant?”

13

Western Cape, South Africa

November 14—0157 Hours GMT+2

THE LAND CRUISER’S SPEEDOMETER was showing 150 kilometers per hour when the sharp left turn

appeared in the headlights. Dembe Kaikara slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel, listening to the

scream of the tires struggling to maintain traction.

The bitch had cut him!

He had a hand clamped over the deep slice across his side and could feel the blood oozing around his

fingers. It wasn’t a serious wound, but the pain radiated from it, stoking his anger.

The road straightened and he took his hand off the wheel, bal ing a fist and slamming it repeatedly into

the dashboard. His orders were to take her to the meeting place unharmed. And, as always, it was very

clear that failure to carry out those orders would be severely punished.

But she owed him for what she had done. Surely Bahame would agree that he had a right to take his

payment. She would stil be alive for whatever he wanted her for.

A car appeared in front of him, and he slowed as it passed, looking behind him at the helpless woman

bound in the backseat. She had regained consciousness and stared defiantly back at him.

It wouldn’t last, though. Soon her anger would turn to terror. She would use that beautiful mouth to beg him

to stop, to offer him whatever he wanted. After a time, they al did.

He faced forward again, easing back some more on the accelerator. The road had gone black again,

and he scanned the edge for a place he could pul over far enough to be invisible to the occasional passing

car. Somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed.

Sarie gave up pul ing against the duct tape binding her hands. Her head had cleared enough to know she

was accomplishing nothing but peeling the skin from her wrists.

What did this man want? Violent break-ins certainly weren’t uncommon in Africa, but theft clearly wasn’t

his goal. He hadn’t taken anything but the Land Cruiser—and that just seemed to be a convenient mode of

hostage transport.

Of course, sexual assault was also rampant in South Africa, but why be so elaborate? Her house was

total y isolated, and he’d sure as hel had the upper hand.

No. There was more to it than that. How did he get through the gate and beat her alarm system? Tears

began to wel up at the thought of her dogs, but she fought them back. There was no time for that now. She

had no idea what this man wanted, but whatever it was, she doubted she would survive it. If she’d ever

focused in her life, this was the time.

The African leaned out the open window and jabbed at the brake, jerking the vehicle enough to give her

an excuse to rol to the floor behind his seat.

He reacted immediately, twisting around and grabbing her hair with a bloody hand. The anger dissipated

a bit from his voice as he shouted at her, and while she couldn’t understand his words, the reason for his

improving mood was clear. He had won. And he was ready to take his reward.

The sound of gravel beneath the tires forced him to return his attention to the road, and he kept talking as

they drove, occasional y slowing and leaning out the open window as though he was looking for something.

His attention occupied, Sarie pressed her back against his seat and worked her hands beneath it. The

lessons of her father’s death didn’t end at the wal s of her house.

She could just barely touch the gun she’d hidden there, but the holster was positioned with the assumption

that she’d be driving when she reached for it. And that her hands wouldn’t be taped behind her back.

Using her knees for leverage, she gritted her teeth and crammed her arms a few centimeters farther. Her

shoulders felt like they were being pul ed from their sockets, but it stil wasn’t quite far enough.

The African whooped joyously and jammed on the brakes again, throwing her weight toward the front of

the vehicle. One of her elbows felt like it was going to snap beneath the edge of the seat, but the sudden

deceleration al owed her to get a hand around the gun and turn the holster. He threw the Land Cruiser into

reverse as she yanked the pistol free, but the front sight got caught on the springs.

She tried to push it forward again but realized that she’d reached the limit of what she could do without

breaking an arm. A wave of despair washed over her and she beat it back, bracing her knees in front of her.

One hard push. That’s al it would take. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d broken an arm, and it would almost

definitely be preferable to what the man in the driver’s seat had in mind.

On three, she told herself. One…two…

The wheels fel into a deep rut as the African backed the car off the pavement, the sudden jerk fol owed

closely by the crack of the pistol and the acrid scent of gunpowder.

From her contorted position, there was no way to know where the gun had been aimed when it had gone

off, and she assumed that the bul et had passed harmlessly through the seat until a wail loud enough to

overcome the ringing in her ears fil ed the cramped vehicle.

He’d been hit, which was good. But he wasn’t dead, which was bad. Maybe very bad. In any event, there

was no reason to wait around and find out.

Using a toe to get the door open was easier than she anticipated, but getting out from under the seat

wasn’t. She squirmed wildly, feeling the cool breeze running over her as she inched toward what she prayed

was freedom.

In the driver’s seat, pain had turned to fury and the Land Cruiser rocked with the force of the driver’s door

being thrown open. Just as her foot touched dirt, Sarie heard the handle of the door behind her head being

pul ed and a frustrated howl when the man discovered it was locked.

It didn’t seem to occur to him to reach through the open front door, and instead he shattered the glass with

his elbow while she desperately tried to pul herself out with heels hooked over the running board.

But it was too late. His hand was in her hair again, and a moment later the jagged glass clinging to the

window frame was cutting across her back. There was no way to stop it, so she decided to do the opposite,

kicking off one of the seats and sending him staggering backward into the road.

She hit the ground hard, but not so hard that she couldn’t rol to her feet. In the moonlight, the right leg of

his jeans had turned a glossy black, already completely saturated with blood.

Whether the bul et had hit him in the leg or the ass was impossible to know, but either way he was going

to be a hel of a lot slower than he’d been at the house.

He’d obviously come to the same conclusion and reached behind him for something that Sarie wasn’t

interested in waiting around to see. She ran past a flowering rose bush at the head of a row of vines,

struggling to stay upright with her hands stil bound and her shoes stil back at the house.

The first shot tore through the plants to her right, and she ducked, veering left. The second shot came

close enough for her to hear the hiss of it as it passed, but as she penetrated deeper into the vines, his aim

became more erratic.

She final y fel to the ground in a narrow trough, breathing hard and listening to him empty the gun in her

general direction.

She stayed completely stil , waiting for the sound of him wading in after her, but instead she heard distant

voices shouting in Afrikaans. A moment later, the Land Cruiser roared away, skidding wildly across the

asphalt as a group of farmers approached from the east, loudly listing the types of rifles they were carrying

for anyone who might doubt their resolve.

What was left of Sarie’s strength faded and her forehead came to rest in the damp earth. She’d done it

again. She’d survived.

14

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, USA

November 13—1932 Hours GMT–5

JON SMITH WALKED DOWN the empty hal way, peeking into unused rooms as he talked on his cel phone.

“Have you gotten anything interesting?” Fred Klein asked.

“The interview started a little rocky. The kid’s pretty torn up emotional y.”

“Understandable.”

He turned the corner and spotted a break room equipped with a refrigerator. “How about you? Have your

people been able to dig anything up?”

“Not much. Apparently they found a mention of similar attacks from a Jewish doctor who ran to Africa

during World War I .”

“Is he stil alive?”

“I doubt it, but we’re trying to get confirmation and track down his last known location in Uganda.”

“Any speculation from him that there was something behind the behavior beyond the obvious? A

biological or chemical agent?”

“Not yet, but our people just found this thread. They’l keep pul ing on it. If there’s anything there, they’l find

it.”

Smith slipped into the break room and opened the fridge, reaching for a couple of Cokes before spotting

a six-pack of beer at the back.

“Cal me when you finish the debriefing,” Klein continued. “Don’t worry about how late it is. I want to be

kept in the loop.”

“I’l catch you on my way back to the airport.”

The line went dead and he exchanged two beers for a ten-dol ar bil from his wal et. Just what the doctor

ordered.

A bottle opener was a tougher find, but he managed to pry the caps off with the edge of the counter

before heading back down the hal . He needed to do better—to get Rivera to focus. The question was how.

Smith was older and supposedly wiser, but he wasn’t sure he’d react any differently if their positions were

reversed. He’d watched people die of their wounds while he tried desperately to save them; he’d stood

helplessly by as the woman he loved succumbed to a virus created by a madman. And he’d knowingly sent

men and women into fights that seemed unwinnable.

You never real y learned to deal with it. The best you could do was push it away every night so that you

could get a few hours of sleep free of the ghosts.

He opened the door to the conference room, holding the beers up in front of him like the prize they were. “I

found—”

He fel silent when Rivera looked up from the sidearm lying on the table in front of him.

Smith let go of the bottles and was already sliding across the table when they shattered on the floor. His

reaction was faster than most men half his age could ever hope to match. But Rivera wasn’t most men.

The SEAL snatched up the gun and shoved it beneath his chin, squeezing the trigger just as Smith

reached him.

The bul et tore the top of his skul off and they both went crashing to the floor in a spray of blood and brain

matter.

Smith’s immediate reaction was to check for a pulse, but there was clearly no point. Instead, he fel back

against the wal and began slamming his head repeatedly into it.

He’d completely blown it. He’d been so focused on what he was doing, so mired in his own

preconceptions, he’d ignored the signals that seemed so obvious now.

The young man’s blood continued to flow, running along the floor until it began to pool around Smith’s foot.

There was always something you remembered from situations like this—something that, no matter how

many years went by, you could never shake. This time he knew it would be the smel of that damn beer.

15

Langley, Virginia, USA

November 14—0901 Hours GMT–5

WHEN DRAKE ENTERED, BRANDON Gazenga was already there shuffling nervously through the papers on

his lap.

“Good morning, sir.”

Drake nodded and sat, breaking the seal on a folder stamped DCI’s Eyes Only and flipping through the

contents. “Is it completely done?”

“Yes, sir. I consider that a final draft. It’s just waiting for you and Dave to sign off.”

Gazenga’s parents had come over on the boat from Congo when he was only six, immediately becoming

a shining example of the American dream. His father had gone into the restaurant business, starting as a

dishwasher and ending up the owner of a café chain serving cuisine from his home continent.

Despite their commitment to their new home, Brandon’s parents had never let him forget where he came

from. He spoke Kituba fluently and while growing up had spent at least a month a year with his cousins in

Kinshasa.

That, combined with a degree in international studies from Yale, had made him an obvious target for

recruitment by the CIA. And since that recruitment, he had performed admirably—becoming one of the

agency’s top central African analysts despite his relative youth.

Those qualifications alone, though, wouldn’t have been enough for Drake to include him in the off-the-

books operation he’d undertaken. In the end, it was Gazenga’s personality profile that made him so perfect.

The young man stil had one foot in an extremely hierarchical culture and had spent his life serving a

powerful father whose recent death left him adrift. Even better, his time in poverty-stricken Kinshasa had

given him a deep gratitude toward America for the opportunities it had provided. Al these things combined

to make him extremely susceptible to manipulation by authority figures.

“So you’re confident that it’s going to satisfy the president and his people?”

Gazenga made a subtle swipe at the sweat forming along his hairline. “I think I’ve put the best possible

arguments forward, sir. Beyond the video, al anyone has regarding Bahame’s raids is legend and

unreliable reports from survivors. I covered that in the first few paragraphs, highlighting the level of

superstition and the discrepancies in eyewitness reports. The rest is mainly the opinions of psychologists

and descriptions of similar phenomena throughout history with a focus on Pol Pot’s ability to brainwash

children into perpetrating genocide in Cambodia. I sum up with a description of pertinent rituals known in

Africa, including ritualized cutting and the painting of warriors with cow’s blood before going into battle.”

“What about the Iranians?”

“That’s obviously not included in the report we’re going to deliver, but I put the information at the back of

your copy in the format of a Q&A. I’ve gone through every piece of information the intel igence community

has connecting the Iranians to Bahame and recommended responses in the event the president is aware of

the association and asks questions. Frankly, it wasn’t too difficult. The intel is pretty tenuous at this point.”

Drake skimmed the Iranian section for a moment and then tossed the file on his desk. “Another excel ent

job, Brandon. It’s what I’ve come to expect from you.”

Gazenga’s smile had a slightly queasy edge to it, and he took another swipe at his forehead. “Thank you,

sir.”

Drake looked over his reading glasses and scowled, mindful of the importance of maintaining his role as

a replacement for the father who had been lost. “Is there a problem?”

Fear flashed briefly in the young man’s eyes. “No, sir. Why would there be?”

“Because this is a tough assignment. About as tough as they get. But that’s the job we’re stuck with.

Castil a is a damn fine man, but he’s a politician. I’d already been working in intel igence for fifteen years

when he decided to leave his law firm and run for local office. We’re the experts, and to some extent we

have to protect the country from the revolving door of Congress and the White House.”

“Yes, sir, I understand.” His voice had a comforting force to it, but there was stil something audible in the

background. Doubt.

“You’ve seen the same things I have, Brandon: the military and intel igence communities getting more and

more politicized and bureaucratic. Constant grandstanding and posturing by the people who are supposed

to be leading us. A deficit that’s pushing us into another col apse. This country is on life support, and as

much as I hate to admit it, the energy coming out of the Middle East is our blood supply. Without it, this

country dies.”

“I completely agree, sir,” Gazenga said, but Drake was unconvinced and decided to press his point

home.

“Can you imagine what wil happen if we let Iran modernize and go nuclear? There won’t be any way for

us to combat their influence in the Middle East—we’l end up in a groveling contest with the rest of the world

to see who gets the opportunity to spend the rest of their lives kissing Persian ass. We have a window of

opportunity here, Brandon, and it’s closing fast. We need to make the politicians understand that the

American military’s failure as a nation-building organization doesn’t mean that it’s not the greatest

instrument of punishment ever created.”

Gazenga nodded, seemingly regaining the resolve he’d let slip. But for how long? Drake was starting to

see the limits of his influence over the young man, and it worried the hel out of him.

“Al right. That’s al , Brandon. I’l go through your report in detail tonight and let you know if I find any

problems.”

Gazenga seemed relieved to be dismissed and hurried from the office. A moment later a side door

opened and Dave Col en strode in.

“Have you had a chance to go through this yet?” Drake said, tapping the folder on his desk.

“Yeah, Brandon sent it to me this morning. His normal thorough job. Hel , he almost had me convinced.”

Drake nodded slowly, fixing his gaze on a blank section of wal across from him.

“This has the potential to put our problems with Castil a to bed,” Col en said. “Why don’t you look happy?”

“It’s Brandon. I’m starting to see cracks.”

“Are they wide enough that you want to do something about it?”

“No. Not yet. But I think we have to start considering the possibility that he’s going to become a liability

sooner than we’d planned.”

16

Near Bloemfontein, South Africa

November 14—1620 Hours GMT+2

DEMBE KAIKARA GRIMACED AS the ancient Volkswagen bounced through a deep rut, causing the bul et

lodged in his thigh to grind against bone. The bleeding in his side had stopped on its own, but the wound in

his leg was far worse. The scarf tied around the entry wound was so tight, he could no longer feel the

accelerator beneath his foot, and yet the seat was stil soaked through.

The narrow dirt track cut through an informal settlement consisting of buildings clapped together from old

signs, discarded lumber, and wire. People sat in the shade, glancing briefly at him as he passed and then

just as quickly turning away. It was a place where those who didn’t quickly learn to mind their own business

didn’t survive to adulthood.

His head was becoming increasingly fuzzy from blood loss, and he struggled to recal the directions that

had been so thoroughly dril ed into him before leaving Uganda. A toppled water tower became visible to his

right, and he turned hesitantly toward it, forcing the low-slung car off the road and onto the dry, cracked earth

it had been carved from.

He had considered running, but where would he go? He was in South Africa il egal y, and a hospital would

report his gunshot wound. Van Keuren certainly had cal ed the police by now, and they would be looking for

him.

Not that he real y feared things like deportation and prison—he had faced far worse from the time he was

a smal child. No, the only thing he feared in this world was Caleb Bahame. There was no way to run from

him. He would see. And he would send the demons.

Kaikara final y rol ed to a stop in front of a group of men sitting on the hoods of a line of polished luxury

cars that looked hopelessly out of place in the surrounding poverty. He recognized only the thin, scarred

face of Haidaar—one of Bahame’s most trusted disciples. The others were Nigerian drug dealers who

control ed the surrounding settlements and understood how to get things done without attracting the

attention of the South African police. Guns of various types and a few stained machetes leaned against their

bumpers, never far from reach.

His vision blurred and he nearly fel trying to get out of the car, leaving himself leaning heavily on the door

with blood rol ing down his leg. The laughter of the Nigerians wasn’t quite loud enough to cover Haidaar’s

footfal s, and Kaikara tried to find the strength to meet his eye.

“What happened to you?”

“The woman had a gun. She shot me.”

More laughter from the Nigerians. They seemed to think his misfortune should be commemorated with a

drink and began passing a bottle of liquor.

“I’ve been bleeding for a long time,” Kaikara said, his voice sounding as weak as a woman’s, even to

him. “Is there someone here who can stop it?”

Haidaar gave him a disgusted sneer and pul ed the car’s rear door open. When he threw back the

blanket spread across the seat, he took a hesitant step backward.

“What is this?”

Kaikara looked down at the bodies of the young couple he’d carjacked. “The van Keuren woman

escaped. I had to get rid of her car…”

Haidaar stood in stunned silence for a moment, fear flashing across his face before being replaced by

anger. He grabbed Kaikara by the back of the neck, pul ing him away from the car and throwing him to the

garbage-strewn ground.

“You lost her?” he screamed. “You let a woman do this to you and then you let her get away?”

Kaikara tried to get to his feet, but he was too weak. Al he could manage to do was hold his hands up in

a pathetic attempt to protect himself. “She had a gun. She ran. I—”

Haidaar kicked him hard in the side, flipping him onto his stomach and then grinding a foot down on the

bul et wound in the back of his leg. “Not far from your ass, is it, Kaikara? It looks like you were the one

running.”

The Nigerians had taken notice and were surrounding them, weapons in hand. One with a machete

moved in, and Kaikara’s words came out in a panicked flood. “No! I was driving! The bitch must have had

the gun under the seat. She—”

The machete came up and Kaikara tried to crawl away, but pain and blood loss made his progress

almost comical y slow.

“Stop!” he heard Haidaar shout. “Find him a doctor.”

“What?” one of the Nigerians said. “Why would you want this worthless piece of shit to live even one more

minute?”

“Because I’m not going to be the one to tel Bahame that we don’t have the woman.”

Kaikara suddenly understood the enormity of his mistake. “No! It wasn’t my fault. I’ve never failed Bahame

before.”

“Shut up!” Haidaar yel ed, kicking him again, but not as hard this time. His own survival was now in

serious doubt, but if he didn’t return with someone to focus Bahame’s rage, death would be certain.

“Go!” Haidaar said. “Get a doctor!”

Kaikara tried again to escape, crawling painful y toward an open sewer as the Nigerians began to argue.

If he could make it, he might be able to drown himself. Or find a piece of glass to plunge into his heart. He

couldn’t al ow himself to be taken back to Uganda. To Bahame.

“We transport things and people over borders,” one of the Nigerians said. “We’re not a hospital.”

“Fine,” Haidaar said. “I’l cal Caleb and tel him that you can’t help him. That he’s paid you for nothing.”

There was a brief silence before an argument that Kaikara couldn’t understand broke out between the

Nigerians. His hand fel on the sharp edge of a section of barbed wire, but there was no pain, only elation.

He pul ed it free from the rotting stake it was wound around and brought it to his jugular. One deep gash and

no one would be able to save him. He would be free.

The rusted steel had barely touched his skin when the wire was wrenched from his hand and he felt

himself being dragged back toward the line of vehicles.

17

Prince George’s County, Maryland, USA

November 16—1448 Hours GMT–5

WHAT IN GOD’S NAME is going on in here?” Fred Klein said, coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway.

Covert-One’s massive bank of computers and the cinema-like screens built into the wal s were al dark, their

power cut off at the supply.

Jon Smith finished winding tape around a garbage bag covering the security camera above him and

jumped from the chair he was standing on. “Marty’s the best computer guy on the planet. But he also has an

overdeveloped sense of curiosity. You don’t want him in your system.”

“It’s just a videoconference, Jon. Our system is completely compartmentalized and our security is state-of-

the-art. I’ve been assured it’s unhackable.”

“Trust me, that’s like waving a red flag in front of a bul to this guy. The only way to be sure he doesn’t learn

about you and Covert-One is to go low-tech.”

Klein shrugged and entered the room, examining Smith’s face with a strange intensity. “How are you

doing, Jon? What happened to Rivera was horrible. But you understand it wasn’t your fault, right?”

Smith smiled weakly. In truth, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken Klein’s cal . Maybe they

should have given the young SEAL more time before running in there with a bunch of questions. Maybe he

could have been a split second faster.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Fred. Thanks for asking.”

“Okay. Are we ready, then?”

“Just about.”

Smith sat at a smal table and opened a brand-new laptop, covering the built-in camera with a piece of

tape and connecting it to one of the room’s oversized displays. He slapped a 3G stick in the side to get an

Internet connection independent of the one Covert-One used and pressed the power button.

The login screen that he expected didn’t appear, replaced by a ful -screen image of the evil clown from

the Stephen King movie It.

“Where’ve you been, Jon?” It said. “I’ve been waiting around for, like, a year, now.”

Smith frowned as the image morphed into the puffy, disembodied face of Marty Zel erbach. How did he

do this stuff ?

“Sorry, buddy. I had a few things I needed to take care of.”

“What? Cleaning your oven? Are you kidding me? Have you seen this video? It’s crazy, man! And I know

crazy.”

He and Zel erbach had known each other since grammar school, when the sickly boy had first displayed

both his stunning intel ect and the mental instability he continued to struggle with. They’d formed an unlikely

friendship, and ironical y Smith’s early training in hand-to-hand combat came from defending the helpless

genius from jocks who mistook his mania for disrespect.

“Hey, I can’t see you, Jon. What’s up with your camera?”

“Must be on the fritz.”

The face on the screen turned perplexed. “I’m showing everything working, but I’m just getting a blank

screen. Hold on. Let me fix it.”

“It’s not important, Marty. You know what I look like.”

“But there shouldn’t be anything wrong,” he whined. “I can figure it out. I’m not going to be beaten by some

crappy webcam. Not now. Not ever.”

“Marty! Focus, okay? We’l fix the camera later. How’d you do on the video?”

“The video. Yes! The video. Horrifying! Fascinating! Like nothing that’s ever been recorded before! Can

you imagine—”

“Did you learn anything?”

“What are you talking about? Of course I did. So are you living in Prince George’s County now?”

Klein’s eyebrows rose and he glanced nervously at the bags covering the security cameras. Smith

pointed to the 3G stick and mouthed “cel tower.”

“No, I’m just here for the afternoon. We were talking about the video?”

“Right.” Zel erbach’s head faded and was replaced by a stream depicting a blood-soaked woman running

down one of Rivera’s men. The images had been significantly sharpened and were even more horrifying

than they were before. Smith had to fight the urge to turn away as the woman began beating and tearing at

the struggling soldier.

“Did you see how fast she overtakes him?” Zel erbach said. “It’s like Praman was moving in slow motion.”

Klein shot him a stern look and Jon shrugged helplessly. He hadn’t told Zel erbach who the men in the

video were or anything else beyond a broad idea of what he wanted analyzed. The drawback to hiring the

best information guy in the business was that you had to live with the fact that he was going to figure out

things you’d rather he didn’t.

“Yeah, Marty. It’s hard to miss. I figured he was maybe injured or just real y tired from the hike in.”

“Au contraire, mon frère. That guy was screaming fast. Did you know he was one of the best high school

wide receivers in the country? Could have gone to any col ege he wanted to and probably ended up in the

pros. Cheerleaders. Supermodels. Lamborghinis. But for some unfathomable reason, he wanted to be a

soldier.”

“Lord only knows why anyone would be stupid enough to join the army,” Smith said wearily.

“I’m not even sure the Lord’s figured that one out. The bottom line is that woman’s going too fast.”

“What do you mean ‘too fast’?”

“I mean I ran simulations, and her speed just didn’t make sense.”

“Hard to accurately simulate the real world.”

“Completely untrue, but I knew you’d say that, so I created a three-D map and handed it over to some

contractors. They reconstructed it as an obstacle course on a piece of land I own in West Virginia.”

“You did what?”

“I had that piece of jungle built.”

“You’ve only had the video for three days.”

“It’s like they say in car racing. Speed costs money. How fast do you want to go? By the way. Where do I

send my bil ? Directly to you?”

“Sure, Marty. That’d be fine.”

“Okay. So then I hired WVU’s top sprinter to run the course. I gave him as many practice runs as he

wanted, then had his best effort recorded.”

“And?”

A grid of green lines overlaid the video, and it restarted, the sprinter being represented by a stick figure.

He was slightly faster than Praman but noticeably slower than the woman.

“Can’t be right, Marty.”

“I agree. It can’t be. But it is. That rather corpulent woman, running on uneven ground, seems to have just

set the fifty-meter world record.”

Smith chewed his thumbnail for a moment. This wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. “What about the blood?”

“It’s not painted on, if that’s what you mean.” The screen faded to black for a moment and an image of a

shirtless African man running directly at the camera came on.

“Look how the blood is laid out on this guy—starting at the head, flowing uniformly down the torso, and

col ecting around the waistband of his pants. I turned up the heat in my living room and ran a humidifier,

mimicking the reported conditions for that day in what I’m fairly certain is Uganda, then covered myself with

blood and ran around.”

Smith’s brow furrowed as he pictured a half-naked Marty Zel erbach wringing a prime rib over his head

and then prancing around with his inhaler. It was a surprisingly disturbing image.

“You know, this physical experimentation thing is real y exhilarating, Jon. I thought you microbiologists

eschewed computer models because, as a group, you’re not the sharpest tools in the shed. But now I’m

starting to see the appeal.”

“I’m so happy to hear it. What did you learn?”

“That when you start to sweat, the blood just thins out and then it’s gone. I’m certain now that they’re

bleeding from their hair.”

“Maybe cuts on their heads? Some kind of ceremony?”

“Sorry, Jon—no way to know. I cleaned up the video as much as I could, but we’re at nowhere near the

resolution we’d need to see little self-inflicted wounds. Cal me before you do something like this again and

I’l build you some decent cameras.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Just one more thing,” Zel erbach said as another video started running in slow motion on the screen.

“Look in the back—the tal guy with the sunglasses fal ing on his face.”

Smith watched the man drop to the ground and skid to a stop, lying motionless in the dirt.

“Was he shot?”

“Nope—no impact. Now look at these stil s and the time codes.” A col age of the man lying on the ground

came up, spanning almost the entire time of the attack.

“I compared al these down to the mil imeter, and that guy doesn’t budge. I’m pretty sure he’s dead. And

what’s interesting is that this is just the best video we have of this phenomenon. I counted three separate

occurrences.”

“If not a bul et, then what?”

“Nothing, as near as I can tel . That’s what’s so weird. They just dropped dead.”

Smith drummed his fingers quietly on the table. The mind automatical y inhibited extraordinary physical

feats to prevent catastrophic injury and exhaustion. That safety valve could be bypassed, but it was rare—

women pul ing cars off their children, people under the influence of certain narcotics, extreme fear.

“Okay, thanks, Marty.”

“No problem at al . If you ever get anything like this again, send it to me right away. I’l drop everything.

Unbelievable. Crazy—”

“I wil . Now I want you to delete the video and your analysis.”

“No problem.”

“I don’t just mean delete it; I mean write zeros to it. I want it completely unrecoverable from your system.”

Zel erbach sounded a little put out. “Fine.”

The screen went blank and Smith powered the laptop down.

“What do you—,” Klein started but then paused when Smith made a cutting motion across his throat.

“The computer’s turned off, Jon.”

Smith picked it up and slammed it repeatedly into the edge of the desk, leaving the floor strewn with

parts. “Never underestimate Marty Zel erbach.”

18

Prince George’s County, Maryland, USA

November 16—1551 Hours GMT–5

SO YOU’VE GOT NOTHING, Barry?”

Jon Smith cradled the phone against his shoulder and looked around the office Klein had set him up in.

Beyond a chair, a desk, and a pad of paper, it was completely empty—reflecting the utilitarian nature of the

man who ran Covert-One.

“I dunno, Jon. Bleeding from hair fol icles is pretty unusual. Scurvy is the only thing that comes to mind, but

it wouldn’t create the kind of flow you’re talking about. Are there any related symptoms?”

“Not that I know of,” Smith said, irritated that he had to lie. Science was about the free exchange of ideas,

and keeping the big picture from one of Harvard Medical School’s top people wasn’t the way to get

answers.

“Then I don’t know what to tel you.”

“Thanks anyway. If anything comes to mind, you know my number.”

He hung up and marked the man off the long list of scribbled-through names representing luminaries in

every field from toxicology to infectious disease to psychology. And what did he have to show for it? A

bunch of guesses. Incredibly educated guesses, but guesses nonetheless.

There was a quiet knock on his doorjamb and he glanced up from the pad. “Tel me you’re here with good

news, Star.”

Her training was as a librarian but her look leaned more toward outlaw biker. It drove Klein crazy, but

there was nothing he could do—she was to paper what Marty Zel erbach was to the cloud.

“I think I may have found everything,” she said, sounding strangely despondent.

“Thank God. I knew you’d come through.”

“Yeah…The problem is that when I say ‘everything,’ I mean this.” She held up what looked depressingly

like two sheets of paper.

“That’s it?”

“Sorry, Jon.” She slid one of the pages onto the desk. “Did Mr. Klein tel you about the German doctor

who mentioned attacks like this sixty years ago?”

“Yeah, but he didn’t give me any details.”

She tapped the document in front of him. “This is a note from a Stanford professor who spent a few

months working with the late Dr. Duernberg on a project in Uganda. Skip to the highlighted part—the rest is

just a bunch of yada yada yada.”

The passage was only a few lines long and discussed a possible parasitic infection that caused insanity

in humans. It went on to say that the transplanted Jewish doctor was looking into the phenomenon. And that

was it.

“If Duernberg’s dead, what about the good professor?”

“’Fraid not. Shark attack.”

“Seriously?”

“Swear to God.”

Smith leaned back in his chair. A parasite. Interesting, but improbable. He pointed to the sheet stil in her

hand. “What’s that?”

A smile spread slowly across her face. “The pièce de résistance. You ready to be impressed?”

“Always.”

She laid the black-and-white photocopy on his desk with a flourish and Smith leaned over it, reading an

elegant longhand description of a tribe of fierce warriors who fought covered in blood and didn’t use

weapons. Local vil agers believed them to be possessed by demons.

“Flip it over,” Star said.

He did and found a fuzzy photo of a dead African male in traditional dress. His hair was thick with dried

blood and his torso was streaked black.

“Where did you get this?” Smith asked excitedly.

“The National Geographic archive.”

“Can we get in touch with the guy who wrote it?”

Her expression turned a bit pained. “You didn’t read as far as the date, did you?”

He ran a finger quickly down the page, stopping at the bottom. October 3, 1899. Great. The trail of dead

scientists and explorers continued to lengthen.

“Any progress?”

Fred Klein had taken a position in the doorway, his arms crossed tightly in front of a tie that had seen

better days.

Star immediately turned nervous. “I’l just take off and let you two talk.”

She went for the door but Klein didn’t move, instead pointing to the gold ring in her nose. “New?”

“No, sir. But I only wear it on Fridays.”

To his credit, Klein managed to not grit his teeth when he responded. “Very becoming.”

She flashed him a broad smile and ducked past, escaping to the relative safety of the hal way.

He frowned at her retreating figure for a moment and then closed the door behind him. “Thoughts?”

“No intel igent ones,” Smith said. “Star found a brief mention of a possible parasite that causes insanity,

but no details. And there’s this hundred-year-old picture of a warrior who appears to be in a similar

condition to the people who attacked our ops team. Doesn’t prove anything, though. It could just be a

forgotten ritual that Bahame brought back to life.”

“People dropping dead for no reason? Women setting land-speed records? It’s starting to look like more

than a ritual to me.”

Smith nodded. “Incredibly strange, I agree. But not completely unprecedented. Think of the berserkers, for

instance.”

“The what?”

“They were the most feared of the Vikings. There are a lot of theories about where they came from, but it

seems likely that they were careful y selected for their personality traits—maybe including mental il ness—

and that was combined with elaborate rituals and alcohol or drugs. The bottom line is that they displayed

very similar characteristics to the people in Uganda: superhuman strength and speed, imperviousness to

pain, fearlessness, and so on.”

“So you’re saying Bahame’s just fil ing them ful of cocaine and religious imagery, then setting them

loose?”

“It’s not the only explanation, but it’s sure as hel the most straightforward.”

“What about the parasite angle?”

Smith shrugged. “I’m not ready to rule it out. You could have a carrier that doesn’t present symptoms and

lives somewhere humans don’t go very often. Then, every hundred years or so, someone gets bit or eats

some undercooked bush meat and they contract the infection.”

“So maybe it cropped up again recently—Bahame’s men tend to hide out in remote, unpopulated areas.

He saw it, and now he’s figured out how to use it as a weapon.”

Smith opened a drawer and pul ed out a file containing everything they had on Caleb Bahame. He was

unusual y intel igent and, despite being born in a tiny, out-of-the-way vil age, had spent two years at

Makerere University in Kampala. He had been academical y eligible for a scholarship to study in London

but became prone to ecstatic vision and increasingly violent. Eventual y, he’d been expel ed.

After that, he’d spent some time as a drug trafficker, switching sides a number of times during his two-

year stint in the business. Then he’d fal en off the face of the earth, reappearing five years later as the brutal

terrorist and cult leader that he was today.

Smith dug through the pages and turned up Bahame’s col ege transcript. “He started out as a biology

major, but he only got through a few basic classes before he started focusing on religion. Straight As,

though…”

“Would it be enough?”

“Bahame’s psychotic, but he’s not stupid. I don’t doubt that he’d know what he was looking at if some kind

of biological agent cropped up in his own backyard. But it’s just as likely that he found some natural

hal ucinogenic in the jungle—particularly in light of his background in the drug trade. In the end, though, I’m

just speculating. The behaviors we’re talking about are pretty sophisticated.”

“Sophisticated?” Klein said incredulously. “They acted like a bunch of animals.”

“Maybe, but they were al violent animals going in the same direction and not attacking each other. Think

about the chaotic behavior you’d expect from a group with rabies or who had been dosed with LSD. By

comparison, these people’s behavior was incredibly wel organized and predictable. If I had to bet the farm,

I’d say mass religious hysteria enhanced with some local y produced narcotics.”

Klein tossed him the folder he’d been holding. “You’l be happy to know that the agency analysts agree

with you. This is a copy of what Larry Drake gave the White House.”

Smith set aside the information on Bahame and opened the CIA report, paging through a detailed

analysis that ranged from African rituals to Pol Pot to Nazi Germany.

“I can’t say that there’s a lot in here I disagree with, Fred. Did the president ask about the possible Iranian

connection?”

“Yup.”

“And?”

“Larry was aware of it and gave him perfectly reasonable explanations for the chatter we picked up.

Castil a’s satisfied and he left a message cal ing us off.”

“That’s good news, right? It’s what you wanted?”

“Before I heard your friend’s analysis of the video, yes. Now I’m not so sure. If there’s even a one-in-a-

mil ion chance that this is something the Iranians could get their hands on and use, I feel like we’re obligated

to take a look.”

“And the president?”

“I’m meeting with him later this afternoon to go over Zel erbach’s conclusions and I’m going to ask him to

give us a little leeway.”

Smith closed the report and looked up at his boss. “Then I guess I’m about to take an al -expenses-paid

trip to Africa. But I’m going to warn you, Fred: what I know about parasites would fit on a postcard. I’m going

to have to bring in help.”

“When you get a name, give it to Maggie to check out.”

“And I want to take Peter.”

Klein grimaced. “We have people in Africa I can set you up with.”

“I know, and I’m sure they’re very talented. But Peter’s got something they don’t.”

“What?”

“A perfect track record of keeping me alive.”

19

Tehran, Iran

November 17—1303 Hours GMT+3:30

MEHRAK OMIDI SAT SILENTLY in the back of the van, fixated on a smal bank of monitors depicting the

mob occupying Tehran’s heart.

The demonstration was much larger than their intel igence had predicted, and now it clogged not only

Azadi Square but the surrounding streets, effectively shutting down travel through the city center. It was

impossible to know if his people’s failure to foresee the scope of this treasonous action was a problem with

their intel igence gathering or if the protest had been joined by passersby who had not original y planned on

getting involved. The meticulous organization of it, unfortunately, suggested the former.

On the west side of the square, where security forces were weakest, the crowd grew progressively more

bold. A rock sailed through the air and bounced off a Plexiglas shield. When there was no reaction, a bottle

flew.

International press had been banned, but with cel phones and video, everyone was a reporter. As the

director of the Ministry of Intel igence, Omidi had tried everything to create a national communications

system that could be selectively shut down, but the technology was too complex and diffuse for any

government to control anymore. And, in truth, it was a medium that his staff didn’t intuitively grasp like the

resistance did. Iran’s youth—and youth everywhere—seemed to be able to ful y exploit every new advance

the moment it came online.

The mob lurched toward the police line, and he watched the silent contrails of tear gas arcing through the

air. Impact points were quickly abandoned, but the demonstration didn’t dissolve into chaos, as it would

have only a few months ago. A group of men carried an injured woman wearing a chador over their heads

as their compatriots cleared a path. There was something different in these protests, something that had

been building: a calm efficiency that suggested training.

It had been first noted a year ago when smal groups within the crowds began holding fast, influencing the

people around them, neutralizing the fear that the hopelessly outnumbered police counted on. Now those

groups made up more than half the protesters, and with their increase in numbers came a command

structure—an invisible hand that led these common criminals as though they were soldiers.

But now that hand was no longer invisible—it was the hand of Farrokh. And, with the help of almighty God,

it was about to be severed.

The crowd surged again, directing itself with unlikely precision against the weakest part of the line.

Omidi’s finger hovered over a button that would authorize the police to use deadly force as they dropped

their batons and replaced them with submachine guns. The crowd closed in, chanting for freedom and

democracy but being very careful not to offer any further physical provocation.

As expected, the phone in his breast pocket rang and he took a deep breath before picking up.

“Yes, Excel ency?”

The voice of Iran’s supreme leader, Ayatol ah Amjad Khamenei, contained a hint of panic that caused

Omidi’s stomach to burn with anger. Khamenei was a great man, a man chosen by God to lead the Islamic

Republic. And yet, these people—these children—spit on him.

“Why don’t you act, Mehrak? This mob has attacked our men; they’ve broken through our line. It is your

responsibility to stop them.”

“Yes, Excel ency. I understand. But our po—”

“They are trying to destroy us—to replace the republic with a government based on Western sin and

corruption—and you just sit by. We have to show these people that the faithful wil fight to the death to

contain their blasphemy.”

Discontent had been growing since the last presidential reelection. He himself had strongly opposed the

way the government handled the voting but had been overruled. In his mind, the results needed to be close

enough to appear legitimate, but Khamenei disagreed. He was unwil ing to al ow any indication that there

was anything but overwhelming support for his regime.

The entirely avoidable chaos that ensued had given birth to Farrokh—a young, technological y

sophisticated devil with a gift for corrupting youth and spreading his subversive ideas.

To date, every attempt to find him had been thwarted. In fact, until recently, they hadn’t even been sure he

existed. A month ago, though, their futile attempts to find Farrokh had been reborn. A chance interception of

an unencrypted e-mail al owed them to capture a member of Farrokh’s inner circle—a woman who had

actual y been face-to-face with him and who had intimate knowledge of his network.

It had taken some persuading, during which a number of her family members had been put to death in

front of her, but eventual y she had told them everything.

“Give the order to fire on the crowd,” Khamenei insisted.

“Nothing would make me happier than to see these cowards die,” Omidi said honestly. “Their defiance is

an affront to God. But an escalation at this point would be counterproductive.”

“Why? Are you going to tel me it’s because the world is watching? What world? America? The Jews?

You’l do as I say.”

Omidi sighed quietly. He had explained this over and over, but the aging holy man simply couldn’t

understand that they were using this riot to trace Farrokh’s communications back to him. Disbursing the

crowd would send the rat back into the foul hole he lived in.

“Excel ency, please—”

The van’s rear doors were suddenly thrown open and his most trusted lieutenant stood backlit by the

afternoon sun. Omidi smiled and said a silent prayer of thanks. “We have him, Excel ency.”

* * *

MEHRAK OMIDI EXAMINED the massive house perched on the side of a forested hil , focusing his binoculars

on a satel ite dish growing from its roof and then dropping his gaze to the arches and pil ars that so

graceful y combined French architecture with Persian.

He was hidden in the trees a few feet from the edge of the road, listening through his earpiece to the

chatter of the men taking positions around the building. He had hoped that Farrokh would be in the city

center, making it easier to bring assault forces in unnoticed, but while this was a more complex operation to

set up, it also offered their quarry fewer opportunities to escape. Every road was blocked, helicopters were

in the air, and traffic was being diverted. In Tehran, Farrokh could potential y disappear into the constant

bustle. Here he would be alone and exposed.

When al thirty men involved in the elaborate trap signaled their readiness, Omidi started up the hil ,

running hard and using branches to help propel himself forward. He could hear the much younger men

behind him breathing heavily as they tried to keep up. At their age, he had been in an elite unit attached to

the Revolutionary Guard and he lived his life as though he stil were, meticulously maintaining his body and

mind to serve God and his representative on earth, Ayatol ah Amjad Khamenei.

When he arrived at the edge of the meticulously tended lawn surrounding the mansion, Omidi stopped

and brought a radio to his mouth. “Now!”

The roar of a car engine became audible as it raced up the long driveway, and Omidi leapt out onto the

lawn just as it skidded to a stop a few meters from the front entrance. He reached for his pistol and held it in

both hands as he ran up behind the men pul ing a battering ram from the vehicle.

The ornate double doors flew open with the first impact and Omidi fol owed his men inside.

Normal y, he’d be directing the operation from his control van, making sure there were no gaps that could

be exploited by the enemy and coordinating on-the-fly tactical changes. But not this time. This time he

wanted to be part of it. He wanted to be there when Farrokh was final y brought to his knees.

A woman in immodest Western dress appeared at the end of the marble entry, letting out a startled

scream and then demanding to know who they were. She was quickly silenced by a rifle butt, and Omidi

stepped over her motionless body as he passed through the archway at the back. Two young children

appeared ten meters down the hal way but then immediately darted through a doorway.

He went after them, abandoning caution as he sprinted down the ornate passageway. More than a year of

his life spent trying to find a ghost was coming to an end. Farrokh was there. He could feel it.

Omidi came to the end of the hal and signaled the men behind to cover him as he leapt into the adjacent

room, scanning it over the sights of his pistol.

“Who are you?” a young man demanded, trying to free himself from the children clutching at his legs.

“What are you doing here?”

He was in his early thirties, plump and dressed in clothes calculated to project wealth more than fashion.

His round face was unremarkable and the fear was visible there despite his attempt to hide it. The great

Farrokh seemed almost impossibly smal when stripped of the electronic il usions he liked so much to hide

behind.

“Don’t move!” Omidi shouted.

“Who are you?” he demanded again. “Do you—”

“Silence!”

Omidi moved closer, reaching out for one of the bawling children while keeping his gun aimed at the

man’s face.

“So when the great Farrokh can’t cower behind a computer screen, he hides behind children?” Omidi

said as his men circled behind the godless terrorist.

“Farrokh? Are you crazy? I’m—”

The Taser hit him in the center of the back and he col apsed, convulsing satisfyingly on the floor.

Omidi shoved the pleading children away and knelt, grabbing the man by the hair and lifting his head. “I

know exactly who you are. And so does God!”

20

Near Yosemite National Park, USA

November 17—1517 Hours GMT–8

JON SMITH FELT THE rented snowmobile loft into the air and was forced to throttle back a fraction when it

landed. The heavy powder bil owed over him, fil ing his open mouth and sticking to the stubble on his chin.

Tal ponderosa pine were becoming more plentiful, and he slowed a bit more, picking his way through them

as his eyes struggled to adjust to the transition from blinding sunlight to deep shadow.

He adjusted his trajectory slightly, using the thirteen-thousand-foot peak of Mount Dana to keep his

bearings as he navigated the wilderness at the edge of California’s Yosemite National Park.

A herd of deer watched him burst from the trees and head for a distant column of smoke bisecting the

horizon. He’d never been to the Sierras when there was snow on the ground and regretted not making the

trip sooner. The scenery was as spectacular as anything he’d seen in his extensive travels—massive

granite wal s, frozen waterfal s, untouched forest.

On the other hand, to say it was hard to get to would be a wild understatement. The nearest cup of coffee

was a day’s travel in good weather. In bad weather, you’d more likely just end up a permanent part of a

snowdrift.

The tiny log cabin that was the source of the smoke came into view at the very limit of his vision, and

Smith pul ed off his hood and sunglasses to make sure he was easily recognizable to the man he knew was

watching.

When he got within five hundred yards, he shut down the snowmobile and continued on foot, wading

through the deep snow and keeping an eye out for the deep ravine he remembered blocking frontal access

to the property.

It didn’t take long to come to the edge of the precipice, and he traversed west until he spotted a narrow

footbridge. There were no human footprints on it, but mountain lion tracks were clearly visible. Peter Howel

had struck up an odd friendship with the cat a few years back—two dangerous creatures interested in

occasional companionship as long as it was on their own terms.

Smith passed a pile of snow in the vague shape of Howel ’s pickup and crossed the slippery bridge,

noting that a single misstep would end with a fal long enough for his life to flash by his eyes at least twice.

The area had recently been hit by one of the worst early winter storms in recorded history, and the snow

had slid from the cabin’s roof, burying its entire north side. Poking out from that minor avalanche was the

mangled remains of a satel ite dish—explaining his lack of success in reaching his old friend by

conventional means.

“Why, if it isn’t the elusive Jon Smith,” came an English-accented voice to his left. “You do get around,

don’t you?”

Smith turned in time to see a thin, weathered man in his early fifties appear from behind a tree. He

seemed impervious to the cold, wearing only a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and an old cowboy hat. In one

hand he held a rifle upright, its butt resting on his hip.

It was hard not to feel as though he’d suddenly been transported a hundred years back in time, and Smith

supposed that was appropriate. In many ways, Peter Howel would have been better off in the last century.

He’d spent much of his life in the British SAS, fighting in nearly every hot spot on the planet before retiring to

what he euphemistical y cal ed a consulting career. Smith knew for a fact that one of his clients was MI6

because his work for that organization had brought them together in the past. Beyond the British Secret

Service, though, Howel ’s client list was murky—various foreign governments and probably some private

industry work. Smith didn’t ask questions, and in turn, Howel accepted the fiction that he was just another

army doctor.

“It’s been awhile, Peter. You look good.”

“Flattery. Now I real y am worried. I’ve got a fire going inside. Why don’t you come in and we’l have a little

chat.”

Entering the cabin was always a bit disorienting. An enormous flagstone fireplace was the only thing that

hinted of the exterior or American West. The furniture was English country and the logs that made up the

wal s were almost completely obscured by regimental flags, antique weapons, and mementos from various

skirmishes across the globe.

Howel pointed to a leather chair lit by the glow of flames and Smith stripped off his jumpsuit before

sinking into it and holding his palms out to the heat.

“Can I assume this isn’t a social cal ?” Howel said, handing him a glass and fil ing it from a bottle of

Wyoming Whiskey.

“A guy can’t come and spend the day with an old friend?”

“I seem to remember that the last time we spent the day together I was shot at numerous times and we

were very nearly involved in a helicopter crash.”

“You can’t hold me responsible for the chopper. You were the one flying it.”

“Of course, you’re right.”

Smith leaned back in the chair, kicking off his boots and feeling the blood start to flow to his toes again.

“There’s a little matter in Africa that I need to look into. Thought you might be interested in getting out of the

snow for a couple weeks.”

“A little sun and sand?” the Brit said with a hint of sarcasm. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Smith grinned and picked his jacket up off the floor, pul ing a flash drive from one of the pockets and

holding it out. “The password is ‘Ares.’”

The retired soldier inserted it into a laptop and played the Uganda video, staring intently at it while Smith

sipped his whiskey.

“The god of war indeed,” he said when it was over, sounding a bit stunned. “SEALs?”

“A black ops team pul ed from a number of different units.”

“Any survivors?”

Smith considered tel ing him about the team leader’s suicide but then decided against it. “No.”

Howel shook his head solemnly. “Africa.”

There was a fatalism to his voice that Smith had never heard before—an undertone of something that

sounded almost like defeat.

“Most likely this is nothing more than a charismatic cult leader whipping a bunch of terrified, superstitious

people into a frenzy. On the other hand, there’s some shaky evidence that there could be more to it—

possibly a biological agent. The army thinks it’s worth looking into.”

“The army,” Howel said, frowning at the game they were forced to play. “And yet they can’t supply a single

American soldier to accompany you.”

“I’m sure they could, but you know how I enjoy your company.”

The Brit didn’t look up, focusing on the flames as though he was searching for something in them. “You

can fight there until the end of your days, Jon. You can try to understand why Africa is the way it is. You can

try to protect the weak from the strong. But it’s never going to work. Take my advice. Walk away from this

one.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but the guy behind this—Caleb Bahame—is a whole other level.”

Howel twisted in the seat, looking directly at him for the first time in their conversation. “Bahame?”

“You’ve heard of him?”

The Brit returned his attention to the fire. “I’ve read a few things.”

“Wel , I can tel you that the stuff you read doesn’t come close to capturing what’s real y happening over

there. Have you ever been to Uganda?”

Howel didn’t seem inclined to answer, so Smith fil ed in the silence. “My guess is that we’l go over there,

chase our tails a bit, and you’l walk away with the easiest fifty grand you ever made.”

“I assume we’re denominating in British pounds.”

Smith grinned. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Howel ran a hand through his shaggy gray hair and then just went to work on his whiskey.

21

Tehran, Iran

November 18—1500 Hours GMT+3:30

MEHRAK OMIDI PAUSED IN front of the closed door, a trickle of adrenaline making him vaguely nauseous.

Only Ayatol ah Amjad Khamenei had the power to make him feel this way.

They had known each other since Omidi was a young man serving in the Revolutionary Guard and

Khamenei was an imam living in the remote northeastern part of the country. The holy man had seen

Omidi’s potential and taken him under his wing, counseling him spiritual y, watching over his career—even

paying for him to study abroad.

When Khamenei became supreme leader, Omidi had gone with him, starting as his personal assistant

and then moving to various other posts before being put in charge of the Ministry of Intel igence. Despite his

undeniable success and the respect he commanded throughout Iran, he had never felt worthy. But those

feelings were changing. They had to.

Khamenei was getting old and nostalgic. His vision was perfectly clear when looking backward but

increasingly hazy when trying to see into the future. Omidi considered the man more of a father than his

biological one and found himself in the uncomfortable role reversal that al sons eventual y suffered. Over the

coming years, he would have to become his teacher’s guide to a world that was quickly closing in on them.

He knocked gently and entered when he heard a muffled cal welcoming him. There was no furniture or

decoration in the office, only tapestry-covered cushions strewn across the floor.

“Excel ency,” Omidi said, bowing deeply.

When they’d first met, Khamenei’s long beard had been deep black and his eyes almost magical in their

intensity. Now he’d gone completely gray beneath his turban and wore a pair of glasses thick enough to

distort his regal features.

The man sitting on a cushion next to him started to leap to his feet, hatred etched deeply into his face, but

sank obediently back to the floor when the aging cleric touched him on the arm.

“Mehrak. It is good to see you. Please come sit next to me.”

Omidi did as he was told, bowing his head contritely to avoid acknowledging the furious stare of the

clean-shaven man across from him.

His name was Rahim Nikahd and he was a powerful moderate voice in parliament, a cunning and

ambitious man straddling the fence between what Iran was and what the mob wanted it to become.

It was infuriating that a man as great as Amjad Khamenei had to grovel at the feet of an insect like

Nikahd, but those were the complex realities of politics. No leader was great or powerful enough to forget

from where their power truly flowed.

“Why is this man here?” Nikahd said final y. “Why does he stil have a place of authority in this

government? I—”

“Shh.” Khamenei touched the man’s arm again. “Calm yourself, my old friend.”

Unfortunately, beyond being a member of parliament, Nikahd was also the father of the young man Omidi

had arrested the day before.

“Mehrak has been given a great weight of responsibility,” Khamenei continued. “And it was his belief that

your son was Farrokh.”

“Farrokh? But this is idiocy!” the man protested. “How could he make such a stupid mistake?”

Omidi stayed respectful y silent despite his anger at being discussed—and insulted—as though he

weren’t there.

“It is my understanding that Farrokh used his vast technical knowledge to route his communications

through your son’s home. Clearly he planned for this to happen and believed that it would turn you away from

me. Turn you away from God.”

“My son’s wife—the mother of my grandchildren—is in a coma from being hit with a rifle butt. This is

competence? He couldn’t make a phone cal and check whose house he was attacking?”

“There was no time, Rahim. Farrokh has slipped through our fingers too many times. And to answer your

question, Mehrak is here because he insisted on coming personal y to beg your forgiveness.”

It wasn’t exactly true—in fact, it wasn’t true at al —but Omidi dipped his head even farther, taking a

posture of complete subservience.

“I’m asking you a personal favor,” Khamenei said. “I’m asking you to forgive both of us for our hand in

what happened to your family.”

Omidi kept his eyes on the floor, grateful that the fury in them would be invisible to the fat parliamentarian

sitting across from him. In the world of politics, there were always strings attached. One day Khamenei

would have to repay the debt that Omidi had created. He’d let Farrokh outsmart him. Just as he had so

many times in the past.

Nikahd didn’t answer immediately, undoubtedly considering his position. He had to be very careful not to

move so far left as to put himself in danger from the establishment but also not to move so far right that he

wouldn’t be embraced by the youth movement should it prevail.

“For you, Excel ency, of course.”

Khamenei put out a hand and Nikahd kissed it. “I’m grateful to have men like you around me, Rahim. Men

stil loyal to Islam.”

Knowing he had been dismissed, Nikahd stood, but not before giving Omidi a glare that spoke volumes.

If he should come out on top in this prolonged power struggle, he would see to it that Omidi and his family

disappeared.

They watched him go, and Khamenei waited until the door was ful y closed before he spoke again.

“That was very difficult, Mehrak. He is a powerful man, and make no mistake: I’ve made an enemy of him

today.”

“Yes, Excel ency.”

“You defied my orders and failed to fire on the crowd—emboldening them, making them think we’re weak

and afraid. And then this…”

“I wil step down immediately.”

Khamenei smiled thinly. “A hol ow offer, Mehrak. You know there’s no one else I trust implicitly. Not any

longer.”

Mehrak acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “I serve at your pleasure, Excel ency.”

Khamenei recognized that enemies of the revolution were everywhere, but he didn’t ful y comprehend the

extent to which the cancer had taken hold—Western fashion and video games, the Internet. Every day the

tide grew stronger and the guardians of the faith grew older.

Support for the government was crumbling. The popularity of the nuclear program that was so broad a

year ago had succumbed to the pressure of the outside world. Iran’s youth would rather have portable music

players and political freedom than strength and faith.

“I’ve known you since you were a child, Mehrak. You have more to say.”

He pondered his words for a moment before speaking. “I am beaten, Excel ency.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Farrokh and his people have an inherent understanding of technology that I can’t replicate.”

“I don’t expect you to personal y understand everything, Mehrak—that’s for God alone. What I expect you

to do is build a team who can defeat him.”

“How, Excel ency? The people with that kind of expertise in our own country are sympathetic to the

resistance. I could bring in consultants from outside, but how can I trust them? With the rest of the world and

America lined up against us, how can I give someone that kind of access without knowing if they’re being

paid by the CIA? No, we can’t outplay him at his own game. There is no barrier I can erect that can stop

Western ideas and values from flooding us.”

“But you can stem the tide.”

“Today, yes. Somewhat. Tomorrow? No.”

The confusion on Khamenei’s face was painful to watch. But this had to be done.

“What are you saying to me, Mehrak? That we should give up? That God is powerless against America’s

seduction? You should have fired into the crowd. You should have shown the resolve of our faith.”

“Shooting into the crowd was impossible, Excel ency.”

“Impossible? Why?”

“Because I can’t guarantee the loyalty of the police and military.”

“If you suspect traitors, find them and arrest them.”

“It’s not as simple as traitors. These men love their country, but many of them come from a new

generation—they don’t remember the shah; they weren’t alive during the revolution. They don’t understand

what the Islamic Republic represents. What they see is thirty percent inflation, isolation from the rest of the

world, and double-digit unemployment. If some of them were to join the protesters, we could be firing the

first shots in a civil war.”

“It is Farrokh. If we—”

“It’s not Farrokh,” Omidi said, daring to al ow the volume of his voice to rise. “He’s important, but ultimately

he’s just a figurehead. Even if we capture him—and I have no confidence that we wil —he wil have people

who can carry on in his name.”

The old man’s confusion deepened, and Omidi once again cast his gaze down. It was hard to see him

this way.

“Farrokh is an agent of America, of the CIA. We just have to make people understand that—”

“No one believes it anymore, Excel ency. President Castil a has been very clever in his policy of

noninterference. The West is responsible—but only through its existence and attractiveness to our youth.

There is no direct intervention. And even if there were, it wouldn’t matter. Farrokh portrays himself as a

nationalist with no great love for America.”

“You’re tel ing me I am powerless in my own country, Mehrak.”

“No, Excel ency. Not powerless.”

“And what weapon have you left me?”

Omidi once again focused on the cleric. “Caleb Bahame.”

They’d spoken of it before, but Khamenei had been noncommittal.

“The Ugandan.”

Omidi nodded, pul ing an envelope from his pocket and arranging the photos it contained on the floor.

“The dead white men were kil ed by Bahame’s people near his camp. The other photos are from an

American newspaper article about a training accident that recently kil ed a group of special forces

operatives.”

Khamenei squinted through his glasses. “They’re the same men.”

“Yes, Excel ency. The Americans sent them to assassinate or capture Bahame, and when they failed, they

lied about the circumstances of their deaths.”

“Then they know something. What?”

“We’re not certain. I don’t believe they understand the potential of Bahame’s discovery, but they soon wil .

We have to act now or face the possibility of losing our ability—”

“To bring down the Americans and Jews,” Khamenei said, finishing his thought.

“Not just to bring them down, Excel ency. To unleash hel on them for al the world to see. To make people

remember the terrible power of God.”

The holy man sank into thought a moment. “I want you to go personal y.”

“Of course,” Omidi said, hiding his elation at Khamenei’s change of heart and attributing it to the hand of

God. As with al great things, this path had significant risks. The rewards, though, were nearly infinite.

Nineteen seventy-nine had been nothing. The real revolution—the one that would re-create the earth in

God’s image—had final y begun.

22

Cape Town, South Africa

November 20—1612 Hours GMT+2

JON SMITH JOGGED TO the top of the stone stairs and turned toward the pil ared building that dominated

the University of Cape Town’s lush campus. The craggy mountain that framed the nearly two-hundred-year-

old col ege seemed almost too perfect to be real—a patchwork of gray and green beneath an unbroken

blue sky.

The temperature had climbed into the mid-eighties, but a cool breeze coming off Table Bay rippled

across the thin cotton of his shirt as he threaded his way through backpack-toting students in search of Dr.

Sarie van Keuren.

After a few wrong turns, he found the door he was looking for and entered, scanning the lab for the

meticulously groomed Betty Crocker look-alike depicted on the school’s website.

He’d almost decided that she wasn’t there when a bulky young man in a rugby shirt wandered off and

revealed the woman behind him.

Granted, al faculty photos had a certain staged quality to them, but they’d taken it to another level with

her. In real life, the wavy blond hair was wel on its way to winning its fight with the tie trying to contain it. Her

face was a slightly sunburned tan that faded into a yel ow bruise on her left cheek. The nose that had

seemed so regal from the angle the photo was taken hinted at an old injury and was just crooked enough to

keep her face from devolving into generic California surfer girl.

She looked up from the clipboard in her hand and he immediately started toward her, hoping she hadn’t

noticed him staring.

“Can I help you?” she said in a pleasant African drawl.

“Dr. van Keuren? I’m Jon Smith.”

“Colonel Smith! I was starting to think you’d gotten lost somewhere over the ocean.”

“We spent some time sitting on the tarmac in London and got in a couple hours late.”

He offered his hand and she pumped it energetical y, the athletic outline of her body hinted at beneath the

flow of her lab coat.

“Wel , let me be the first to welcome you to our beautiful country, then.”

“Thanks. And thanks for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice. Every time I ask someone about

parasites, your name seems to come up.”

She ignored the compliment. “Never a good idea to refuse a request from the most powerful military in

history. USAMRI D, right? A virus hunter from Maryland. I’ve only been to New York and Chicago. I want to

go to Montana, though.”

“Being African, you might find it a little cold right now.”

“But it’s wild, isn’t it? Big sky country. I love that phrase.” She used her hands like a symphony conductor

when she repeated it. “Big sky country. It explains so much.”

She had an engaging way of talking just a little too fast, as though there wasn’t enough time in life to say

everything on her mind.

“I never thought about it. I guess it does.”

“But you’re not here to listen to me babble. You want to talk about parasites. Do you have an interesting

one for me?”

He looked around him, confirming that none of the students were within earshot. “That’s the problem. I’m

not real y sure. It’s not my area of expertise.”

“Of course. Viruses…How awful for you.”

“Sorry?”

A pained expression spread across her face. “Wel , I mean, they’re just little bags of DNA, real y.”

“I take it you’re not a fan.”

“Oh, I don’t mean to be insulting, but they’re technical y not even alive, for God’s sake.”

“They may be smal , but they pack a big punch,” he said, feeling a sudden inexplicable urge to defend his

life’s work.

“Oh, please. What’s the best you’ve got? Smal pox? Malaria—now, there’s a nasty little parasite that’s

kil ed more people than al other diseases combined. In fact, you can make a lucid argument that it’s kil ed

half the people who ever died.”

She grabbed his arm and tugged him toward an enormous glass tank against the lab’s far wal . “Let me

show you something.”

Her size belied her strength, and he al owed himself to be dragged along.

“This is Laurel,” she said pointing to a foot-long fish swimming around the tank. “She’s a spotted rose

snapper from California. Tap the glass. Go ahead. Get her attention.”

Smith did as he was told and Laurel swam toward him, opening her mouth as she approached.

He barely managed not to take a step backward when he saw something that looked like a smal lobster

staring out at him from the fish’s maw. “What the hel is that?”

“Hardy,” she said, grinning broadly. “ Cymothoa exigua. When he was young and tiny, he swam through

Laurel’s gil s and attached himself to her tongue to feed off the blood from the artery underneath. Eventual y,

the tongue rotted away and Hardy replaced it. Doesn’t harm the fish at al . They’l live together like that for

their entire lives.”

“You win,” Smith admitted. “That’s truly disgusting.”

“Isn’t it bril iant?” she said, snatching a worm from a dirt-fil ed box and dangling it over the tank.

As Smith watched her feed the unfortunate fish, he couldn’t help thinking of his fiancée, Sophia. They had

worked together at Fort Detrick and she’d had the same endless fascination for her field as Sarie did. In the

end, though, it had kil ed her.

“Colonel Smith? Are you al right? I’m sorry. Did Hardy upset you? He has that effect on some people.”

His smile returned and he concentrated on making sure it didn’t look forced. “No, Hardy’s fine. In fact, if

you have somewhere we can talk privately, I may be able to one-up you.”

Her tiny office was crammed with books that looked like they’d spent most of their lives in the field, but most

were completely obscured by her fetish for sticky notes. There was hardly a square inch available anywhere

that didn’t have a reminder of some type attached to it. He paused in the doorway to read one demanding—

with multiple exclamation marks—that she not forget a faculty meeting held just over two years ago.

Sarie cleared a spot on her desk and pointed to the courier bag slung over Smith’s shoulder. “Is your

specimen in there? Is it from Maryland?”

“No and no.”

Smith’s attention was drawn to a picture of her and a very old man standing over a dead antelope of

some kind. She was holding a rifle and grinning out from beneath a broad straw hat.

“Eland?”

“Kudu. Terrific eating if you get a chance while you’re here.” She pointed to the case again. “Now, did you

mention something about a new parasite? Something no one’s ever seen before?”

He chewed his lower lip. “What I have in here is very secret and—”

“Ja, ja,” she drawled. “You told me that over the phone, Colonel. Or do you prefer Doctor?”

“Jon.”

“Jon. Secrets are so corrosive to the soul. Why don’t you just show me? I’m certain it wil make you feel

better.”

“I need to impress on you that this is something my government would consider at the very least top

secret.”

“You’re killing me, Jon. I am absolutely sweating with anticipation.” Her tone turned playful. “I understand

that if I talk, you’l have to kil me.”

“I’m not sure that’s the case, but it’s an option that would get discussion.”

She started to laugh but then seemed uncertain that he was joking. There was a brief pause before she

nodded. “Fine. I swear on my father’s grave. Now, give it here.”

She seemed a bit perplexed when he pul ed out a laptop and set it on the desk, but lowered the shades

behind her and leaned over the computer to watch the video that was starting.

Smith cleared a chair of books and dropped into it, a cloud of dust rising around him as he watched her

turn increasingly pale.

“Hectic,” she mumbled when it was over. A few moments passed before she could get anything else out.

“Who were the people that died?”

“It’s not important.”

“I’l bet it is to them.”

He didn’t respond.

“Where was the video taken? Somewhere in central Africa?”

“Uganda. The men you saw were there to try to capture Caleb Bahame.”

“Bahame?” she said, the hatred audible in her voice. “I’m sorry they didn’t find him. Find him and kil him.”

He held out a redacted copy of the CIA’s report and the information Star had come up with on the

parasite angle.

“Eighteen ninety-nine?” she said, leafing through it. “I see you like to keep your research current.”

He actual y managed a half smile. “So what do you think, Doctor?”

“Sarie.”

“Sarie. Could a parasite cause that kind of behavior?”

“It’s certainly possible. Making people violent isn’t al that difficult.”

“But the behavior is more sophisticated than that.”

“You’re referring to the fact that they don’t attack each other?”

He was impressed. She was as quick as her reputation suggested. “Exactly. That’s why we’re leaning

toward the cause being a combination of narcotics and charisma. But we want to be sure.”

“What do you know about the blood?”

“It’s not painted on, if that’s what you mean. But they could have cut their scalps for some kind of

ceremonial purpose.”

“I doubt it. Ceremonial cutting, sure, but why hide it under your hair? Why not a big, intimidating slash

across your chest? And as far as them not attacking each other goes, it wouldn’t surprise me. If a parasite

is affecting their brains, what mutation could possibly be more beneficial than one causing them to

recognize other infected people and leave them alone? It would be a huge evolutionary advantage over

similar parasites that cause their victims to end up in some kind of free-for-al . From the parasite’s

standpoint, that’s suicide.”

“Stil ,” Smith said skeptical y. “The kinds of specific changes that would have to be made to the human

brain in order to make al this work seem far-fetched.”

“Oh, no, I disagree. Take Toxoplasma gondii, for instance. It’s a protozoan normal y parasitic to cats but

it can infect a number of other species, including humans. The one we’re interested in for the sake of this

example is rats. Now, rats are terrified by the smel of cat urine—a not-so-surprising survival adaptation.

However, rats infected with Toxoplasma are not only unafraid of cat urine; they’re actual y attracted to it. Not

great for the rat, but just lovely for the Toxoplasma, which gets to return to its preferred host when the rat

gets eaten.”

“So you’re saying—,” Smith started, but she kept talking—whether to him or to herself he wasn’t sure.

“And what about Hymenoepimecis argyraphaga? It’s a parasitic wasp that attacks a certain Costa

Rican spider. Its egg hatches on the spider’s abdomen and sucks its blood. Eventual y it releases a

chemical that causes the spider to spin a complex web designed to protect the wasp instead of catching

food. Then there’s a different parasite that breeds underwater but infects grasshoppers. The only way it can

procreate is to cause the grasshopper to commit suicide by drowning itself.”

She began pacing back and forth across the crowded office, occasional y pausing to look at a particularly

interesting note stuck to the wal s or furniture. “So what we potential y have here is a parasite that’s spread

through blood—thus the bleeding from the hair.”

“And the violence,” Smith said.

“Exactly. You’ve got to get the blood into your victim, and what better way than to attack them, open cuts,

and then bleed into them. It’s similar to your viruses. They cause you to sneeze or cough or have diarrhea.

Al simple strategies to move from one host to another.”

“So what do you think? Bottom line.”

“I think there’s a very good chance you’re dealing with some kind of pathogen. Based on the documents

you brought and the complexity of the behavior, I’d say a parasite is your best bet. It’s real y quite incredible!

We’ve never seen anything like this in humans. I mean, Toxoplasma is fairly common in our species, but the

only significant psychological effect we can find is that it makes us lousy drivers.”

“Did you say ‘drivers’?”

She nodded. “Might have something to do with appetite for risk. Not real y sure. So are you going to

Uganda?”

“Based on what you’re tel ing me, I don’t suppose I have much of a choice.”

“Is there time for us to swing by my house?”

“Excuse me?”

“I just need to grab some gear before we leave.”

Smith opened his mouth to protest but then caught himself. She had extensive field experience in Africa,

was the world’s foremost parasitologist, and based on the photo on the wal , could handle a rifle. No point in

being hasty.

* * *

JIM CLAYBORN SAT in the grass on the University of Cape Town campus, keeping an eye on an Iranian

exchange student who had taken an intense, and extremely suspicious, interest in Dr. Sarie van Keuren.

In his peripheral vision, he watched the young man casual y retrieve his cel phone as van Keuren

appeared with a tal , fit-looking man who according to his rental car agreement was Colonel Jon Smith of

the U.S. Army. The Iranian snapped a few shots of van Keuren being introduced to an older man who stank

to high heaven of British special forces.

Clayborn tapped a brief text into his own phone, then ran it through a state-of-the-art encryption algorithm

before sending it off to Langley. They weren’t going to be happy. Things looked like they were about to get

complicated.

23

Langley, Virginia, USA

November 20—1035 Hours GMT–5

THE GLOOM WAS DISPELLED by a slide projecting an elegant line of stone buildings against a mountain

backdrop. Brandon Gazenga zoomed in on three people standing at the top of a set of stairs.

“Starting at the far right, we have Lt. Colonel Jon Smith, a medical doctor and microbiologist attached to

USAMRI D. He—”

“Brandon,” Lawrence Drake said, not bothering to hide his impatience. “Dave and I have a meeting in ten

minutes. What’s so important about this that it couldn’t wait?”

“Yes, sir, I understand. But we have reports that a week before this photo was taken, Dr. Smith was at

Camp Lejeune talking to the surviving SEAL from the Uganda operation. Apparently, he was there when he

committed suicide.”

Drake leaned forward, feeling the muscles around his stomach tighten. “Okay, Brandon. You have my

attention. Who’s the woman?”

“Sarie van Keuren, a name I think you’re familiar with.”

“The parasitologist. Are the Iranians stil watching her?”

“Yes, sir. They have roughly the same photo you’re looking at.”

“And the man she’s shaking hands with?”

“That wasn’t as easy to figure out—he’s traveling on an Argentine passport under the name Peter

Jourgan. His real name, though, is Peter Howel . Former SAS, former MI6, now retired and living in

California.”

“If he’s retired,” Dave Col en said, “what the hel is he doing in Cape Town talking to van Keuren?”

“I should have said semi retired. He stil does some consulting work, but the details aren’t clear.”

“I assume you’ve accessed the army’s records,” Drake said. “What are Smith’s orders?”

“He doesn’t have any. He’s official y on a leave of absence.”

“Bul . Is he military intel igence?”

“He’s been attached to Military Intel igence in the past,” Gazenga responded. “But there’s no evidence

that he’s associated with them now.”

“And if he was stil working for them, he wouldn’t be over there with a British freelancer,” Col en added.

“I agree,” Gazenga said. “You probably remember that Smith was involved in the Hades disaster through

his job at USAMRI D. After that, though, he starts turning up in a lot of places that can’t be as easily

explained.”

“Someone recruited him after he brought down Tremont,” Drake said.

“I think it’s a safe assumption, sir.”

“Who?”

“I can’t find anything that would even indicate a direction to look. If he is working off the books for

someone, they’re incredibly good at staying in the shadows.”

Drake settled back in his chair and examined the stark blue of Smith’s eyes. Who had the juice to recruit

and operate an asset like Smith? And who had an undue interest in Caleb Bahame? The answer to those

questions had the potential to lead in a very dangerous direction.

“Where are they now?”

“On their way to Uganda.”

Col en turned his chair toward his boss and spoke under his breath. “Jesus, Larry…”

Drake nodded silently. “I want them fol owed, Brandon. I want to know everywhere they go, everyone they

talk to, and everything they learn. And I want to know it in real time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I also want to know who the hel they’re working for.”

Gazenga nodded obediently but seemed increasingly uncomfortable.

“Do you have something else to say, Brandon?”

“No, sir.”

“Yes, you do. Speak up.”

He hesitated, shifting back and forth in the glare of the projector. “Sir, what we’ve done so far is…”

“Legal?”

“Al due respect, I was going to say plausible. Everything we’ve said about Bahame’s methods and the

Iranians’ interest has been completely reasonable and defensible from an analysis standpoint.”

“But?”

“While we don’t know specifical y who Smith’s working for, it stands to reason that it’s someone on our

side…”

“Are you making a recommendation or just stating the obvious?” Drake said.

Brandon stood a little straighter for the first time in their relationship. Defiance?

“In a way, this could have a silver lining for us, sir. The Iranians have been cautious up until now. An

American virus hunter poking around could force their hand and give us corroboration of what Khamenei is

doing.”

“So you think we should throw a year of meticulous planning out the window and rely on two foreign

nationals and an army doctor with no apparent orders?”

Brandon didn’t back down. “I think we have to consider op—”

“The Iranians continue their nuclear weapons program,” Drake said, cutting him off, “and we slap them on

the wrist. Now their country is destabilizing and could very easily fal into the hands of Farrokh, who has the

confidence of the Iranian scientific community. What do we do? We stand by. And that’s what we’l stil be

doing when they have nuclear warheads that can reach our shores and OPEC is control ed from Tehran.”

Gazenga’s resolve began to waver and he moved out of the beam of the projector in an obvious attempt

to hide the fact. “If we—”

“That’l be al , Brandon,” Dave Col en said.

“But…Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Drake reflected on how quickly and violently the world was changing as the young man hustled through the

door. Russia and China were more easily control ed than people suspected—both countries had large,

sophisticated bureaucracies, populations with predictable long-term goals, and an arsenal of economic and

military weapons that remained inferior to America’s. Iran was different.

In direct opposition to Castil a’s policy of noninterference, Drake had been waging a silent war against

the Iranians. The two nuclear scientists recently kil ed by car bombs and the Stuxnet computer worm that

had damaged their centrifuges were al off-the-books agency operations. But he was just delaying the

inevitable. The threat posed by the Islamic Republic needed to be made clear and, more important, the

American military’s ability to deal with that threat had to be demonstrated. This time there would be no

endless street skirmishes, no corrupt local politicians, no buried IEDs. Iran would be quickly and completely

obliterated from the air.

The Muslim world had begun to mistake America’s obsession with preventing civilian casualties for

weakness. It was a misconception that would be quickly dispel ed as the world stood by and watched Iran’s

few survivors scramble to eke out an existence in a land literal y returned to the Stone Age.

Worldwide order would be restored and a clear message would be sent to the Pakistanis, the Afghans,

and al the others: If you keep your fundamentalists under control, America wil stay on the sidelines. But if

you let them become a threat, you wil be next.

Al he needed was a catalyst, and Caleb Bahame’s parasite was perfect. Even by biological weapon

standards, it was so visceral and terrifying that virtual y every government on the planet would turn their

backs on a country that used it.

If he al owed Smith and his team to confirm the parasite’s existence and learn of the Iranians’ interest as

Gazenga was suggesting, their plan would be stil born. The politicians would move in, rattling empty sabers

while Iran issued denial after denial. Castil a and the UN would debate, demand more evidence, make

pointless resolutions. And the war-weary, financial y strapped American people would resist a cal to arms

over yet another unseen and unproven WMD program.

No, in order for the United States to regain the determination to retaliate with overwhelming force, the

threat couldn’t exist solely in the mouths of newscasters and government spokesmen. The Iranians would

have to be al owed to use Bahame’s parasite. The soft and increasingly self-absorbed American people

would have to experience the consequences of their apathy.

“Larry?” Col en said, breaking the silence in the stil , shadowy office. “What are we going to do? We didn’t

anticipate any of these complications. And Brandon’s starting to waver.”

Drake let out a long breath as he forced himself back into the present. Gazenga’s knowledge of central

Africa had been critical to their operation thus far, but it had always been understood that he’d eventual y

have to be dealt with—that he wouldn’t have the courage to go as far as was necessary. Losing him now,

though, would be a minor disaster.

“I take it you’ve been learning fast, Dave?”

“Everything I can. But my level of expertise is nowhere near his. And neither are my contacts on the

ground.”

Drake nodded his understanding. “We’re going to have to move up the timetable and go to ful

surveil ance on him. I want it in place by tonight. Maybe he’l show more backbone than we expect.”

“And Smith?”

“For now, we’l just track him—see if he tips his hand as to how much he knows and who he’s working for.

The moment it looks like they’re going to come up with anything useful, though, they’re going to have to

disappear.”

* * *

BRANDON GAZENGA SMILED blankly at the people moving through the hal way, trying to keep his gait natural

as he slipped into his office and closed the door behind him.

How the hel had he gotten himself into this?

It was a depressingly easy question to answer. Drake had come to him personal y and he’d swooned at

the personal attention from the DCI. Given a chance to advance his career and play with the big boys, he’d

just closed his eyes and jumped.

A world that seemed so black-and-white in col ege turned hopelessly gray inside the wal s of CIA

headquarters. A little spin here, a little data selection there, and you could make a report say anything you

wanted. But now things had been turned completely upside down. There was no doubt in his mind that

Drake was going to eventual y want Smith and his people dead. Of course the CIA’s involvement would be

as indirect as it always was—a quick cash payment to an intermediary, a passing along of information to

bandits in the area, maybe a word to one of Bahame’s people. It was a cardinal rule that he had learned

wel over the past year: deniability must always be maintained.

But he would know the truth. The fact that the blood didn’t splash directly on him didn’t absolve him of

responsibility.

The entire operation was an incredibly delicate balancing act—let the Iranians go far enough for the

evidence to be irrefutable, but not so far that they would be in a position to actual y deploy the parasite.

As his vision cleared, though, Gazenga began to see just how subjective that balance point was. How far

were Drake and Col en wil ing to al ow Iran to run? How much risk were they wil ing to take that this could

spin out of control?

“Welcome to the big leagues,” he said to the empty office.

It was funny how different the reality was from the fantasy. Who would have ever thought he’d want nothing

more than to join his brothers running the family restaurant chain? That standing elbow-deep in spiced beef

and dishwater would be something he dreamed about?

Gazenga walked unsteadily to his desk and sat in the leather chair his father had presented him as a

graduation gift. This was getting way too big for him to handle. He needed to talk to someone who knew

what the hel they were doing. Someone he could trust.

24

Entebbe, Uganda

November 21—1517 Hours GMT+3

SARIE VAN KEUREN TOSSED a bungee cord over the crate of field equipment and Smith caught it,

securing the hook to a hole rusted in the top of the cab.

“I think that’l get us to Kampala,” he said, and the driver leaned through the open window, head bobbing

in an energetic nod.

“No problem.”

Those seemed to be his only two words of English, but with the right inflection and expression, they could

communicate just about any point.

Smith climbed into the front passenger’s seat, pul ing his pack onto his lap before repeatedly slamming

the tiny car’s door in an effort to get it to stay closed. “Peter! Let’s rol .”

Howel was standing on the sidewalk staring up at Uganda’s Entebbe Airport, hands jammed in the

pockets of his faded jeans despite the heat and humidity. The original terminal building was gone now, but

the airport was stil something of a shrine for the men who served in the world’s special forces.

In 1976, Palestinian terrorists hijacked a plane ferrying 250 passengers from Tel Aviv to Paris, forcing the

pilot to land in Idi Amin–control ed Uganda. After releasing some of the passengers, they’d threatened to kil

their remaining hostages if a number of their imprisoned compatriots weren’t set free.

When it became clear that peaceful negotiations were going nowhere—due in no smal part to Amin’s

support of the hijackers—the Israelis began planning a rescue mission.

Operation Thunderbolt was carried out by one hundred elite commandos and took only an hour and a half

to complete. When the dust settled, al but three of the hostages had been rescued and al the hijackers, as

wel as forty-five Ugandan troops, were dead.

It had been a very public demonstration of what a wel -trained force could accomplish and had made that

little airport a household name al over the world.

“Peter!” Sarie cal ed, wrestling her pack into the backseat and then squeezing in next to it. “What are you

looking at? Meter’s running!”

Her voice snapped him out of his trance and he slipped in next to her.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Of course I am, my dear. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Smith shot a quick glance back but then just settled into the vinyl-and-duct-tape seat as the cab shot into

traffic. He watched the verdant hil s dotted with houses pass by for a few minutes but found it more and

more difficult to keep his eyes open. The drive to their hotel in the capital city wouldn’t take much more than

a half hour, but he might as wel put the time to good use. Unless he missed his guess, opportunities for

sleep were going to be scarce over the next couple of weeks.

Sarie’s phone rang and he half monitored her circumspect questioning of the German parasitologist

she’d left a message for earlier that day. When the inevitable disappointment became audible in her voice,

he shifted his attention back to the monotonous drone of the engine. It seemed that Star had once again

been right—whatever this phenomenon turned out to be, the two lousy pages she turned up were the entire

body of knowledge on it.

Despite his exhaustion, Smith’s mind refused to shut down, instead churning through an ever-lengthening

list of problems and unknowns.

Dealing with deadly diseases in the field was dangerous enough when you had iron-fisted control over

every variable. Normal y, he’d know more or less what pathogen he was dealing with, his patients would be

grateful for his presence, and he would be leading a large team of highly trained specialists wielding

multimil ion-dol ar equipment.

To say that his current situation wasn’t optimal would be the understatement of the century. His protective

equipment consisted of some surgical gloves and masks raided from Sarie’s basement. He had virtual y no

knowledge of the pathogen they were after or, frankly, if it even existed. He had only guesses as to how it

spread and no clue how it attacked its victims. And his patients, far from offering their thanks with donations

of farm animals like they had last time he’d worked in Africa, were likely to try to tear him apart.

Then there was Caleb Bahame—a man who had brought the technological innovation of the jeep to the

old tradition of drawing and quartering. A man who wasn’t going to be happy about three white people

wandering around in his backyard asking questions…

The sudden blast of a car horn caused Smith to jerk upright in his seat. He squinted into the powerful sun,

confused for a moment as to where he was. Ahead, tal concrete buildings broke up the outline of green

hil s, creating a vaguely Soviet skyline that overpowered the red roofs and whitewashed wal s of colonial-era

structures.

Kampala was a tidy and surprisingly attractive city at odds with its history of political turmoil, military

dictatorships, and now Caleb Bahame. It was a deeply unfair but common story in this part of the world: just

when the populace was about to get out from under—just when hope began to dispel fear and desperation

—someone rose with a ragtag force and some murky motivation for destroying it al .

“Take your next left,” Howel said, reaching up between the seats and tapping their driver on the shoulder.

The Ugandan seemed confused and pointed through the cracked windshield at the approaching city. “No

problem. Hotel.”

“Not the bloody hotel,” Howel said more forceful y. “Do it. Turn there.”

“No! Problem! Bad place.”

Smith twisted around in his seat but was grateful when Sarie spoke first. “What’s going on, Peter? I

thought you’d never been to Uganda.”

Her naïve openness was not only engaging but useful. Smith real y couldn’t ask questions—particularly in

light of the fact that he had Howel on a mission for an organization the Brit didn’t even know existed.

“I said here!” Howel said, pul ing himself between the seats and grabbing the wheel. The taxi careened

onto a dirt side road violently enough to slam Smith into the poorly latched door. He grabbed for the dash

and barely managed to keep from fal ing out.

“What the hel , Peter?” he said, starting the process of trying to get the door closed again.

“I thought we’d take in the sights.”

Howel passed three one-hundred-dol ar bil s to the driver, who didn’t seem to know whether to be more

afraid of the man in the backseat or what lay ahead. The cash broke the tie.

Smith managed to get the door latched again and twisted around to the degree the pack on his lap would

al ow. The fact that Howel hadn’t told him about his history in Uganda didn’t particularly bother him—their

entire relationship was built on secrets. What did bother him, though, was that the normal y squared-away

SAS man had turned erratic and moody.

He’d never had reason to question Howel ’s judgment before and he wasn’t anxious to start, but there was

something wrong here. How much rope should he give his old friend before he yanked back?

As they approached a ramshackle township, the driver began talking irritably in his native language,

obviously trying to convince himself of something. They’d closed to within about two hundred yards of the

first building, a leaning shack built from corrugated tin and wire, when the African slammed on the brakes.

“We go no more!”

Howel stepped calmly from the car and yanked the driver’s door open, pul ing the frightened man out into

the road.

“Back in a jif,” he said, sliding behind the wheel and launching the car forward again.

“Peter,” Sarie said as they wound through the dense shacks, eliciting perplexed stares from the

pedestrians hurrying out of the way. “I’m from this part of the world and I’m tel ing you we shouldn’t be here.

We aren’t welcome.”

He didn’t respond, and Smith felt her hand light on his shoulder, a clear signal that she wanted him to

intervene. But for one of the first times in his life, he wasn’t sure what to do. He’d be dead five times over if it

weren’t for Peter Howel .

The farther they penetrated, the more the township changed in character. Women and children evident at

the outer edges were gone now, replaced by increasingly wel -armed men. A pickup with a mounted

machine gun crossed in front of them and the shirtless man standing in the bed swung the gun in their

direction but didn’t have time to decide whether or not to pul the trigger before he disappeared around a

corner.

“Okay, that’s far enough, Peter,” Smith said, grabbing the shifter and pul ing it into neutral. “Either you tel

us what we’re doing, or we turn around and get the hel out of here.”

The Brit just thumbed into the backseat, where Sarie was on her knees watching the crowd close in

behind them. Unlike the machine gunner, they’d had time to think about the strangers in their midst and were

wel on their way to a decision that wasn’t going to go wel for anyone.

25

Langley, Virginia, USA

November 21—1015 Hours GMT–5

THERE SHE WAS.

Brandon examined the woman waiting for the elevator and, when he was satisfied that she wasn’t on

speaking terms with any of the people around her, moved in.

As his discomfort with the Uganda operation had grown, he’d begun quietly researching people he could

go to if he decided he was in over his head. His work with Drake al owed him access to the CIA’s database

wel beyond his pay grade and he’d managed to come up with a short list of tough operatives with extensive

experience and reputations for unshakable integrity.

Despite looking like she was stil in her midthirties, the woman in front of him was a minor legend at the

agency. He’d initial y disregarded her because she was posted in Afghanistan but then heard she was back

stateside sitting out the backlash over the death of a Taliban leader she’d tracked into the Hindu Kush.

Maybe his luck was final y changing.

The elevator door opened and he shuffled in, staying close enough to her that he could smel the

shampoo in her short blond hair. The athletic body, ful lips, and tanned skin were undoubtedly significant

assets in her work but a clear liability to him. The surreptitious glances of the men in the elevator weren’t

going to make what he’d come to do any easier.

Gazenga fought for a position beside her in the crowded space, watching in his peripheral vision as she

fixed her dark eyes on the floor numbers counting down.

The elevator stopped with a jerk and he used it as an excuse to bump into her, slipping a note into the

pocket of her jacket as he did so.

She turned slightly, black eyes wandering along the side of his face and giving him a sudden

overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. At the last moment, he pushed through the people in front of him and

out the closing doors. The hal way was nearly empty and he concentrated on control ing his breathing as a

duct overhead blew cool air across his sweaty skin.

He hadn’t lost his nerve. He’d done it. But for some reason the sense of relief he’d anticipated didn’t

materialize. If anything, the sensation of being trapped continued to tighten around his chest.

With that note, he’d irretrievably stepped off the diving board. Al he could do now was hope the pool had

water in it.

26

Outside Kampala, Uganda

November 21—1626 Hours GMT+3

PETER HOWELL SMILED CASUALLY at a group of comical y overarmed men staring dumbfounded at them

as they cruised by. Ahead, an elaborate archway led through the stone wal they’d been paral eling for the

last few minutes. By the time they stopped in front of it, there were at least three mounted machine guns and

no fewer than thirty smal arms trained on the aging taxi. A man in fatigues came cautiously toward them,

looking over the sights of an Israeli-made Tavor assault rifle and screaming unintel igible instructions.

They were forced from the vehicle, and Smith grabbed Sarie’s arm to keep her from being dragged

away, trying to position himself so that she was shielded between him and the car.

“Is there a plan here?” Smith shouted over the hood, not sure if he was more angry with Howel or himself.

“Or did you just pick today to commit suicide?”

“A bit of shopping,” came the Brit’s enigmatic answer.

A young man in a tattered Smurfs T-shirt gave Smith a hard shove and he pushed back, sending the man

to the ground. “Back the hel off!”

The African jumped to his feet, clawing for the machine gun hanging across his chest, and Smith lunged

for him. Someone to his left threw an elbow and he ducked around it, keeping his eyes locked on the

compact Heckler & Koch lining up on him.

Then it al stopped. There was a brief shout from the direction of the archway and the young man backed

away, careful to keep his hands wel away from his weapon.

The crowd began to disperse and the guards lost interest in them, going back to surveying the people

moving back and forth in the dusty road.

“Peter! My good friend,” came a heavily accented voice. What remained of the mob scurried out of the

way of a tal African striding toward Howel .

“It warms my heart to see you again,” he said, pumping the Brit’s hand. “I never dreamed I would.”

“Good to see you, too, Janani. I’d like to introduce you to my friends Sarie and Jon.”

The African motioned toward them. “Come. We must get out of this horrible sun.”

Smith looked over at Sarie and shrugged, taking her arm before fol owing the two chatting men through

the arch.

“You’ve gotten fat,” Howel said.

“And you’ve gotten old, my brother. I live a good life. I have many wives and children. How many sons do

you have?”

“None.”

Janani shook his head sympathetical y as they turned down a narrow al ey lined with storefronts

dedicated to merchandise built around the theme “Things that can kil you.” There were numerous gun

dealers, specialists in various types of explosives, and a shop with a canary-yel ow awning advertising

Africa’s best selection of handheld SAMs.

Janani led them through an unmarked door that opened into a surprisingly large and wel -equipped

machine shop.

“Janani makes custom guns,” Howel explained, waving a hand around him but not looking back. “The

best in the world.”

“You flatter me, Peter. Do you stil have the pistol I made you so many years ago?”

“I’m afraid I lost it.”

“But not before it kil ed many men.”

Howel nodded, his voice suddenly sounding a bit distant. “Many men.”

They passed through an open door at the back and came out onto a covered patio containing a dizzying

assortment of guns lined up in racks. A lush butte started about twenty-five yards beyond, sloping gently

upward, with targets spaced at measured intervals.

“Jon,” Janani said, spinning to face him. “What do you normal y carry?”

“A Sig Sauer. Sometimes a Beretta.”

An unimpressed frown crossed the African’s face and he pul ed a pistol from a neat foam display.

Smith accepted it but barely had his hand around it before Janani snatched it back with a disgusted

scowl.

“Completely wrong,” he muttered, selecting one with a slightly thicker grip. “Tel me how this one feels.”

He had to admit that it felt good—the same confidence-inspiring solidness of the Sig Sauer without the

weight.

“Do you mind?” Smith said, pointing to the range.

“Please.”

He fired a round at the fifty-meter target, putting it dead center in the human silhouette.

“It seems to agree with you,” Janani said, a craftsman’s pride audible in his voice.

“Fits good, shoots nice. But wil it stop anything? The recoil feels light.”

“You’re firing a 170-grain ten-mil imeter round with a thirteen-hundred-foot-per-second muzzle velocity.”

“Come on…Real y?”

The African dipped his head respectful y.

“So what’s the verdict, mate?” Howel said.

“If it’s reliable, it’s the best thing I ever shot.”

“Of course it’s reliable!” Janani whined. “Certainly more so than anything the Italians are involved in.”

“Al right,” Howel said. “We’l take it and another one like it for me. Then I’l need a couple assault rifles.

Something maneuverable along the lines of a SCAR-L, but I’l leave the final decision to you. No point in

traveling light, so say a thousand rounds for the rifles and a hundred each for the handguns. Three spare

clips apiece.”

“Of course. We can have them ready by morning. Can I interest you in anything else? Perhaps a portable

rocket launcher? I have a prototype that I think you’d find very compel ing.”

“Tempting, but we’re trying to keep a low profile. You wouldn’t happen to know anybody in the car

business, would yo—”

“Excuse me!”

They al turned toward Sarie, who was waving a hand irritably. “Are we forgetting someone?”

The African was clearly confused. “I’m sorry. Are you making a joke?”

“I think she’s serious,” Smith said.

Janani shook his head miserably. “Women have become so…What is the word you use? Uppity. It’s this

new feminism.”

He walked over to a chest of drawers and pul ed out a minuscule chrome .32. “This looks very nice with a

handbag.”

Even Howel managed a laugh, less at Janani’s joke than at Sarie’s deadly expression.

“I was thinking of something more like this,” she said, walking up to a row of scoped semiautomatic rifles.

She grabbed one and pul ed the bolt back, confirming that it was loaded before starting for a table piled

with sandbags.

“That’s not a toy,” Janani said as she laid the gun down and knelt behind it.

When she didn’t acknowledge his warning, he turned back to Howel and Smith. “My first wife behaves

like this. I blame Oprah. We get—”

Al three of them ducked in unison as an explosion rattled the rickety thatched roof above them. There

were shouts from inside the building and a number of armed men ran out, only to find Sarie joyful y clapping

her hands. “You put dynamite behind them? I love that!”

The African frowned, looking at what was left of his plywood target cartwheeling through a distant cloud of

dirt and shattered rock. “Only the ones at eight hundred meters.”

“Do you mind if I shoot another?”

Janani walked over and snatched away the rifle. “Out of the question, madam. This weapon is far too

heavy for you and the stock is al wrong. I’l have something more suitable when you and your friends return.”

27

Kampala, Uganda

November 21—1741 Hours GMT+3

NO PROBLEM. HOTEL.”

Sarie chuckled quietly in the backseat as Jon Smith’s head sank into his hands. They’d found their driver

a few miles from the arms market hoofing it back to Kampala. He’d seemed a little shocked to see them

alive but grateful y climbed back behind the wheel after checking his rust bucket of a cab for damage.

“No,” Smith said for the fifth time. “Hospital. We want to go to the hospital first.”

Howel ’s detour, while admittedly productive, left them no time to stop at the hotel before their

appointment with the director of Kampala’s main medical facility.

“No problem. Hotel.”

Smith groaned and fel back into his seat.

“I think he’s missing the subtlety between the words ‘hospital’ and ‘hotel,’” Sarie offered. “What’s it

actual y cal ed?”

He must have been more tired than he thought not to come up with that himself. Sixty hours of travel took

a hel of a lot more out of him than it had when he was thirty.

“Mulago,” he said, enunciating careful y. “Not hotel. Mulago Hospital.”

The driver’s eyes widened with understanding. “Mulago? You sick?”

“Yes! You’ve got it! I’m sick. Very, very sick.”

“Mulago. No problem.”

Fifteen minutes later they pul ed up to an enormous crate of a building surrounded by a railing painted an

unfortunate baby blue.

“Mulago!” the driver announced as Smith threw open the door and slid out from beneath his pack.

He crouched and leaned back in to look at Howel . After his hour of normality at the arms market, he’d

turned melancholy again—something worryingly at odds with his personality. “Can you stay with the car,

Peter? We won’t be long.”

The Brit leaned his head back and stared up at the mildewed headliner. “I don’t have anything else on my

calendar.”

* * *

HELLO, I’M DR. Jon Smith and this is Dr. Sarie van Keuren. We have an appointment with Dr. Lwanga.”

The woman stood with surprising nimbleness from behind a desk about half her size. The stern

expression she’d worn when they approached transformed into a toothy smile. “Of course,” she said in

lightly accented English. “I have your appointment right here. If you wil just fol ow me, please.”

She led them less than ten feet to an open office door and then stepped ceremoniously aside so they

could enter.

“Dr. Lwanga?” Smith said, approaching a bespectacled man standing at an odd angle that suggested

childhood polio. He closed the book in his hand with a snap and limped toward them. “Drs. Smith and van

Keuren. It is a great honor.”

“Likewise,” Sarie said. “You have a beautiful facility here.”

“There isn’t much money,” he responded. “But one does what one can.”

“We know you’re busy, Doctor, and we don’t want to take up too much of your valuable time…,” Smith

started.

“Of course. What is it I can do for you?”

Smith fel silent, letting Sarie take the lead as they had agreed. She was a minor celebrity across the

continent for her work on malaria and knew better what questions to ask. He’d just stand by and make sure

she didn’t get overexcited and reveal too much.

“Jon and I are heading north on a brief expedition to find a parasitic worm that affects ants. But while we

were doing our research, we found a mention of another parasite that caught our attention.”

“I’m afraid this isn’t real y my area,” Lwanga said apologetical y.

“We came to you because there are reports that it may victimize humans, causing rabies-like symptoms

and possibly bleeding from the hair fol icles. Also, it seems to affect only the North, which is where you grew

up, isn’t it?”

Lwanga’s expression seemed strangely frozen as Sarie continued.

“We couldn’t find any information on what animals might host the parasite or real y any corroboration that

it even exists. Does it ring a bel by any chance?”

The African suddenly came back to life. “I’m afraid not. I’ve never heard of anything like what you’re

describing.”

“Would you know someone we could talk to—maybe a doctor working in the rural areas to the north?

Someone who could help us ask the right people the right questions?”

“It’s been a long time since I left my vil age and I’ve been very remiss about staying in touch.” He stuck out

a hand in what was clearly a dismissal. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Now, you’l have to excuse me. I

have rounds.”

“That was a very strange meeting,” Sarie said as they came back out into the heat of the afternoon sun. “I

don’t want to seem negative, but I’m not sure that he was being completely honest with us.”

It was obvious that she was having a hard time coming right out and cal ing the aging physician a liar, but

Smith had no such qualms. In the world of professional liars he lived in, Lwanga was a rank amateur.

“He knew exactly what you were talking about, Sarie. Did you see the tea service next to his desk?”

“Ja.”

“How many cups were on it?”

“How many cups? I don’t know.”

“Ah,” Smith said. “You see, but you do not observe.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” she said with a grin. “Does that mean I get to be Watson?”

“Not yet. But I see potential. There were three cups and steam coming from the pot’s spout. You know

better than me that Africans are nothing if not polite.”

She nodded slowly. “He intended for us to stay on a bit.”

“Until you brought up crazy people bleeding from the hair.”

“The stuff about him losing touch with his vil age is nonsense, too, Jon. African politeness is nothing

compared to African devotion to family.”

They crossed onto the sidewalk and Smith reached for their taxi’s door. “And so the plot thickens.”

* * *

DR. OUME LWANGA stood at the edge of the window, peering down into the street below. The phone in his

hand was slick with sweat, and he had to grip it tightly to keep the smooth plastic from sliding through his

fingers.

“They said that specifically,” President Charles Sembutu’s voice on the other end said.

“Yes, sir. They didn’t give details of which rabies symptoms, though madness seemed implied. They did

distinctly say bleeding from the hair.”

“That’s al ?”

“They were interested in a possible animal host but said their main objective was a worm affecting ants—

that this other parasite was just something that came up in their research. They didn’t seem certain it even

existed.”

“Where are they now?”

“Getting into a brown taxi with a box on the roof.”

“Is there anyone else in it besides the driver?”

“I think there’s someone in the backseat. From my position it’s hard to tel . Do you want me to—”

The connection went dead and Lwanga watched the cab pul away from the curb, feeling a pang of guilt.

Their fate was in God’s hands now.

28

Northern Uganda

November 21—1833 Hours GMT+3

MEHRAK OMIDI SLOWED WHEN the young man in front of him broke into an elaborate karate pantomime,

kicking at bushes and the humid air, spinning unsteadily, and making noises like a strangled bird. He nearly

fel over a rotting log and shouted angrily at it before grabbing one of a number of beers stuffed into the

pockets of his fatigues.

Omidi had landed in Uganda nine hours ago and immediately driven to the remote rendezvous point

dictated by Caleb Bahame. He’d expected to be picked up by the man himself and taken to camp, but

instead spent three hours riding blindfolded in the back of a rickety military vehicle. And now this.

They’d been walking through the wet, insect-infested jungle for long enough that he began to question

whether the men around him had any idea where they were going. Most were drunk, and no fewer than three

fights had broken out—one of which he’d been forced to break up when knives materialized.

“How much longer?”

The man in front squinted back at him and said something in his native language before forging on.

Omidi fol owed, keeping up easily despite the unfamiliar humidity and terrain. He hated sub-Saharan

Africa and everything in it—the air, the disease, the worthless inhabitants. It would have given him great

satisfaction to have sent one of his men in his place, but it was impossible. No one else could be trusted

with a task so vast and historical y important.

When he actual y al owed himself to consider what, with God’s blessing, he would accomplish, it made

the breath catch in his chest. Centuries of dominance by America and the West would come to an end.

Their arrogant citizens would final y understand that everything they thought they had was an il usion. They

would watch in horror as the power and money they had so greedily amassed failed to protect them. And

when it was final y over, they would shrink away like beaten dogs.

The sun touched the horizon, stoking his anger and frustration. Soon, they would have to stop. While his

guides were wel equipped with alcohol and pornography, none seemed to have thought to bring a flashlight

or night-vision equipment.

He quickened his pace and reached for the man in front of him again but then heard a distant voice

reverberating through the jungle. The men around him heard it, too, whooping in excitement and pumping

their rusting assault rifles in the air.

Bahame.

As they closed on the amplified voice, the scent of human habitation assaulted him—open latrines,

garbage, and the distinctive rot of death. They passed crated weapons and food, as wel as a few light

military vehicles that may or may not have been in operating condition. Al were piled with tree limbs and

vines so as to be invisible from the air.

They broke out into a clearing and Omidi spotted a man pacing across a makeshift stage speaking into a

megaphone. He was dressed in worn fatigues accented by a large amulet made of what appeared to be

human teeth and bones.

No fewer than a hundred people were packed into the clearing, transfixed by the graying figure looking

down on them. Most were teens or younger, clad in tattered civilian clothing and holding weapons as

sophisticated as AK-47s and as primitive as feather-adorned spears. At least a quarter were girls, some

unashamedly shirtless, displaying budding breasts wet with perspiration. A disgusting display by a

disgusting race.

The man on the log-and-stone podium spotted him and pointed, speaking unintel igibly as his audience

parted.

Close up, Caleb Bahame was almost regal, with strong features and skin unblemished by his years of

living in camps like these. His movements were strangely exaggerated, choreographed to give his every

word its own sense of gravity. Seeing Bahame standing there, feeling the oppressiveness of his presence,

explained a great deal about how the African had gained so much power so quickly.

Bahame had started bringing his clapped-together religion to the tiny vil ages of northern Uganda almost

a quarter century ago. Not long after, he armed a group of disciples large enough to begin converting the

region’s farmers, whether they were persuaded by his dogma or not. He burned and raped and kidnapped,

learning to manipulate the pliable minds of children and turning them into a fighting force unbounded by any

moral or religious sensibility that didn’t flow directly from him.

As time went on, the religion he’d created became more political and more about him. He had portrayed

himself as everything from Muhammad to Jesus to the reincarnation of Karl Marx—fanning the flames of

tribal animosity and promising a utopian society of milk and honey without work or effort. Now, thousands of

fol owers later, Bahame no longer knew where he stopped and God started.

Omidi climbed onto the podium and Bahame threw down the megaphone to greet him. When their hands

clasped, a loud cheer rose up.

“Mehrak, my good friend,” Bahame said in English better than his own. “God told me you would be

delivered safely to me.”

“May his name be praised.”

Bahame smiled and turned, using a claw hammer to break open a crate of whiskey. The exaltation of his

congregation grew in volume as he tossed the bottles out to them, reserving one for himself.

“My magic has given us many victories and has made them love me,” he said, breaking the neck off the

bottle. His eyes were clear, but it was impossible to know what they saw. Unquestionably, a man to be very

careful y handled.

“You’re a great leader.”

“Yes, but Uganda is a large country, ful of evil. It wil require more than magic to take it. Even my magic.”

Omidi nodded gravely. “Al great generals—al great men—face the same problem. You cannot do

everything yourself. And to rely on others is…unpredictable.”

“What you say is true, Mehrak.”

“I’d like to see your magic. To see if you can teach us to wield it without your power.”

He seemed pleased by that and took a long pul on the bottle before holding it out to Omidi.

“My God doesn’t permit it,” the Iranian said.

“He gives you his permission.”

Omidi smiled politely, making sure his eyes portrayed only serenity. Was Bahame saying that he had

spoken to God on his behalf ? Or that he was God?

A murmur went through Bahame’s people, and Omidi used it as an excuse to turn and see what had

distracted them from fighting over the liquor.

A group similar to the one that had brought him there burst into the clearing dragging a badly injured

African man along with them. Behind, a Caucasian in his late sixties appeared, terrified and exhausted.

Bahame jumped to the ground and Omidi fol owed at a distance that would al ow him to be an observer of

what was going to happen without risking becoming a participant.

“Where is the woman?” Bahame demanded.

One of the men pushed their injured comrade to the ground at his feet. “Dembe let her escape.”

The prone man’s right pant leg had been cut away and there was a bloody bandage wound around his

thigh. He tried to crawl away but was stopped by the impenetrable ring of armed children that had formed

around them.

Bahame pointed to the white man. “Who is he?”

“A doctor we found to keep this pig alive so he could face you.”

The cult leader’s eyes widened to the point of bulging, and his stare fixed on the man begging pathetical y

at his feet.

He dropped the bottle in his hand and picked up a rock the size of an apple, fal ing to his knees and

bringing it down with horrifying force between the man’s shoulder blades. An anguished scream erupted

from him, though it was quickly drowned out by the laughter of the crowd.

“No, stop!” the doctor shouted. He made a lunge to protect his patient but was slammed to the ground

before he could reach him.

Bahame continued to work with the rock, studiously avoiding the man’s head and neck—attacking his

arms, his torso, his legs. Sweat dripped from him and his breathing turned ragged as the dul thud of rock

on flesh was joined by the sound of snapping bones and blood gurgling in his victim’s throat.

The skil of it was admirable—turning a man’s body into a broken bag of parts while keeping him not only

alive, but conscious.

Eventual y, Bahame began to tire, and he stood, stil refusing to deliver the man into death. He picked up

the whiskey he’d dropped, now spattered with blood, and drank from it before holding it out.

Omidi hesitated for a moment, looking down at the man twitching in the damp soil. Final y, he approached

and accepted it, using the bottle to salute his host before bringing it to his lips.

29

Kampala, Uganda

November 21—2112 Hours GMT+3

JON SMITH PUT HIS face directly into the lukewarm water, letting the shower wash away the sweat and

dust. The hotel had turned out to be perfect—quiet, mostly empty, and out of the way enough that they would

attract minimal attention.

More important, though, the water pressure was good, the bed looked comfortable, and the restaurant

served alcohol. It might be awhile before he got to enjoy those particular luxuries again, and he intended to

take ful advantage while they were at hand.

He stood there until the water turned cold, then toweled off and walked out into the main part of the room,

where he’d left the glass doors open to a private deck. The moon was visible through the gauzy curtains,

and he dressed in its light before grabbing a beer from a trash can he’d fil ed with ice and heading out into

the night air.

From his vantage point, he could look down on a bar strung with Christmas lights and the sparsely

populated area by the pool. Howel and Sarie were sitting at a dim table near the hedge bordering the

property, both with drinks that rated multiple paper umbrel as. Some of Howel ’s strange malaise seemed to

have lifted, and he smiled as Sarie lifted her hands to mimic the horns of an animal she was tel ing an

extremely animated story about.

Smith was going to start down immediately but then thought better of it. The breeze was perfect, his beer

was frosty, and the distant lights of Kampala twinkled through the humidity. The calm before the storm.

* * *

MIND IF I join you?”

“Jon!” Sarie said. “Look at you. You clean up so nice!”

“I was about to say the same about you.”

She was wearing a loose-fitting floral skirt and a sleeveless top that hugged her athletic torso. The hair

he’d only seen tied back was now free to dance across her shoulders.

The bartender came up as he grabbed a seat, sliding some concoction in a coconut shel onto the table

along with a place setting that included a knife large enough to field dress a rhino.

“Did we order?”

“Sarie took the liberty,” Howel said. “You’re having…Was it the zebra roulade?”

“Ja. Don’t worry. You’l love it.”

“I was just thinking how long it’s been since I’ve had a nice piece of zebra,” he joked, scanning the tables

around them. It was nearly ten p.m. and most of the guests had drifted off to their rooms. A few people were

left at the bar, and there was a young Scandinavian couple drinking beers with their legs dangling in the

pool, but no one was within earshot.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow morning?” Sarie said.

“We slink out of town and try to get out from under the neon sign we’ve got flashing over our heads.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean our detour to see Peter’s old friend and our meeting with Dr. Lwanga weren’t exactly the most

anonymous way to start the trip.”

She leaned toward him over the table. “I have to say al this cloak-and-dagger is kind of exciting. I feel

almost like a secret agent.”

Howel let out a snort that almost caused him to spit out the drink he’d raised to his lips.

“What?” Sarie said.

Smith continued before the Brit could conjure up a response. “We’l pick up our gear first thing and then

head out to the farm of the doctor who was looking into this back in the fifties. Maybe his family is stil there.”

Sarie nodded. “If not, we’l visit the vil ages in the area and ask the elders if they’d ever heard of anything

like this before that bastard Bahame showed up. If this is a parasitic infection, it’s possible that it’s been

popping up and disappearing for thousands of years.”

“Why not just deal with the problem directly and go after Bahame?” Howel interjected.

“No one goes after Caleb Bahame,” Sarie said. “He goes after you. He’s a psychopath and a murderer.”

“We’l try to steer clear of him for now,” Smith said. “We don’t even know what we’re dealing with here—al

we have is a few sketchy reports. If it is a biological agent, though, we need to get as much information as

we can on its pathology and try to find out where it’s hiding.”

“Maybe look for an area that people have only recently started traveling in,” Sarie said. “Contact with

unusual animals. Things like that.”

A figure appeared on the walkway next to the pool, and Jon watched him as Sarie began gleeful y

speculating on the selective pressures that could create a parasite like the one they were looking for.

The man moved casual y, not focused on anything in particular, but stood out just the same. He was

probably six foot three, with the look of an aging weight lifter whose muscle had started to migrate

downward and whose fair skin had spent a lifetime being brutalized by the African sun.

His path to a table partial y shadowed by flowering vines took him right by them, and as he passed behind

Howel , his trajectory suddenly changed. Before Smith could react, he had dropped into the empty chair

between him and Sarie.

At first, Smith thought he might be the hotel’s manager, but then he saw the glint of a pistol as it

disappeared beneath the table.

“Peter,” the man said in a thick Dutch accent. “Here you are in town and you didn’t even cal . I thought you

Brits were supposed to be polite.”

Howel ’s expression was placid, but Sarie’s most definitely wasn’t. It was impossible to know if she’d

seen the pistol or if she just knew men like this from her travels. Up close, he had the distinct look of a

mercenary—one of many who had cut their teeth on the war in Angola and then spent the rest of their lives

fighting bloody skirmishes al over the continent.

“You’l have to accept my apologies, Sabastiaan. I’m afraid I thought you were dead.”

“I’l bet you did. I was bleeding pretty bad when you left me. But I managed to get out.”

“I’m terribly embarrassed. I could have sworn I hit an artery.”

Sabastiaan smiled cruel y and reached for Sarie’s drink, draining it in less than a second. “Aren’t you

going to introduce me to your friends?”

“Of course. Drs. van Keuren and Smith. I’m taking them into the field to find specimens.”

Howel was obviously calculating, but there wasn’t much he could do. The guy was a pro, and he was

smart enough to be extremely cautious around the former SAS man.

“You hired this British son of a bitch? How much are you paying? You could do better.”

Smith feigned the fear that would be expected of an American academic in this situation. “What’s this al

about? We…we don’t want any trouble.”

His acting skil s must have been more impressive than he thought. Sabastiaan dismissed him as trivial. A

significant error on the mercenary’s part. Perhaps a fatal one.

“And what about you, sweetheart?”

Sarie responded in Afrikaans, the distaste audible in her voice. Whatever she said obviously wasn’t

complimentary, and Sabastiaan responded angrily in the same language. His eyes locked on her in an

attempt to get her to back down. Another mistake.

In one smooth motion, Smith picked up his steak knife and swung it up beneath the man’s chin.

Sabastiaan was startled for a moment, but then a thin smile spread across his face. “The professor has

spirit.”

Smith leaned forward a bit, confirming in his peripheral vision that the people at the bar stil had their

backs to them. “Look closely, Sabastiaan. Do you real y think I’m a professor?”

The mercenary’s smile faltered. Being able to accurately size up your opponent was one of the most

important qualities a man in his position could possess, and he was beginning to understand the extent of

his miscalculation.

“I have a gun on your friend,” he said hesitantly. “Al I have to do is pul the trigger.”

“That would be inconvenient. I’d have to find another guide, and since I plan to shove this knife so far that

it breaks off in the top of your skul , you won’t be available.”

Smith heard the door leading to the hotel burst open but didn’t dare take his eyes off Sabastiaan even

when the clack of running boots sounded behind him.

“Put down the knife!” an accented voice demanded.

“He has a gun,” Smith said. “He—”

“Put it down now!”

“Do it,” Sarie said. “But do it slowly.”

Howel nodded his agreement and Smith eased the knife to the table. A moment later, he was yanked

from his chair and the table was surrounded by armed soldiers.

“Give me a second to explain,” Smith said as his arms were wrenched behind him and secured with a zip

tie. “We’re—”

“Shut up!” someone behind him said and then hit him in the back of the head hard enough to blur his view

of everyone else at the table being similarly bound.

They were led out to the street and separated from Sabastiaan before being shoved into the back of a

black SUV. Smith struggled into a sitting position as they sped away, final y managing to prop himself up far

enough to see out the windows.

In the dim street behind, the old merc was trying to protect himself from the clubs raining down on him. At

the rate he was taking punishment, he’d be dead in less than a minute. The question was, would he turn out

to be the lucky one?

30

Langley, Virginia, USA

November 21—1602 Hours GMT–5

WHAT’S SO IMPORTANT THAT it couldn’t wait?”

Dave Col en closed the door behind him, giving it a solid push to make sure it was sealed. “We have a

problem with Brandon, Larry.”

“What kind of a problem?”

Col en slid his laptop onto Drake’s desk and brought up a security video depicting an elevator ful of

people. “Watch him.”

Drake leaned into the screen, squinting as the doors opened and five more people crammed themselves

into the already crowded space. One of those people was Gazenga, and he wrestled his way to the back,

taking a position next to a beautiful blonde.

The elevator descended three floors and Gazenga pushed his way back to the front. After he exited, the

video ended.

“So, he doesn’t like taking stairs?” Drake said. “I don’t see that as a life-or-death issue.”

“Watch more careful y,” Col en said, restarting the video. He paused it at the point where Gazenga settled

in next to the woman and proceeded frame by frame. “Look at his right arm.”

Everything below the elbow was obscured, but Drake saw Gazenga’s shoulder come up a bit and then

drop back down when the elevator stopped. The woman glanced up at him and then watched incuriously as

he got off.

“The elevator jerked, he bumped the woman next to him, and then he left. What are you driving at, Dave?”

“He put something in her pocket. Watch it again.”

Drake frowned skeptical y as it rol ed for a third time. It was possible to interpret the movement of his arm

as lifting his hand level with the pocket in her jacket, but it was a hel of a lot easier to interpret it as nothing.

“I appreciate your thoroughness, Dave, and I think a little paranoia is probably warranted at this point, but

—”

“Do you know who she is?”

“No.”

“Randi Russel .”

Drake knew the name—everyone with sufficient clearance did—but they’d never met personal y. “Last I

heard she was chasing some Taliban explosives expert through the Hindu Kush.”

“Yeah. Apparently he met with an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“He got in the way of one of Randi’s bul ets and then fel off a six-hundred-foot cliff. She’s back at

headquarters for a couple months while things in Afghanistan cool off.”

“Okay, but she and Brandon would have no way of knowing each other, and as far as I can remember,

she’s worked on every continent on the planet except Africa. If you’re right and he’s getting cold feet, why

would he go to her?”

Col en fel into one of the chairs facing Drake’s desk. “Smith had a fiancée awhile back—she died from

being infected by the Hades virus.”

“So?”

“Her name was Sophia Russel .”

Drake felt the knot that had been tied in his stomach since he’d started this operation tighten. “They’re

related?”

“Sisters. And to the degree that Russel and Smith are close to anyone, they’re close to each other.”

Drake stared down at the frozen image on the laptop for a moment. “Stil , it could be a coincidence.”

“There’s more security footage of what Brandon did after he got off the elevator. He had no business on

that floor and just went straight for the stairs and back to his office.”

The tightness in Drake’s stomach began to spread to his chest. “Have we checked her out?”

“As soon as I got this, I had her cal ed into a meeting. We turned the heat up and she took off her jacket.

When they broke for coffee I checked her pocket. Nothing.”

“Then either there was nothing there to begin with…”

“Or she got the message.”

Drake opened a drawer and pul ed out two Excedrins, downing them without a drink to stave off the

headache he knew was coming. “If he did pass her something, it could have been anything—an invitation to

a private chat room or to an e-mail account with a damn treatise on everything we’ve done.”

“I’ve gone through al his computer usage,” Col en said. “He’s a clever little bastard, but I found the

footprints of his search for someone to contact. I’m pretty confident that we have a handle on everything he’s

done electronical y.”

“Then a time and place. A meeting.”

Col en nodded.

“If you’re wrong and she has something on us…”

“The minute I saw the video I put heavy surveil ance on her. If she knows something, we’l eventual y find

out about it.”

“Eventual y isn’t good enough, Dave. Randi Russel is the last person we need getting her teeth into this

thing. If she…” Drake’s voice lost its strength for a moment, fading under the weight of the disaster

scenarios playing out in his mind. He stood and paced across his expansive office for a few moments

before stopping on a rug that bore the CIA seal. “Are we prepared to move against Gazenga?”

“We’ve been ready since the day we brought him in. Should we go?”

“Can we afford to?”

“The short answer is no,” Col en said. “We think Omidi is in Uganda, and Brandon’s using his contacts to

try to confirm—contacts I don’t have a relationship with. On the other hand, can we afford not to?”

“Damn Castil a and his ops team! This should have never gotten this complicated. Do it. Get rid of him.

And I expect you to pick up the slack, Dave. No excuses.”

“What about Russel ?”

“It’s the same story, isn’t it? Kil ing her is dangerous. But leaving her alive is potential y suicidal.”

“Then we’re considering dealing with her?”

Drake gave a short nod.

“I’l start laying the groundwork, but it’s going to take time. When it comes to walking away when she

should be dead, Randi Russel is a witch. This has to be planned to the very last detail.”

“We don’t have time to play around, Dave. I want to see a summary of possible options by tomorrow

afternoon.”

31

Outside Kampala, Uganda

November 22—0653 Hours GMT+3

ANY HOPE THAT THEIR arrest had been a simple matter of the army’s coincidental y showing up at the

worst possible moment could now be safely discarded. The situation they found themselves in exceeded

even the worst-case scenarios Smith had come up with on the ride there. And he was a man whose life

could pretty much be summed up as one worst-case scenario after another.

There had been no cal s to the embassy, no lawyers, and no questions asked or answered. The

windowless room they were in was made entirely of crumbling concrete, with a rusty steel door that looked

like it had been salvaged from a battleship. The air was hot and increasingly unsuitable for breathing as the

carbon dioxide from their breath slowly built up.

Furniture consisted of three chairs, each bolted down and each equipped with sturdy leather straps on the

arms and legs. Much worse, though, were the streams of dried blood leading from beneath them to a drain

in the floor.

Sarie was feeling around the jamb, slipping her shaking fingers into the gaps and pul ing futilely when she

managed to get a grip. Howel had nodded off on the floor shortly after he’d satisfied himself that there was

no way they were getting through the door, past the guards posted outside, and out of the dilapidated

military base beyond. Saving energy and air to fight another day.

Smith crossed the room and put a hand on Sarie’s shoulder. They’d been trapped there for eight hours,

and probably half of that she’d spent pacing like a trapped animal.

“Why don’t you take a piece of floor next to Peter and get some rest. Let me work on the door for a while.”

She looked back at him, obviously trying to control her fear but stil looking a little wild-eyed. “We have to

get out of here, Jon. This isn’t America. The government can do whatever it wants to you. They can—”

A quiet grinding became audible, and he grabbed her arm, pul ing her behind him as he backed away.

Howel was immediately on his feet and skirting the wal to take a position in a corner to the side of the door

that was now slowly opening.

Five heavily armed soldiers poured in, taking up positions that made any thought of escape impossible.

Howel folded his arms casual y in front of his chest with no fewer than three guns lined up on him.

The next man who entered was easily recognizable. He was wel over six feet, with spindly legs that didn’t

look sturdy enough to support his bulky torso or the countless medals splashed across his uniform.

Charles Sembutu. The president of Uganda.

He’d enjoyed iron-fisted control over the country for years now, but that control was slipping. It was widely

believed that he’d tolerated Bahame’s rise, using the man’s brutality to drum up fear that al owed him to

consolidate ever-more power in order to “fight terrorism.” But he’d gotten greedy and given Bahame too

long a leash, leaving Kampala in danger of being overrun from the north.

A leather-backed chair and a desk with the presidential seal laid into it were rol ed in, and Sembutu sat,

spreading their passports out on the blotter. “Dr. van Keuren’s reputation precedes her,” he said, appraising

Smith cool y. “And despite his fake passport, I’m sorry to say that Mr. Howel ’s does as wel . But you…You

are a mystery.”

“My name is Dr. Jon Smith. I’m a microbiologist with—”

“The American army,” Sembutu said, finishing his sentence. “With a fairly varied background, yes?

Special forces, Military Intel igence. And I’m told you’re quite capable with a knife.”

“That was—”

“You’l speak only when I ask you a direct question,” Sembutu said, slapping a massive hand down on the

desktop. “What are you doing in my country?”

“I’m on a leave of absence from the army. I’m a virologist by training, but I’ve been spending some time on

parasites lately. I had an opportunity to come on this expedition with Sarie and I took it.”

“And you brought along a former SAS man?”

“It seemed wise, Mr. President. I have some military training, but in the end I’m just a medical doctor—”

“You think my country is unsafe? That I cannot control it?”

This was probably a good time to dust off the little he knew about diplomacy. The purpose of the room

was very clear, and spending the next few days strapped into one of those chairs freshening the stains on

the floor wasn’t how he wanted to end his life.

“Not at al , sir. I’m ful y aware of the strides Uganda has made since you became president. But I also

know how hard it is to implement reforms in remote rural areas, so I decided to err on the side of caution.”

A humorless smile spread across Sembutu’s face. “I am not a simpleton, Doctor. I think you’l find I’m not

so easily handled.”

“It wasn’t my intention, sir. I—”

“Why were you at the hospital?”

Smith had spent much of the time they’d been imprisoned there considering every reason they could have

been arrested, but their visit to the hospital had run a distant second to their side trip to see Peter’s arms

dealer.

“We found some research on a parasite that infects humans and wanted to ask Dr. Lwanga if he was

familiar with it. We—”

“And then you described something very much like Caleb Bahame’s attacks on vil ages in the North.”

Smith let his expression go blank. “Caleb Bahame? The terrorist? I don’t understand, sir. This is a

parasite that causes insanity and blood loss. What would that have to do with Bahame?”

Sembutu examined him careful y, but it was impossible to discern if he was buying the completely

plausible lie. Americans tended not to pay much attention to the various skirmishes going on in Africa. Why

would an army doctor know the details of Bahame’s attacks?

“It doesn’t matter if you understand what this has to do with Bahame, Colonel. He is a psychotic who fil s

children with methamphetamines, paints them with blood, and convinces them to kil their own families. The

uneducated people in the rural areas believe it is magic, and this is how he spreads misery in my country. If

it becomes public that there is an American army doctor taking an interest in him, it wil only serve to

strengthen his legend and people’s belief in his power.”

“But we didn’t intend—”

“I don’t care what you did or did not intend!” Sembutu shouted. “If Bahame succeeds, he wil kil every

living thing in Uganda and then move on to other countries. America cares little about this, but I have a

responsibility to the people of my country. To my subjects.”

“Mr. President,” Sarie cut in, her voice displaying a calm Smith knew she didn’t feel. “We’re not experts

on politics or war. We’re just scientists…”

Sembutu glanced in her direction for a moment and then back to Howel and Smith. “Al evidence to the

contrary.”

“Our main objective is a parasite that affects ants,” she continued. “This was just something interesting

that came up when we were doing research. We’d already discarded the idea of looking for it because we

concluded that if Dr. Lwanga hasn’t heard of it, it probably doesn’t exist.”

“An ant…,” Sembutu said skeptical y.

“Yes, sir. I do a lot of work with ants.”

The room went silent for a few moments before Sembutu spoke again. “I have to tel you that if it weren’t

for Dr. van Keuren, you may wel have found yourselves residents of one of our prisons. But her work with

malaria has been a great help to people throughout Africa and I am indeed aware of her work with insects.”

He held their passports out across the desk. “I’ve included a card with my personal phone number. If you

encounter any problems, you have my permission to use it. And as military men, if you should come across

any information on Bahame and his army, I would very much appreciate you passing it on to me. I

understand that your government and many others question my legitimacy and methods. But I believe that

you are realistic men who understand the way the world works. And as such, you understand that, while I

may not be perfect in the eyes of the West, I am the lesser of the evils in this situation.”

Smith didn’t immediately move, a bit stunned by the sudden, almost schizophrenic turnaround. Was

Sembutu saying they were free to go in return for the remote possibility of them passing him some minor

intel igence?

“That’s very gracious of you, Mr. President,” Sarie said, snatching up the passports before the man

changed his mind.

Sembutu nodded. “We are most grateful for your work, Doctor, and wish you continued success. Good

day.”

* * *

CHARLES SEMBUTU WATCHED the three whites being escorted out of the room and sat alone as their

footsteps faded. Despite the fact that they were lying, they would be taken back to their hotel, and when they

checked out they would find their bil taken care of by the Ugandan government.

Smith worked at Fort Detrick and had been involved with stopping the Hades virus that kil ed so many in

the West. Only an idiot would believe that one of America’s foremost bioweapons experts would take a

leave of absence to study Ugandan insects. And Sembutu hadn’t become one of the most powerful men in

Africa by being an idiot.

It was an impossibly dangerous situation that seemed to get more out of control every day. The

Americans could normal y be counted on to take a hands-off approach in al things African as long as their

own interests weren’t threatened. If they were, though, that apathy could turn. The lion must not be

awakened.

His phone began to ring and he immediately picked up. “I am here.”

“What did you learn?”

Mehrak Omidi’s voice was low, as though he was trying to hide his conversation from those around him—

something that was almost certainly the case.

“Smith says he’s on a leave of absence, studying a parasite that affects ants in the North.”

“Ants,” Omidi replied in disgust. “Do they have so little respect for you that they would expect you to

believe such a story?”

Sembutu bristled. Dealing with the Iranians was even more unpleasant than dealing with the Americans.

For al their talk of Western arrogance, the Iranians’ unshakable belief that they were God’s chosen people

was both insufferable and dangerous. Right now, though, they were in a position to give him what he

desperately needed. The Americans were not.

“I want them dealt with,” Omidi continued.

“And what does this mean—dealt with?”

“I think you understand me perfectly, Mr. President. I want them questioned and then I want them kil ed.”

“Kil ing American and British military men wasn’t part of our agreement.”

“The Ugandan north country is a very remote and very dangerous place, Mr. President. People disappear

here every day.”

32

Annandale, Virginia, USA

November 22—0026 Hours GMT–5

BRANDON GAZENGA PULLED INTO his garage and closed the door, sealing out the cold wind that had

descended on the Washington area. A poorly placed bag of garbage nearly trapped him in the car, and he

had to push with his shoulder to open a gap large enough to slip out. Another month and he was going to

have to start parking in the driveway.

He’d said it before, but now he real y meant it: this weekend he was going to rent a truck and haul al this

crap to the dump. And then he was going to hire one of those organization consultants—preferably a dour

old British lady with a riding crop. The time had come to take back control of his life.

The house wasn’t in much better condition, but at least it was warm. He flicked on the lights and looked

around before committing to the short trip to the kitchen. The Uganda operation had been burning a hole in

his stomach for months, but now it was starting to kil him. Smith and his team had been arrested and the

initial report that it was because of a fight by the hotel pool went out the window when he received

confirmation that they’d been taken to a high-security military base.

And then there were the tentative reports that Mehrak Omidi was personal y on the ground in northern

Uganda. Final y, and perhaps worst of al , there was Randi Russel and the note he’d put in her pocket.

Had she found it yet? What would she think of an anonymous request for a meeting? Would she report it?

The truth was that there was absolutely no way for him to know. He was just an analyst with delusions of

grandeur. Most of what he knew about clandestine meetings he’d learned from James Bond movies just like

everyone else.

But this wasn’t a cheesy action flick and he wasn’t Sean Connery. Drake and Col en had put their careers

—maybe even their lives—on the line for this operation, and they wouldn’t be happy to find out that some

nobody from Langley’s basement was working behind their backs. Not happy at al .

He made his way to the refrigerator and pawed through a mishmash of aging takeout containers until he

found something that looked like it was stil edible.

He left the living room dark, fal ing into a leather chair and stabbing into the box of General Tso’s chicken

with a dirty fork. The romantic fantasies he’d had about moving into operations were long gone now. There

were no Panama hats and ceiling fans. No supermodels or fast cars. Just the constant nagging feeling that

you’d made a fatal mistake somewhere and someone was slinking up behind you to make you pay for it.

Going back now, though, wasn’t an option. Randi Russel had his note, and if he didn’t show up to the

rendezvous, it was unlikely she would just let it go. Her reputation for tenacity was one of the many reasons

he’d picked her.

He crammed another forkful of chicken into his mouth, not hungry but also aware that if he lost any more

weight he’d have to buy al new suits.

Things would be better soon. Russel was going to come through like she always did. She’d know what to

do, who to talk to. But mostly, he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

Gazenga put the empty food container on his cluttered coffee table and headed for the bedroom, locking

the door behind him and positioning an empty beer bottle so it would tip if anyone tried to get in. He

stripped to his boxers and crawled beneath a traditional African blanket his mother had given him. The lump

in the pil ow made by the Colt beneath it was even more comforting than it had been the day before, and he

caressed the grip for a few moments before rol ing onto his back and staring up at the dark ceiling.

Things were going to get better. Soon.

* * *

GAZENGA AWOKE IN a sweat, his stomach cramping and a numbness spreading through his chest. At first

he thought it was just a dream and gave his head a weak shake to wake himself, but that just brought on a

wave of nausea.

The clock glowed four a.m. as he pushed himself into a sitting position and struggled to get in a ful

breath. Because of his frequent travel in Africa, he’d had more than the normal complement of il nesses in

his life, including bouts of malaria and river blindness. Enough to know when something was seriously

wrong.

His cel phone was stil in his pants and he was sliding awkwardly off the bed when he froze. The blackout

shades he’d recently bought in an attempt to help him sleep were ful y drawn but the light from the clock was

enough to pick out an unfamiliar outline near the door. A chair? Had he put it there for extra security? No,

he’d used a beer bottle. The chair should have been—

“How are you feeling, Brandon?”

A surge of adrenaline shot through him and he reached beneath his pil ow. Nothing. The gun was gone.

“Sorry, I had to take that. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

The voice was familiar, but it stil took him a few moments to identify it in the absence of its normal

context.

“Dave? What are you doing here?” Gazenga said, his initial shock turning to a deep sense of dread. It

was Russel . It had to be. They’d somehow found out. “Has…has something gone wrong in Uganda?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Gazenga reached for the light next to him, but his arm didn’t respond normal y and he just ended up

pawing weakly at the shade.

“You know why I’m here,” Col en said. “Tel me what you gave Randi Russel .”

“Russel ?” Gazenga said, feigning surprise as he tried to calculate his options with a mind clouded by

fear and lack of oxygen. “What are you talking about?”

He slid the rest of the way from the bed, discovering that his legs would no longer support him and

col apsing to the dirty carpet.

“We have video of you sliding something into her pocket on the elevator, Brandon. You’re wasting time.

And you don’t have much left.”

“What have you done to me?”

The shadow grew as Col en stood and took a step forward. “I poisoned you at our meeting this afternoon.

That last cup of coffee, remember? It’s an interesting compound based on botulism that causes paralysis

and respiratory distress. The official cause of death wil be the half-rotted food in your refrigerator. That is,

unless you tel me what I want to know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gazenga said, struggling to focus. The past and present were

becoming muddled as his brain was slowly starved.

“I’m not going to ask again,” Col en said, anger beginning to take shape in his voice.

“I’ve never even met Randi Russel . She’s stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq or something.”

Col en looked through the dim light at the prone figure of his col eague, examining the unnatural position of

his mostly paralyzed limbs and the impenetrable shadow hiding his face. It was a frustrating and extremely

unfortunate situation. The fact that the loss of Gazenga could put the operation in jeopardy was bad enough,

but the lack of anything but the threat of death to extract information was potential y disastrous. There was

no choice, though. Other techniques, while more reliable, were slow and left obvious marks—something that

they couldn’t afford. The young man’s demise had to be above even the slightest suspicion.

“I have the antidote with me, Brandon. We’re not angry. You got scared and you made a mistake. It

happens to everybody. Just tel me what I want to know and we can fix this.”

Gazenga gulped at the air like a dying fish, panic clearly starting to set in. “I didn’t tel her anything. Just

a…just a time and a place to meet.”

Col en knelt and pul ed a bottle containing two large pil s from his pocket, shaking it so the young man

could hear their seductive rattle. Of course, they were nothing but an over-the-counter pain reliever, but

desperation had a way of making true believers out of even the most ardent skeptics.

“That’s good, Brandon. Very good. Now, just tel me where and when and we can put this behind us.”

33

Outside Kampala, Uganda

November 22—1046 Hours GMT+3

THIS TIME THE CROWD parted easily as their cab approached the elaborate archway. Of course, they stil

got a lot of stares, but by and large, weapons remained shouldered.

“Here is fine,” Peter Howel said, reaching over the seat and holding out the two hundred euros they’d

negotiated. “We won’t need a ride back.”

The three of them piled out of the vehicle and dumped their packs on the dusty road before removing

Sarie’s scientific equipment from the roof. A few of Janani’s men came out to help carry it inside, where

their boss was sitting on a low stool drinking tea.

“Peter!” he said, rising and shaking the Brit’s hand. “You have once again returned safely to me.”

“Barely. Did you know that Sabastiaan was in town?”

“I heard rumors. But now it is my understanding that he is no longer alive. No great loss to the world, in my

humble opinion.”

They fol owed Janani back to the outdoor range, where a table had been laid out with two custom

handguns and two Belgian-made assault rifles that looked stock but probably weren’t.

Smith picked up the pistol with a tag bearing his name and sighted along it. The grip felt like it had been

molded to his fingers and the balance was dead-on.

“Wil it be adequate?” Janani said.

“It’s a work of art, my friend.”

The African smiled and turned to Sarie. “You think I forgot you, but like al beautiful women, you jump to

conclusions.”

He put a hand on her back and escorted her to another table, where a scaled-down bolt-action rifle rested

in an aluminum case. It was another beautiful specimen, with a Swarovski scope and gleaming black barrel.

Those qualities, though, were overshadowed by a stock painted with colorful flowering vines. The artistry

was undeniable, but a little out of place.

Janani offered the weapon to Sarie with both hands, frowning as he looked down at the pink and yel ow

blossoms. “I told my youngest wife about you, and she insisted that I al ow her to do these decorations.

She’s only sixteen, and I am embarrassed to say that I find it impossible to deny her anything. Of course, I

can have one of my men replace the stock before you leave.”

Sarie accepted the gun, examining the lifelike images winding around the smooth wood. “Absolutely not.

Tel her it’s beautiful.”

The African smiled broadly, obviously pleased that he wasn’t the only one who appreciated his wife’s

work. “So everyone is happy, then? Our transaction is on the path to being a good one?”

“Didn’t we also talk about a vehicle?” Smith said.

“Of course! How could I forget?”

They fol owed him into a smal warehouse, threading through an extensive inventory of steel and exotic

hardwoods on their way to a Toyota Land Cruiser parked at the back. It was a deep maroon with oversized

tires and a crowded light bar across the top.

Smith stopped a few feet away, appraising his reflection in the chrome bumper. “I don’t suppose you’d

have anything that would blend in a bit better?”

“Blend in?” Janani said, sounding a little insulted. “If you want a twenty-five-year-old pickup that drags on

the ground, go to a used-car dealer. I trade only in top-of-the line merchandise.”

Sarie dropped to her knees next to the vehicle and flipped onto her back, wriggling under it for a look. A

moment later a low whistle escaped her. “The frame’s been reinforced, it’s got protective plating that looks

like it would take a direct hit from an atomic bomb, aftermarket shocks, locking differential…”

She scooted out and reached through the open driver’s-side window to pop the hood, which she promptly

disappeared beneath. Her legs left the ground for a few moments, dangling over the brush guard while she

fished around in the engine bay. “Chevy smal block with a snorkel: simple, classic, easy to repair and get

parts for. Exactly what you want.”

Janani leaned in close to Smith. “What an extraordinarily useful woman. Would you consider parting with

her?”

“Excuse me?”

“I was thinking that I could probably be persuaded to make an even trade. The car and the weapons for

her.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Of course not. I apologize. I’ve insulted you. The car, the weapons, and fifty thousand euros.”

Smith grinned. “A generous offer, Janani. The problem is, she’s not mine.”

“Pity.”

Sarie jumped into the driver’s seat and started pressing buttons on the dash.

“So what do you think?” Smith cal ed. “Should we take it?”

“Are you kidding? It’s got leather and a place to plug in your iPod!”

34

Near Lancaster, Pennsylvania, USA

November 23—2331 Hours GMT–5

RANDI RUSSELL EMERGED FROM the woods and stopped at the edge of a thirty-foot cliff. Below, the

Susquehanna River ran black in the moonlight and patches of snow glowed on the abandoned railroad track

running paral el.

There was no way down and she turned east, moving silently along the tree line. It had taken her two hours

to get there, most of that time spent on the maze of rural roads that cut through Pennsylvania’s farm country.

With the exception of three cars and an Amish horse and buggy, she’d seen no one. It was approaching

eleven p.m., and this part of the world obviously stil adhered to the adage “Early to bed, early to rise.”

She had studiously avoided the obvious entrance to the railroad cut, instead parking at the edge of a

poorly defined dirt road and bushwhacking toward the river. Her preference was to have these types of

rendezvous in crowded areas, and the whole midnight thing seemed a little melodramatic, but once her

curiosity was piqued she had a hard time letting go.

A gul ey appeared to her left and Randi appraised it, calculating the difficulty of the climb down and

searching for icy spots. The satel ite images had underplayed the steepness of the rock, but there wasn’t

much she could do about that now. The clock was ticking.

She dangled her legs over the edge, then flipped over and eased herself onto a narrow ledge below. Her

hands were getting numb from the cold, and that, combined with the darkness, made the descent much

more treacherous than it should have been. The smart thing would be to take it slow, but even with black

pants and parka, she wasn’t comfortable being exposed against the cliff.

The rock became more featured as she continued down, providing better cover and al owing her to move

more efficiently. She let go when she was stil almost ten feet from the ground, dropping into the gravel and

then going completely stil for a few seconds to scan for movement.

Satisfied that no one was bearing down on her, she leapt over the old tracks, wincing at the unavoidable

crunch of her footfal s. Once back in the trees, she stopped again to listen. Stil nothing. The night was

completely windless and the animals that normal y prowled the area al had the good sense to dig in and get

out of the cold.

She started east again, moving deliberately and occasional y looking to her iPhone for an update of her

position. The note she’d found in her jacket had been brief—only a set of GPS coordinates, a date, a time,

and a very intriguing name: Colonel Jon Smith.

Undoubtedly the man she was there to meet would be disappointed to know that he wasn’t as anonymous

as he thought. A life spent in unstable countries ful of petty criminals and pickpockets had given Randi an

awareness of her surroundings that didn’t shut down just because she was in Langley. And while Brandon

Gazenga’s technique wasn’t bad for an Ivy Leaguer, he was no Iraqi street urchin.

The question was, what was a young Africa-division analyst with an impressive, if unspectacular, record

doing passing her notes in elevators? And even more interesting, why was the name of an army virus hunter

scrawled across the bottom?

Her phone indicated that she was within twenty feet of the coordinates she’d been given and she slid a

Glock from beneath her coat. The direction arrow pointed left to a spot that looked to be dead on top of the

tracks.

She went right, finding a boulder large enough to protect her flank, and positioned so she could see

anyone coming up the railroad cut.

Jon Smith.

There was nothing Gazenga could have put in his note that would grab her attention more. She’d spent a

long time blaming Smith for her sister’s death. As unfair as it was, he had provided something she needed

—a target for her anger, despair, and helplessness. Strange that she would end up as close to him as to

anyone in the world.

Despite that relationship, though, there was a great deal she didn’t know about the man. He insisted that

he was just a medical researcher, but then had a way of popping up in places that had nothing to do with his

job at Fort Detrick.

The first time they’d run into each other in the field, she’d completely fal en for his beautiful y delivered

“simple country doctor” line. And she wasn’t too bothered by the second time their lives col ided—

coincidences happened. Occasional y.

After that, though, things just got stupid. He was clearly an operator and he wasn’t working for one of the

normal acronyms.

Usual y, this kind of thing would raise the hairs on the back of her neck, but with Jon it was different. As

much as she hated to admit it, he was one of the few people in the world whose motivations and integrity

she didn’t question. If the word didn’t always get stuck in her throat when she tried to utter it, she might even

say she trusted him.

A quick glance at her phone suggested that her contact was late. Five minutes and counting.

The cold was starting to seep into her—something she had become sensitive to since an operation had

gone badly wrong on an island near the Arctic Circle. An island that would now be home to her frozen body

if it hadn’t been for Smith.

She stood, wrapping her arms around herself but remaining stil enough to blend into the trees around

her.

It was possible that Gazenga was playing the same waiting game, but there was no way she was going to

go stand out in the open with nothing but a note from someone she’d never met. She’d col ected far too

many enemies over the years to offer up that easy a target.

* * *

RANDI RUSSELL SLIPPED behind the wheel of her borrowed car, turning the heater on ful blast and

confirming the road was completely dark before pul ing out.

Her thumb hovered over her phone’s number pad for a moment, and then she thought better of it and dug

an untraceable satel ite phone from the glove box. No point in taking chances.

She dialed and listened to it ring for a while, immediately hitting redial when it flipped to voice mail. The

third time was a charm.

“Yeah?” a groggy voice said. “Hel o?”

“Trip, it’s Randi.”

“Randi? What…Do you know what time it is in the States?”

She wasn’t in the habit of broadcasting her whereabouts and didn’t see any reason to correct her friend’s

assumption. “Two p.m., right?”

“No, it’s two a.m. As in two in the morning.”

She’d known Jeff Tripper for more than five years—ever since they’d teamed up to track down an Afghan

terrorist who’d managed to slip over the Mexican border. Since then, his career at the FBI had been in

overdrive and he’d recently been made the head of the Baltimore field office.

“A.m.?” she said innocently. “Sorry, bud. It’s a subtle difference, you know?”

“Not from where I’m sitting,” he said, now awake enough to be suspicious. “Is it safe for me to assume

this isn’t a social cal ?”

“I’m insulted.”

“And I’m tired.”

“Okay, I’l admit it’s not entirely social. How are your contacts with the Virginia cops?”

“Good. Why?”

“I need you to have them send a black-and-white to a guy named Brandon Gazenga’s house.”

“Why?”

“I don’t care. Say a neighbor was complaining that he was playing his stereo too loud.”

“I mean, what are we after?”

“I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

“Do you need to know now or would nine o’clock work for you?”

“Are you going to make me remind you that you owe me?”

Tripper swore under his breath. “I’l cal you back.”

* * *

RANDI HAD JUST crossed into Maryland when her sat phone began to ring. She put in an earpiece and

picked up.

“What’s the word?”

“I’m not a happy man, Randi.”

“Have you considered meditation?”

“Brandon Gazenga’s body was found late this morning.”

Randi glanced reflexively in the rearview mirror, cataloging three sets of headlights behind her and

estimating their distance. “How?”

“A coworker went to his house when he didn’t show up for work and found him on the floor of his

bedroom. They’re thinking food poisoning.”

“Food poisoning? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding? According to the cops, it’s not as uncommon as you’d think.”

“Was there anything suspicious about the circumstances?”

“Beyond getting a cal from a CIA operative at two in the morning, you mean?”

“But you never got a cal from a CIA operative at two in the morning, right?”

“Right. Look, I talked to the investigating officer—who real y appreciated being cal ed in the middle of the

night, by the way—and he said the guy’s house was a complete pigsty and his fridge was crammed with

moldy takeout. He said it’s a miracle Gazenga survived as long as he did.”

A new set of headlights appeared behind her, and they were coming up fast. Randi waited until the last

possible moment before swerving onto an off ramp. The car stayed on course, passing harmlessly by.

“Okay. Thanks, Trip.”

“Now hold on a minute. That cop also told me that Gazenga worked for a certain government agency

you’d be familiar with. What are we talking about here?”

“We’re not talking at al , remember?”

“That’s fine and good, but consider the position you’ve put me in, Randi. I just made a very suspicious cal

about a CIA agent whose body isn’t quite cold yet.”

“I have complete confidence that you’l figure out a way to explain that.”

There was silence over the phone for a few seconds. “Hey, Randi?”

“Yeah?”

“About that favor you did me. We’re even.”

The line went dead and she immediately began dialing a number from memory. There was no choice at

this point.

It rang twice before transferring to voice mail.

“You’ve reached Jon Smith. I can’t take your call right now, but leave me a message and I’ll get back to

you as soon as I can.”

“Hi, Jon, it’s Randi. You know, it’s getting close to Sophia’s birthday and I’m feeling a little blue. Just

wanted to talk. Give me a cal when you get a chance.”

She disconnected the cal and tossed the phone into the passenger seat. No one hearing that message

would think much of it. Even if they were thorough enough to check, they’d find that her dead sister’s birthday

was indeed at the end of the week. But Jon would know better. She had never been one for melancholy

reflection, and her cal would set his alarm bel s ringing.

35

Northern Uganda

November 24—0904 Hours GMT+3

MEHRAK OMIDI GRIPPED THE dashboard as the open jeep bounced through a series of muddy ruts. The

humidity was just starting to ease, and despite the fact that Bahame was piloting the doorless vehicle like

the maniac he had proven himself to be, Omidi reveled in the sensation of air flowing across his skin.

The cult leader made a great show of sleeping with his troops and insisted that his guests bed down in a

similar manner, exposing them to the biting insects and sudden downpours that plagued this forsaken part

of the world. Beyond nodding off for a few moments here and there, Omidi spent his nights swatting malarial

mosquitoes and listening to the drunken fights and sexual activity of those around him.

God wil ing, it wouldn’t be much longer. If al went according to plan, he would soon leave this place to

col apse beneath the weight of its own decadence. And with the help of the Almighty, he would never have

any cause to return.

Bahame drifted the jeep around a blind curve and then slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop behind

an eighteen-wheeler making a U-turn on a rare piece of open land.

The trailer was jerking back and forth—not with the contours of the land but seemingly with a wil of its

own. Holes about thirty centimeters square had been cut from the steel, and desperate arms were shoved

through, tearing on the sharp edges and sending fresh blood rol ing down old stains. Hands grabbed futilely

at the air as frustrated, animal-like screams overpowered the sounds of the jungle.

The truck came to a stop and a group of armed men climbed out of the cab, dragging a terrified young

boy along with them. Their faces were painted with something that looked like white chalk, and al wore

elaborate amulets that Bahame had promised would protect them from the demons they were hauling.

Interestingly, though, he had also equipped them with goggles and surgical gloves. Obviously, the medicine

man had a practical side.

Despite their protective gear, the three men looked only slightly less frightened than the child they were

pul ing along behind. They gave the trailer a wide berth, keeping at least five meters between them and the

bleeding arms reaching so frantical y in their direction.

“Come,” Bahame said, jumping from the jeep.

He passed much closer to the trailer than his soldiers had, though he stil kept wel out of range as the

rocking increased to the point that, for a moment, Omidi thought it might tip.

He fol owed the African to the rear, where a long chain leading from the bolt in the door was being

secured around the struggling boy’s neck. The trailer’s locking mechanism seemed far too complex for this

part of the world, but Omidi was unwil ing to get close enough to inspect it.

The boy immediately began trying to get free, his bawling rising above the inhuman sounds coming from

inside the truck until he saw Bahame approaching and fel silent.

The cult leader knelt and spoke a quiet prayer, dipping his thumb into a can of reddish powder and

streaking the child’s cheeks with it. The soldiers watched transfixed as their leader cal ed to gods and

demons, blessed the boy, and demanded victory. The man’s charisma was almost as astounding as his

lack of shame in wielding it.

When the ceremony was finished, he motioned for his men and Omidi to fol ow him into the jungle. They

took a position that provided both excel ent cover and a view of the boy, who was opening cuts on his hands

and throat as he pul ed helplessly against the rusty chain.

They were crouched there for almost five minutes before Omidi pointed to the radio control in Bahame’s

hand. “Are you going to release them?”

“In time. First, we must leave their minds.”

Bahame had carried out similar operations many times and obviously had learned a great deal about

how to use this weapon without it destroying himself along with his enemies. Some of the people in the

trailer would have seen them go into the woods, and they would be a significant danger if they remembered

that when they were freed. Omidi wondered idly how many young soldiers had died during the early

attempts to use the parasite.

Another ten minutes passed before Bahame flipped the protective cover off the remote in his hand and

held it out. “It’s your honor.”

Omidi hesitated for a moment and then pressed the exposed button. There was no sound, but from his

position he could make out the simple electric actuator on the trailer beginning to pul back the bolt. The

chain holding the boy dropped and he ran, dragging it behind him as he headed for his vil age a short

distance down the road. The infected wailed inconsolably as they watched their quarry escape.

The bolt kept moving, though. After another forty-five seconds, there was a loud crack and the doors flew

open, spil ing a tangle of writhing bodies to the ground. The tone of their screeches went from frustrated to

excited as they gained their footing and took off after the boy.

It was a primitive system, but one that seemed to work. Without the child to focus on, the infected would

just disburse randomly, becoming disoriented and eventual y dying in the jungle. With him, though, they

would be led directly to the vil age Bahame had targeted.

36

Central Uganda

November 24—0930 Hours GMT+3

YOU SEE IT?” Peter Howel said.

They were on the crest of a tal butte, lying in the middle of the dirt road that they’d spent the last hour

switchbacking up. Smith adjusted the focus on his binoculars, sweeping across verdant val ey until he found

the cause of the dust plume.

“Yeah. Open personnel carrier. Two men in front, another six in back. Al armed.”

“And since that’s the only motorized vehicle we’ve seen for going on fourteen hours, I reckon it’s safe to

say they’re fol owing us.”

“President Sembutu told us to cal him if we had any problems,” Sarie said. “Maybe he sent those men to

make sure we don’t get in any trouble.”

They both looked back at her.

“Just a thought.”

“I agree that they’re probably Sembutu’s men,” Smith conceded. “But I’m not sure their intentions are so

benign.”

“Wel , one thing I can tel you for certain is that someone in his office has been cal ing ahead,” she said.

“We’ve driven through three military checkpoints without so much as anyone even looking in the car. I’m

guessing that’s a first in this part of Africa.”

Smith rol ed onto his back and looked up into the unbroken blue of the sky. “I think you’re right about

Sembutu greasing the skids for us…”

“The question is, why?” Howel said, finishing his thought.

Sarie pul ed her new rifle from the backseat and sighted through the scope at the approaching truck. “I

don’t think there’s much we can do at this point. There aren’t a lot of intersections and we’re leaving a pretty

obvious trail.”

“Maybe I’m just being paranoid,” Smith said, putting a hand out and letting Howel pul him to his feet. “He

might think we’l find something he can use. And how does it hurt him if we find out that Bahame is using a

biological weapon? I don’t think he’d object too much if the U.S. unloaded a few B-52s on Bahame’s camp.”

“Or maybe he believed the ant story,” Sarie said.

Smith shrugged. “Anything’s possible. And there’s no tel ing when you might need a little extra firepower.”

“Depending on who it’s aimed at,” Howel said, sliding back behind the wheel of their vehicle and

slamming the door behind him.

“He doesn’t seem al that happy,” Sarie said, shouldering her rifle.

“No, he doesn’t, does he?”

“Something happened to him here,” Sarie said. “Something horrible.”

It was a reasonable hypothesis that he himself had considered. But it left the question of what exactly that

thing was. He knew Howel and men like him—hel , he was a man like him. After everything the Brit had seen

over the course of his career with the SAS and MI6, what could affect him like this?

“You should ask him about it,” Smith suggested.

“Me?” she said, lowering her voice to a harsh whisper. “Are you kidding? I mean, he’s an interesting guy

to have dinner with, but have you noticed that he always looks like he’s about thirty seconds from kil ing you

with a pocketknife?”

“I think that’s an exaggeration.”

“Yeah? Then why don’t you ask him? You’ve known him for years, right?”

“Yeah, a long time,” Smith admitted. “But our relationship is…Wel , it’s complicated.”

Sarie tilted her head a bit and concentrated on his face. “Why is it I get the impression that al your

relationships are complicated?”

Howel started the engine and revved it loudly, giving Smith cover for a strategic retreat. “I have no idea.

I’m just a simple country doctor.”

* * *

OKAY, WE’RE LOOKING for a turn,” Smith said, running a finger along the fuzzy satel ite photo Star had

printed for him. She’d marked distances on both axes, which was a testament to her thoroughness but

completely useless in the real world of African roads. “I assume it wil be an obvious left in the next twenty

clicks or so, but it’s hard to be any more precise than that.”

They entered a smal vil age and Smith waved through the open window at the children running alongside

them. It was impossible not to be taken by the ease of their laughter in the midst of poverty unimaginable to

most Americans.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Sarie said from the backseat. “These people have nothing of value to anyone—no

running water, no electricity, no money. But even that’s too much for people like Bahame. He can’t just leave

them alone to enjoy the simple life they can carve out for themselves.”

She leaned through the window, briefly clasping the hand of the most persistent kid as they rol ed out of

the vil age.

“Any one of those children could end up being forced into Bahame’s army,” she continued. “Or worse,

they could end up like the people who attacked those soldiers in the video you showed me. If we’re right and

this is a parasite, Bahame’s eventual y going to lose control of it. The more he uses it, the harder it’s going

to be to contain.”

The apparent contradiction broke Howel from his trance. “It seems that the more practiced he becomes

at using it, the less likely he is to lose control, no?”

Sarie stretched out on the seat, laying her rifle next to her and using her hat to block the sun streaming

through the window. “Not exactly. What I’m worried about is that by using it like he is, he’s going to weaken

it.”

Howel pondered that for a moment. “I’m stil not fol owing. Weaker is better.”

“The word ‘weak’ doesn’t mean what you’re thinking,” Smith said. “Right now the parasite—assuming it

even exists—is fairly unsophisticated. Cal it poorly evolved where humans are concerned. It infects people

every few decades, those people infect a few others, and they al die within a time frame short enough that it

never spreads very widely.”

Sarie picked up his thought. “But these types of infections can become more effective by getting weaker.

Kil ing your host quick is a bad survival strategy—particularly when the population concentrations are wel

separated.”

“Exactly. The longer the host lives, the more copies the parasite can make of itself—both in the original

victim and because it has more opportunity to jump to a new host.”

“And that’s only part of it,” Sarie said. “Other mutations could be beneficial too. If this infection was ever

widespread enough for natural selection to real y start working on it, you could see less-violent behavior.”

“Definitely,” Smith agreed. “Al the parasite wants its host to do is open a few cuts in an uninfected person

so it can find a new home. Better to attack and injure instead of attack and kil . A dead body is no good to

it.”

“I’d also expect to see the onset of symptoms slow down,” Sarie said. “Which would al ow the parasite to

travel farther to find a new host. Right now, I’d hypothesize that fast onset is beneficial because a lot of the

victims are so badly injured in the process of transmission, they don’t have much time left. Their strength

and speed actual y might not even be an adaptation to help them infect new victims—in a way it makes

them too dangerous. That might just be a by-product of the parasite trying to animate a person who, under

normal circumstances, would be too badly hurt to do much more than lie there.”

“Interesting. I hadn’t thought of that,” Smith said. “But what if—”

“You people spend a lot of time on mental masturbation, don’t you?” Howel interrupted.

“It’s more productive than the other kind,” Sarie said with a quiet chuckle.

“So what you’re tel ing me is that if we just sit back and do nothing, the parasite might eventual y become

harmless.”

“It’s not unprecedented,” Smith said. “There are some formerly nasty bugs out there that aren’t much

worse than a cold now. The problem is the mil ions of people who would die while we sat around waiting for

Mother Nature to help us out.”

37

Northern Uganda

November 24—1001 Hours GMT+3

MEHRAK OMIDI RAN ALONGSIDE Bahame, trying to stay close but occasional y having to dodge around

trees and other obstacles. They and the armed guards surrounding them were moving as quickly as they

could without making undue noise, paral eling the road at a distance that provided an intermittent view of it.

Most of the infected had outpaced them, but two stragglers remained visible through the leaves. One was

a child of no more than four—too young to understand his own rage and how to exercise it. The other was

even more disturbing: an old man with a severe compound fracture of the lower leg that he didn’t seem to

be aware of. He repeatedly stood, lurched forward a few meters, and then col apsed with a spurt of arterial

blood. Omidi slowed a bit, transfixed by the man’s struggle as he final y became resigned to dragging

himself forward with his elbows.

It took another five minutes to reach the vil age, and Bahame grabbed his arm, pul ing him to a place that

provided sufficient cover but stil afforded a partial y blocked view of what was happening.

Again, Omidi found himself stunned. The vil age men were fighting desperately—with sticks, with

machetes, with farm implements. One man had an old rifle but was taken down while he was stil trying to

get it to his shoulder. The infected were everywhere—their speed and strength making them seem like a

much larger force than they actual y were.

A fleeing woman crashed into the trees directly in front of them, causing Bahame to pul Omidi beneath

the bush they were crouched behind. She barely made it ten meters before a young boy drenched in blood

chased her down and dove onto her back. It took only a few moments before she succumbed to the brutal

beating, but he didn’t stop. The dul thud of his fists mixed with the screams and panicked shouts coming

from the vil age until he final y col apsed. Whether he was unconscious or dead was impossible to

determine.

One of the huts was on fire now, and Omidi glanced at Bahame, seeing the flames reflected in eyes

glazed with power. It was at that moment he realized the African wasn’t playing a role or pandering to his

fol owers. He truly believed in his own godhood.

The wails of an infant began to emanate from the burning hut, and an infected man ran in like a savior. A

moment later the child went silent.

When he reappeared, the long, bloodstained robe he wore was burning. Despite the increasing intensity

of the flames, he rejoined the fray, sprinting toward a woman trying to find refuge in a corral ful of panicked

goats. He fel just short of reaching her, col apsing with his hands on the rickety fence as he was consumed.

Omidi slipped from beneath the bush as the remaining vil agers were run down. He no longer saw rural

Uganda, though. He saw New York, Chicago, Los Angeles. And it was magnificent.

38

Northern Uganda

November 24—1906 Hours GMT+3

CALEB BAHAME SLOWED THE jeep, increasing the distance between it and the lumbering truck turning

twenty meters ahead. The terrified faces of the vil agers they’d captured peered at Omidi through the holes

cut in the trailer, fighting for air and trying to understand what had happened to them and their families.

Al were injured, but only superficial y. The seriously wounded vil agers had been executed where they lay

and their bodies burned. The few who had managed to avoid contact with the infected had been al owed to

escape in order to spread word of Bahame’s sorcery and power.

It was the slightly injured vil agers who were the unlucky ones. They had been herded into the truck to

replace the infected who had disappeared into the jungle and would eventual y die there, lost and bleeding.

Bahame had calculated the time to death after infection took hold and the range of one of his demons on

foot—making sure to attack only vil ages remote enough to not al ow a chain of infection.

Details, however, were not of great concern to the African. Could animals spread the parasite? Was

there variation in the way it attacked the brain? Could it mutate? What if one of the infected came upon and

attacked a herdsman or traveler who then returned to their vil age?

Al these important questions were answered the same way: with assurances that his network of spies

would recognize and kil anyone infected by the parasite who managed to escape his makeshift quarantine.

It was a system that would work for a time in Africa but that would be completely unscalable. No, to use

the parasite in Europe or America, a good deal more sophistication was needed.

It took another half hour to reach camp, and when they final y pul ed in, it was to the deafening cheers of

Bahame’s soldiers. They surrounded the jeep, fal ing silent only when their shaman stood on his seat and

raised his arms. He recounted his tale of victory, the rich baritone of his voice rising over the buzz of the

jungle and the pleas of the people packed into the sweltering truck.

Omidi slipped out of the jeep and weaved through Bahame’s mesmerized troops. A quick glance behind

him confirmed that it wasn’t only the ragged children who were captivated—Bahame himself seemed

completely lost in his own delusions. A perfect time to exercise a bit of curiosity.

The Iranian made his way to a cave glowing with electric lights. There were two guards at its entrance,

one no older than twelve and the other looking a bit queasy from the cloud of diesel fumes spewing from the

generator next to him.

Omidi careful y ignored them as he approached and scowled dismissively when they started speaking to

him in their native language. Both had undoubtedly noted his favored position with Bahame, leaving them

wide-eyed and unsure whether to try to stop him.

The benefit of being a psychotic messianic leader was that your terrified fol owers were desperate to

succumb to your wil . The drawback was that they sometimes couldn’t be sure what exactly your wil was. If

they chal enged Bahame’s honored guest in error, they would almost certainly be slowly and horribly put to

death. On the other hand, if this wasn’t an authorized visit and they didn’t intervene, their deaths were

equal y assured and would be equal y unpleasant.

In the end, they were swayed by his calculated confidence and let him pass into a natural corridor narrow

enough that he had to occasional y turn sideways to get through. Bare bulbs hung from cables secured to

the cave’s low roof, and he fol owed them, ignoring branches leading into the darkness. The temperature

and humidity diminished as he penetrated deeper, but the stench of blood, excrement, and sweat became

increasingly oppressive. Final y, the passageway opened into a broad chamber and Omidi stopped a few

meters short, examining it unnoticed.

He recognized the elderly white man as the one who had arrived with the man Bahame beat to death. He

was wearing a stained canvas apron and goggles as he leaned over a partial y dissected corpse. At the

back of the chamber was a wal of blood-spattered plastic set up in front of a hol owed-out section of stone

fitted with steel bars. Inside, an infected man lay on the dirt floor, panting like an animal and watching an

outwardly healthy woman sobbing in a similar cage some three meters away.

When Omidi final y stepped into the chamber, the infected man let out a high-pitched scream and

rammed an arm through the bars with enough force that the sound of crunching bone was clearly audible.

The old man looked up and took a few hesitant steps back, holding the scalpel he’d been using out in

front of him.

“Be calm,” Omidi said in English. “I’m a friend.”

“A friend?” the man stammered. “My name is Thomas De Vries. I was kidnapped from my home in Cape

Town. I was taken—”

The Iranian held up a hand for silence as he scanned the equipment around him. It was in poor condition

and a bit haphazard, but most seemed functional—including a modern microscope and smal refrigerator.

“What have you learned?”

“Learned? I’m not a biologist. I’m a retired general practitioner. You—”

“Be silent!” Omidi said. There wasn’t much time. Bahame’s speeches were characterized not only by

their intensity, but also by their brevity.

“Help me and I’l take you with me when I leave this place.” He pointed to the corpse the elderly physician

had been hovering over when he arrived. “You must know something.”

“Yes,” De Vries said, looking around him nervously. “It’s a parasitic infection similar in some ways to

malaria, but after it gets into the bloodstream it concentrates in the head—bursting the capil aries around

the hair fol icles and attacking the brain.”

“Is that how it spreads?” Omidi said. “Through the bleeding?”

“Yes…Yes, I think so. There are high concentrations in the blood and it enters through breaks in the skin

and possibly the eyes; I’m not sure.”

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long until it takes effect?”

“Wil you take me back to Cape Town? Back to my home?”

“I wil put you on a commercial flight at Entebbe,” Omidi said, straining to hide his disdain for this

descendant of the Christian conquerors who had subjugated Africa and the world.

De Vries nodded. “It’s a difficult question to answer. The only victim I’ve had an opportunity to observe

began to experience agitation and confusion at around ten hours. My understanding is that there is

significant variation, though. I would guess a range of seven to fifteen hours to the beginning of identifiable

disorientation. After that, the disease appears to be very fast and consistent. Growing agitation until

bleeding starts around three hours after initial symptoms and violent behavior fol ows almost immediately.”

“Death?”

“About forty-eight hours after ful symptoms, though I’m told that most die of injuries or what is probably

heart failure.”

The healthy woman in the cage sprang suddenly to her feet and started talking, wrapping her hands

around the bars, unashamed by her own nakedness.

The doctor looked back at her, compassion visible in his expression despite the fact that his situation

wasn’t much better. “Bahame always keeps one infected person imprisoned in here so that there’s no

chance of the parasite dying out. When that one looks like he’s going to die, the woman wil be infected to

carry on the line.”

Omidi nodded. Again, workable in Africa but not practical for a large-scale attack on a modern country.

He looked behind him to confirm they were alone and then pointed to the refrigerator. “Can a sample be

frozen for transport?”

“No. It can’t live outside the body for more than a few minutes and is extremely temperature sensitive—

every sample I’ve tried to refrigerate dies almost immediately.”

Footsteps became audible in the corridor, and they both fel silent. A moment later Bahame appeared at

the entrance to the chamber.

Omidi tensed, uncertain how to act. Should he try to explain or just remain silent? There was no tel ing

from one minute to the next what would cause the African to explode.

Fortunately, Bahame made the decision for him. “Get out.”

Omidi nodded respectful y and ducked back into the narrow passage, keeping an even gait as the cries

of the doctor and the crash of toppling equipment echoed around him. Hopeful y, Bahame would kil the old

man. It was more likely that he would create unwanted complications than additional useful information.

Let him rot.

39

Langley, Virginia, USA

November 24—1205 Hours GMT–5

BRANDON WOULDN’T HAVE WANTED al this fuss, but as his friend I’m real y happy to see it,” the man said,

shifting uncomfortably behind the lectern.

Dave Col en tuned him out, unable to remember his name and completely uninterested in what he had to

say.

The smal auditorium was jammed with people, and he scanned the faces, wondering how many had

actual y known Brandon Gazenga and how many had come out of curiosity and the promise of free pastries.

There were a few expressions of real emotion, but most of the people just looked on with grave detachment.

“I’m sure everyone here knows what a talented analyst Brandon was, but with the way the agency works, a

lot of people never had the time to find out what a great guy he was,” the man continued, his throat

constricting with sadness. “I had the privilege of working closely with him for the past few years…”

Col en continued surveying the crowd, stil not finding what he was looking for.

The ramifications of having to kil Gazenga so soon were stil evolving, but how he had died made matters

even worse. Who would have thought he’d wait until he was suffocating on his filthy carpet to grow a

backbone? After admitting to contacting Russel , he’d final y fessed up to the time and place of their

meeting, and Col en had lived up to his end of the bargain, holding out the phony antidote.

He’d expected Gazenga to snatch the bottle and shake the useless pil s desperately into his mouth.

Instead, he accepted them calmly, slowly swal owing them and then letting his head settle to the floor. Col en

hadn’t left until the analyst’s gaze became fixed and unseeing.

They’d sent their team to the rendezvous point, but it quickly became clear that Gazenga had known he

was a dead man and lied. The tracker they’d put on Russel ’s car showed her heading into Pennsylvania—

something they discovered too late to set up another ambush.

Col en perked up when the door at the rear of the room opened and Randi Russel slipped through. He

nudged Larry Drake and gave a nearly imperceptible nod. It wasn’t proof that she’d known Gazenga was

the one who slipped her a note, but it was a strong indication. She was hardly the type to show up to a

memorial—particularly one for a person she didn’t know.

“When am I going to see a final?” the DCI whispered, referring to the revised plan for Russel ’s

elimination.

“Soon. We have a few more details to work out. She’s living alone in a friend’s cabin while she’s

stateside. It couldn’t be more perfect for us—no security system, no neighbors for miles, and only one lightly

traveled rural road in.”

“Then why isn’t it done?”

“The contractor I want to use is difficult to contact in a way that doesn’t leave a trail.”

“No mistakes, Dave. Do you understand me? We can’t afford any more.”

Col en nodded, wondering if it was an overly optimistic assessment of the situation. He’d completed an

exhaustive survey of Gazenga’s computer use, uncovering his careful y hidden search for someone to help

him, but otherwise coming up empty. Russel appeared to be similarly clean.

Just because he hadn’t found anything, though, didn’t mean there was nothing to find. Most likely,

Gazenga had been tel ing the truth when he said that he’d given Russel only a time and place. But it was far

from certain.

Final y, the loss of their eyes in Uganda had been a disaster. They were left tracking Smith with marginal

satel ite images and a single unreliable man on the ground. As of an hour ago, they could pinpoint the

team’s location with only a thirty-mile margin of error.

The fact that they couldn’t afford another mistake was certain. The question was whether they’d already

made too many.

Randi Russel slid along the wal , joining in on the subdued laughter as the speaker told a story about a

rafting trip he’d taken with Gazenga. She final y stopped at a table and lifted the tinfoil on one of the plates

lined up on it.

Doughnuts.

She pul ed one out and began gnawing at its edge as she made her way to an unoccupied corner of the

room. The size of the crowd made her wonder how many people would show up on the day her own luck

inevitably ran out. Living a life doing things that couldn’t be talked about in countries most people couldn’t

find on a map hadn’t left her with a particularly large circle of friends. And the few she did have tended to be

a little skittish about showing their faces or admitting they knew her.

No, there would be no brightly lit, pastry-fueled eulogies celebrating her life and service. She’d have to

settle for a few toasts by anonymous men and women sitting in dusty third world bars scattered across the

globe. And truthful y, she’d have it no other way.

The speaker wrapped up his story and indicated to his right. “Director Drake had the privilege of knowing

Brandon personal y and wanted to say a few words, so I’l shut up now. Are you ready, sir?”

Randi watched Drake stride to the lectern amid respectful applause. This seemed to confirm the rumor

that Gazenga was working on something high-level. What it was, though, she stil had no idea. His focus

was on central Africa, and there was nothing she could find going on there that couldn’t be explained by the

continent’s normal state of barely control ed chaos.

Of course, the digging she’d done had been fairly superficial thus far. The fact that he’d died of a perfectly

credible accident so soon after passing her that note suggested two possibilities. One, he should clean out

his fridge more often. Or, two, someone very slick and very powerful had wanted him dead. Assuming the

latter was true, it had made sense to be as discrete as possible.

Unfortunately, there was only so much you could learn from the shadows. There was stil no response to

the message she’d left Jon, and al she’d been able to determine was that he was on leave from his job at

Fort Detrick. Why he’d requested the leave or what he was doing with it was stil a mystery.

She had a friend at TSA checking into whether or not he’d taken a commercial flight anywhere, but the

answer was taking longer than she felt comfortable with. If Jon was in trouble, she needed to find him and

bail his stupid ass out.

So there she was, making an appearance at Brandon Gazenga’s wake. It’d be interesting to see who

noticed.

40

Northern Uganda

November 24—2242 Hours GMT+3

FLYING INSECTS LOOKED LIKE smoke in the headlights as Peter Howel eased the vehicle into a muddy

ditch and then gunned it out again. Beyond the tiny circle of il umination, the darkness was as complete and

unbroken as the bottom of the ocean.

Smith glanced into the backseat, where Sarie was stretched out with a limp hand resting on her rifle. She

reminded him of Sophia in so many ways—the unrelenting enthusiasm for her work, the easy smile and

sense of adventure.

What would his life have been like if she hadn’t died? Where would he be at that moment? Mowing the

lawn? Carting their kids around in a minivan? Neither image was particularly easy to conjure.

When he faced forward again the bugs had relented enough to al ow him to rol down the window and let

in the warm, wet air.

“Ever wonder what you’l do after al this, Peter?”

“After al what?”

“You know…When we’re too old to chase things through the jungle.”

Howel , visible in the light from the gauges, shook his head. “People like us don’t get to retire, Jon. One

day we’re not as quick as we once were or we make a mistake, and that’s the end.”

Smith let out a long breath and sank deeper into the leather seat. “That’s a cheerful thought.”

Howel reached over and slapped his leg, a rare smile playing at his lips. “We’re not there yet, mate. I

reckon we’ve got a few good fights left in us.”

Just ahead, an old fence constructed from local trees appeared and Smith pointed. “Could that be it?”

“Are we there?” Sarie said groggily, sitting upright and leaning forward between the seats.

“I’m not sure yet.”

Howel paral eled the fence, final y pul ing up in front of a gate. Sarie jumped out before the car was

completely stopped, stretching her cramped back before letting them through. There was no protest from

either the latch or the hinges, and the road leading onto the property wasn’t overgrown. Maybe their luck

was taking a turn for the better.

It was another ten minutes before a house appeared—an old, sprawling building with blooming flowers

climbing faded wal s. Sarie pul ed the handle on her door, but Smith threw a hand back and stopped her.

“Movement right.”

“I see it,” Howel responded, eyes darting to the rearview mirror. “Behind us, too. At least three. One

machete, two rifles. Neither are automatic.”

“What? What’s going on?” Sarie said.

“Wait in the car,” Smith said as he eased his door open and got out. A security light on the porch came

on, and he slowly raised an arm to shade his eyes. A moment later, a barefoot Caucasian man wearing

jeans and a T-shirt came cautiously through the front door holding a shotgun.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m Dr. Jon Smith, from the United States.”

“And your friends?”

Smith glanced behind him, spotting the Africans Howel had seen in the glow of their tail ights. Added to

the ones hiding at the edges of the house, there were at least five guns on them. Howel and Sarie might

survive if things went their way, but Smith knew he wouldn’t.

“My friend Peter Howel and Dr. Sarie van Keuren from the University of Cape Town.”

The man considered what he’d heard for a moment and then leaned his gun against one of the pil ars

supporting the porch.

“I’m sorry for the reception,” he said, extending a hand as he came down the stairs. “We don’t get many

surprise visitors, and this part of Africa isn’t as peaceful as it used to be. I’m Noah Duernberg.”

“Good to meet you,” Smith said as the vehicle’s doors opened behind him. When he looked back, the

Africans who had been covering them were already wandering off.

Duernberg invited them into the house and they gathered around a heavy kitchen table by the light of a

kerosene lamp. “We have to make al our own electricity out here,” he explained. “So we shut everything

down at night. The generators make an awful racket.”

He pul ed a few bottles of beer from a cupboard and passed them out. They were warm but Smith

popped the cap grateful y.

“Where are you headed?” Duernberg asked, settling onto a hand-hewn bench near the window.

“Here,” Smith said.

“Here? You mean this area? What—”

“I mean this farm.”

The man was obviously confused, so Smith continued. “Is it safe to assume that Dr. Lukas Duernberg is

your father?”

He nodded. “Was. He’s been dead for years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We didn’t real y think we’d find anyone stil living here,” Sarie said. “We couldn’t find any information on

you and were just hoping to get something from the local people about where your family ended up.”

“My father saved one of Idi Amin’s children and he gave us this land. I think we’ve pretty much been

forgotten—a few white people running a farm in the hinterland is the least of the government’s worries these

days.”

“It must be hard with Bahame gaining power in the region,” Howel said.

The farmer nodded sadly. “My father built this house. We have a life here, friends, people who count on us

for the bread on their table. But right now my wife and son are living in Kampala trying to find a country that

wil take us. It’s just too dangerous here now.”

“I understand what you’re going through,” Sarie said. “I grew up on a farm in Namibia and had to leave. I

stil think about it every day.”

Duernberg took a long pul from his beer. “Enough about things that are in God’s hands. What’s your

interest in my family?”

Smith pul ed out the document Star found mentioning his father’s suspicion about a parasitic infection.

Duernberg’s eyes ran across it for a moment before he stood and went to the cupboard for another beer.

“You must have been pretty young when he was working on this,” Smith said.

“I was twelve.”

Smith’s brow furrowed. There was no date on the document. “You remember him talking about the

parasite?”

“No,” Duernberg said, sitting again. “But I remember him contracting the disease and attacking my sister

Leyna. And I remember using the rifle he’d given me for my birthday to kil him.”

Silence descended and Duernberg focused on a window turned into a mirror by the darkness outside.

“I’m sorry to come here and dredge this up,” Smith said final y.

“Our field hands burned his body and wanted to kil Leyna—they said the demons were growing inside

her. We had to run for one of the outbuildings and barricade ourselves inside. They surrounded us and just

sat there. After a while, Leyna started getting confused, irrational. Then she got angry. Eventual y, I shot her

too.”

Smith crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the wal behind him. There was stil no

hard physical evidence, but this was enough. It wasn’t mass hypnosis or drugs. It was biological and it was

as dangerous as hel .

“I know this must be horrible for you, but is there anything else you can tel us about this il ness?” Sarie

said. “Did your father do any kind of experiments? Do you have any idea how he contracted the infection?”

Duernberg shook his head. “I was too young. But I have some things that might help you.”

41

Northern Uganda

November 25—0209 Hours GMT+3

JON SMITH REACHED INTO the trunk and dug out an antique dol , complete with prairie dress and

yel owing lace bonnet. He laid it careful y next to a pile of black-and-white photos, disintegrating clothing,

and leather-bound books.

The temperature in Duernberg’s attic was wel over a hundred and the heat was combining with lack of

sleep to make his head feel like it was ful of gauze. Howel had staged a strategic retreat an hour ago and

was now snoring comfortably on a hammock stretched across the front porch.

“Anything?” he said, wiping the sweat from his face before it dripped on Lukas Duernberg’s medical

school diploma.

Sarie, stripped down to a tank top and pair of shorts, was planted in the middle of the cramped space

surrounded by the loose papers and notebooks they’d found.

“It’s hard not to get bogged down,” she said, tapping the bound volume in her hand. “This is a diary from

the midthirties talking about his experience with persecution under the Nazis and his plan for getting his

family out. I wonder if Noah’s planning on taking it with him when he leaves. Our library would go crazy for

this stuff.”

“Yeah,” he said, digging another stack of papers from the bottom of the trunk and dropping them next to

her. “But if I’m up here much longer, I’m gonna melt.”

“Americans…,” she said, setting aside the diary and opening a notebook fil ed with Lukas’s distinctive

script. “Al that air-conditioning has made you soft.”

Smith smirked and leaned over her, looking at the detailed drawings of local flora and struggling to read

the caption. Having grown up in a former German colony, Sarie was faster and flipped the page.

He felt for Noah Duernberg. This part of Uganda was stunning, and to be forced to leave everything you

knew, to have to try to build a new life in an unfamiliar place, was hard to imagine.

What made it so much more tragic, though, was how unnecessary it was. The farmland was fertile, the

country was wal -to-wal with natural resources, and people seemed anxious to work. There was no reason

that everyone in Uganda shouldn’t be living a safe, rewarding life.

No reason but the inherent darkness of human nature—something that was particularly easy to remember

when sitting in Bahame country surrounded by Nazi memorabilia.

“Wait a minute…”

Smith slid in next to Sarie. “Do you have something?”

“I don’t know,” she said, spreading the papers out across the wood floor and pawing through them. “Yes!

Right here—a parasite that causes a violent rage and bleeding from the hair. It says that the locals are

familiar with it and think it’s a form of demonic possession. It flared up in a vil age forty kilometers away and

appears to have had a one hundred percent mortality rate. None of the locals would go anywhere near the

place because they believed they could be tainted by the evil. But Duernberg managed to find it on his own.

He describes it as looking like a war zone. Burned-out huts, decaying bodies lying where they fel …”

She went silent for a moment, searching for the next relevant entry. “Okay, this is dated a week later. He

corrects himself and says that mortality from the infection wasn’t a hundred percent—not even close.”

“So some of the vil agers survived?”

“I said the infection didn’t get them. Apparently, the ones who got away were kil ed and burned by the

surrounding tribes.”

“Like Noah’s family.”

“Exactly. It says there are stories of this phenomenon going back for hundreds of years—maybe

thousands. It’s likely that the traditions of isolating, kil ing, and burning people you suspected could be

possessed arose over time because they worked.”

“A primitive quarantine procedure,” Smith agreed.

She continued her search through the papers, final y snatching one from a pile to her right. “Jon! Look at

this.”

He leaned closer and examined a neatly drawn map with the house they were in at one corner.

“He talks about a cave system and the fact that he thinks the parasite is dormant in an animal that lives in

it. He did some exploring and took samples of some of the insects, reptiles, and mammals there.”

“Did he find what he was looking for?”

She flipped over the next page and then another and another. They were al blank. “Apparently so.”

Smith descended the stairs and went out on the front porch, passing Howel and walking another fifty yards

before digging out his sat phone. Fred Klein picked up on the first ring.

“Jon. Are you al right?”

“I’m fine. We’ve got something.”

“Go ahead.”

“We’re at Duernberg’s farm going through his diaries and it turns out he believed the infection was

centered on a series of caves about twenty miles northeast of here. We’re going to head over there at first

light to see if we can get some samples.”

“Is that safe?”

Smith laughed quietly, mindful of the people sleeping around him. “Other than Bahame’s guerril as, an

unexplored and probably unstable cave network, lions, hippos, and the infection itself, it should be a piece

of cake.”

Klein ignored his comment. “So you think Duernberg could be right?”

“It makes sense based on what little we know. Years could go by with no flare-up; then someone wanders

into one of those caves for whatever reason and comes into contact with a carrier. Look, you need to cal

Bil y Rendel at CDC and get him started thinking about this. If the infection does get out, we need a

containment plan and he’s the best in the business.”

“Rendel ,” Klein repeated. “Can he be trusted?”

“Bil y knows how to keep things quiet. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“I just have to worry about you.”

“Yeah. Look, Fred. If you don’t hear from us in a couple days, we’ve had problems and you’re going to

have to consider escalating this thing—sending a military force to create a perimeter and a ful y equipped

team to go into those caves.”

“I understand, Jon. But we’re in a delicate position—not only with the Iranians and Africans, but with

Covert-One itself. It’s safe to say that the CIA suspects there’s a new player in town and we have to be very

careful about tipping our hand.”

“If this thing gets out, Fred, that’s going to be the least of our problems.”

“I’m meeting with the president tomorrow. I’l fil him in and give him your recommendation. But American

credibility isn’t that great when it comes to Middle East intel right now—at home or abroad. If we want to

come down on the Iranians or send a significant force into Africa, we need something concrete. And then

there’s the time it’s going to take to ramp up that kind of operation…”

“I know, Fred. But I can’t stop thinking about that video and extrapolating it out to somewhere like New

York or London.”

“Yeah,” he responded quietly. “Me too.”

42

Tehran, Iran

November 25—1055 Hours GMT+3:30

AYATOLLAH AMJAD KHAMENEI SAT cross-legged on the cushion listening to a wiretap recording provided

by the men hovering around him. He closed his eyes, trying to remain serene, trying to put his faith in God

as the details of the plot against him unfolded. Rahim Nikahd’s daughter-in-law had died of the injuries

she’d suffered at the hands of Omidi’s men and it was more than the politician could forgive.

No, that wasn’t true—as Mehrak would have undoubtedly pointed out if he weren’t so far away. The

treasonous conversation between Nikahd and a number of his col eagues in parliament hadn’t sprung up

due to just that mistake. It was too intricate, too elaborate. Much more likely they had been planning for

months. Perhaps even years.

“Leave me,” he said, waving a hand.

The men in the room had been handpicked by him, but stil he didn’t trust them. In these dangerous times,

he was certain only of his immediate family and of Omidi, who was as much a son to him as the ones his

wife had given birth to.

Khamenei listened to the details of the plan to assassinate him, of the transformation of Iran into a

“modern” country, of the olive branch that would be offered to Farrokh.

When the recording ended, he took off the earphones and laid them on the floor. He had made so many

errors during his long life. First and foremost, though, was underestimating the power of money. International

sanctions had caused Iran’s economy to falter and prevented its citizens from getting the useless baubles

they saw on the Internet and in Western advertisements. The things they now put above God.

He had also badly misjudged the reaction of the country’s youth to America’s occupation of Iraq and

Afghanistan. He’d seen it as a harbinger of things to come—the rise of a new imperialism that would

annihilate them if they didn’t have weapons to defend themselves. Now, years after the utter failure of the

American military to control those countries and the uncertain financial future of the U.S. government, many

Iranians naïvely believed that the chance of invasion was remote. Particularly if no concrete provocation was

offered.

And so the Iran he had helped build was being rotted from the inside by people who cared only about

feeding their own appetites. The dream of the Islamic Republic would be smothered in expensive cars, lurid

clothing, and uncontrol ed media.

He picked up a large manila envelope and pul ed a photo from it, once again examining the faces of the

people it depicted. Jon Smith was a microbiologist at the U.S. Army’s bioweapons center in Maryland.

Sarie van Keuren was the world’s leading expert on parasites. And Peter Howel was former MI6 and SAS.

The Americans knew something. And that meant time was short.

Omidi no longer had sufficient control of the Iranian security forces to fire into the protesters plaguing the

country. Leaders in parliament were plotting his death. And there were whispers that Farrokh was seeking

military capability.

Khamenei knew that he had already waited too long, al owing his power to erode to the point that he

could no longer be certain of anything. The only answer was to gouge directly at the root of the evil casting

its shadow over the republic.

He looked at the clock. Less than a minute.

When the phone final y rang, he immediately reached for it. “God be with you, Mehrak.”

“And with you, Excel ency.”

“It is good to hear your voice. I have few friends here. Fewer, I think, than even you imagine.”

“I heard about the meeting between Nikahd and the others. We’l deal with them when I return, but we

have to move cautiously.”

“It’s too late for that, old friend. I should have listened to your warnings. Sometimes I think I am becoming

old and foolish.”

“You see piety in men who have none, Excel ency. That isn’t foolishness. It’s what it means to be a man of

God.”

“You always know how to comfort me, Mehrak. And I thank you for it. Now tel me what you’ve learned.”

“Bahame’s weapon is nearly perfect. I saw it used and his descriptions were entirely accurate. It is truly

the wrath of the Almighty.”

Khamenei closed his eyes again, picturing America col apsing into chaos, broken bodies littering the

streets, survivors cowering and begging their false God for salvation that would never come.

“You said nearly perfect. Why nearly?”

“It’s impractical to wield and wil have to be weaponized.”

“The anniversary of the victory of the revolution is in eleven weeks. We wil release it in America then.”

“Excel ency, that’s impossible. We don’t have people with the necessary expertise. It wil —”

“Have faith, Omidi. God wil provide.”

“Of course, Excel ency. But we have to be realistic. The difficulties of—”

“What Bahame wants is waiting on the Sudanese border. I wil authorize the transfer immediately.”

43

Northern Uganda

November 25—1207 Hours GMT+3

JON SMITH CHECKED THE hand-drawn map again as they crawled along a barely discernible jeep track

cutting through the rol ing terrain.

They’d left the farm after downing an elaborate breakfast Duernberg insisted on making, and now the sun

was directly overhead. Temperatures had risen to a level that was taxing even the overbuilt cooling system

of Janani’s truck, and the wind was churning up thick clouds of dust in the distance.

“Won’t work,” Sarie said from the backseat when Smith leaned out the window to dry his sweat-soaked

face. She was right—the air felt like it was blowing out of a wet convection oven.

He pul ed back again, adjusting the assault rifle sticking up between the front seats so he could lean

forward and get his back off the leather. “The map shows an intersection with a better-defined road ahead.

We turn left on it and then it’s not much more than a mile to the cave area.”

“If the intersection is stil there,” Howel said. “That’s not exactly a new map.”

“Al we’ve got. How are we looking behind, Sarie?”

“Nothing. I think our friends must have abandoned us.”

The soldiers tracking them hadn’t made an appearance since the prior afternoon. They’d probably broken

an axle or been washed away in a stream crossing like they themselves had nearly been no less than twenty

times since leaving Kampala. Or maybe they’d just turned back. Bahame wouldn’t be particularly accepting

of Ugandan soldiers wandering around in his backyard.

The road leveled out and Howel used the opportunity to accelerate as they came around a sweeping

curve. The heat and empty landscape had dul ed his normal y razor-sharp reflexes and he slammed on the

brakes just a fraction too late. The vehicle fishtailed in the loose dirt, sliding forward until the brush guard

rammed the side of the military truck parked in their path.

Howel immediately went for the assault rifle, but Smith grabbed his wrist. The cab of the truck was empty,

but there were three armed men in the back, their elevated position perfect for shooting down into the Land

Cruiser’s windshield. Camouflage-clad men appeared out of the tal grass and approached cautiously with

weapons at the ready.

“Get out of the car!” one demanded in heavily accented English.

“You’re the ones who have been fol owing us since Kampala,” Smith said as they stepped cautiously from

the vehicle. “We have permission to be here.”

Six guns were trained on them, and out of the corner of his eye Smith could see Howel sizing up the men

holding them. They appeared to be a few notches above the poorly trained part-timers so common in this

part of the world.

It suddenly struck him just how alone they were. Had Sembutu decided that they were more trouble than

they were worth—that it would be better if they just disappeared? It would be so easy. No one would ever

find the bodies, and their disappearance could be credibly blamed on Bahame or any of the hundreds of

other things that kil ed people every day in that part of the world.

“You must turn back,” the man said. “Go home.”

“We’re scientists,” Sarie added. “We’re here studying some of your local animals.”

“You study ants, yes?”

“That’s right, we—”

“You want to die for ants?”

“We don’t just study ants,” Smith said. “We study diseases and the way they’re spread. The work we do

saves lives.”

“Not yours if Bahame finds you.”

“That’s a risk we’re wil ing to take.”

The man just stood there for a few moments, scowling silently at what he undoubtedly saw as soul-

crushing stupidity. Final y, he pul ed a sat phone from his pocket and began speaking unintel igibly into it.

When he hung up, he looked even less happy.

“If you refuse to go back, my men and I have been ordered to protect you.”

“We appreciate that, but it’s real y not necessary. We don’t want to put you in danger. It—”

“Then go back to Kampala.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

The man let out a frustrated breath and started back to his truck.

* * *

HOW ARE YOU holding up?” Smith said, scrambling over a pile of jagged boulders as he jogged toward

Sarie. The terrain had opened up into rocky grassland punctuated by occasional stands of trees that looked

like enormous parasols. She was standing in the shade of one of those, and he pul ed out a canteen, taking

a sip before holding it out to her.

“Just another day at the office.” The edges of her eyes crinkled as she squinted through her sunglasses at

the shapes the wind was creating in the grass. “But I’m starting to wonder if this is the right place. It seems

like with this many people we’d have found something by now.”

They had pressed Sembutu’s soldiers into service, and they, along with Peter Howel , were walking

across the field at twenty-five-yard intervals, searching for a cave entrance.

“This is what the map said.”

“For his patients’ sake, I hope Duernberg was a better doctor than he was a cartographer.”

Smith pul ed off his straw cowboy hat, holding it up to block the sun as he looked out over the endless

landscape.

“These are hard conditions,” Sarie said. “You’re doing a lot better than I would have expected.”

Smith grinned. “I can’t figure out if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“It’s an observation,” she said, her expression turning probing. “You and Peter don’t seem very bothered

by the terrain or the sun or people pointing guns at you. I understand that he was in the SAS, but what’s your

excuse?”

“I may not be SAS, Sarie, but I’ve worked on the front lines in MASH units attached to special forces

units.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “I get around, Jon. I’ve known military doctors. Some have had

some interesting adventures. But in the end, they’re city strong.”

“City strong?”

“They go to the gym religiously three days a week. They do their little midlife-crisis triathlons. It’s different

in the bush. But then, you know that, don’t you?”

Smith wasn’t happy with the direction the conversation was going and was almost relieved when he heard

a frightened cry from one of the soldiers searching to the north. He pul ed his pistol from its holster and ran

over the uneven ground toward the voice with Sarie a few feet behind.

Sembutu’s other men had dropped to their knees and were sweeping their rifles back and forth while

Howel cal ed for calm.

Final y, Smith spotted the cause of the commotion. One of the soldiers he thought was crouching had

actual y fal en chest-deep into a hole. His arms, spread out flat on the ground, were the only things keeping

him from plunging the rest of the way through.

Smith and Sarie grabbed him by the shoulders and pul ed him out while the others gathered around.

“Are you al right?”

He didn’t seem to understand, and Smith pointed to the blood beginning to soak through the right leg of

his fatigues. “Just sit back and relax for a minute. I’m a doctor.”

Someone translated, and Smith took out a knife, cutting through the fabric and looking at the gash made

by a sharp outcropping the man had hit on his way down.

“I have a first-aid kit,” Howel said, digging through his pack and handing over a wel -stocked plastic

organizer that he’d obviously created himself. Smith cleaned the wound with alcohol and then pul ed out a

hooked needle and some thread.

“Tel him this is going to sting a bit.”

The man lay back but, to his credit, didn’t flinch or make a sound while Smith stitched up the wound.

“I think Dr. Duernberg has redeemed himself,” Sarie said, lying flat on the ground and peering into the

hole. “It’s about fifteen meters to the bottom. Can’t see how far it goes in either direction, but it looks pretty

big.”

“What about the rock he hit?” Smith said.

“Clean and dry.”

Smith nodded. There was a good chance they’d found the parasite’s hiding place. The cave’s entrance

was hidden by a tangle of grass and vines, making it easy for anyone walking through the area to tumble in.

Had the soldier gone al the way down and gotten his cut contaminated with water or bat guano, things could

have gotten complicated. They’d been lucky.

Smith bandaged the wound while Sarie unpacked her equipment and Howel enlisted the remaining

soldiers to clear the foliage from around the hole.

When he was done, Smith grabbed a flashlight and leaned in, shining the beam in a slow circle. There

was no way to climb down—the entrance was in the middle of a vaulted roof that he couldn’t see the edges

of. The floor was strewn with rocks from mil ennia of miniature cave-ins, and he could hear dripping echoing

somewhere beyond the hazy ring of il umination.

“What do you think?” he said, sliding back out.

“I say we take a look,” Sarie responded, uncoiling a rope next to a box of surgical gloves.

He frowned and looked around them. Beyond the gloves and a few basic surgical masks, they had no

biohazard equipment. And beyond the rope, they had no climbing equipment. Not exactly ideal. Then again,

these weren’t exactly normal circumstances.

“You sure you got me?”

There was nowhere to anchor the rope, leaving no choice but to have Howel and the soldiers dig in like a

tug-of-war team on one end. The result was less than confidence inspiring.

“You’l be the first to know, mate.”

“Great,” Smith muttered, weighting the rope enough to test their grip as he slid into the hole. It gave a

good foot, and he soon found himself in the same position as the soldier who had fal en, unwil ing to

completely abandon terra firma.

“Off you go, then,” Howel said, repositioning his boots in the soil for maximum traction.

Smith closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind of the fifty feet of air beneath him and the effect of the

parasite whose lair they were bumbling into.

Final y, he took a deep breath and let go, wrapping his legs around the rope and gripping the knots

Howel had tied into it with white-knuckle intensity. He heard the worried shouts of the Africans as they

skidded toward the hole and winced as the rope dropped another couple of feet.

“Faster would be better than slower,” Howel cal ed, the strain audible in his voice.

Smith descended quickly but found little comfort in the sensation of solid ground once it was beneath his

feet. He checked again to make sure his pants were tucked tightly into his boots and his sleeves into the

surgical gloves. “I’m off, Sarie. Go ahead and come down.”

She slid down awkwardly, struggling to find the knots with her feet and grunting audibly. When she got

within reach, Smith grabbed her legs and eased her to the ground.

“You made it look easier than it was,” she commented, flexing her right hand painful y.

“Are you al right?”

“I’m fantastic, thank you for asking. Have you noticed how lovely it is down here?”

He hadn’t, but now that she mentioned it, he noticed the temperature had dropped a good thirty degrees

and there was a slight stirring of air. Every cloud had a silver lining. Sometimes you just had to look real y,

real y hard.

She helped him off with his pack, accidental y dropped it, and then began fumbling around with the top

flap.

“Scared?” he said, gently pushing her hand away and unfastening the plastic clips himself.

“A little. The truth is, I don’t much care for confined spaces. And most of the parasites I work with don’t…”

Her voice trailed off for a moment. “You?”

“Scared? Yes. Afraid of confined places? No. I love them. In particular a nice hazmat suit.”

She smiled, her teeth flashing in the bright sunlight coming from above. “I can see how maybe that

wouldn’t be so bad.”

A shadow passed across her and Smith looked up to see Howel peering down at them.

“You al right down there?”

“Can’t complain. It’s air-conditioned.”

The Brit shook his head. “I reckon I’d rather be up here in the sun.”

Smith knew that Peter Howel wouldn’t think twice about facing down twenty armed men with nothing but a

bal point pen and a damp tea bag, but he’d never been a fan of microscopic creepy crawlies. Not a fair fight

in his mind.

“I’m going to see if I can find somewhere to hang a net,” Sarie said. “I’d love to get a bat spec—”

The unmistakable crack of a gunshot floated down to them, fol owed by the just-as-unmistakable thud and

grunt of a man stopping a bul et. A moment later their rope dropped down on top of them.

“Peter!” Smith shouted, but Howel had disappeared and the only response was multiple bursts of

machine-gun fire from at least three separate weapons.

“Peter!” Sarie cal ed. “What’s happening? Are you al right?”

Another wet thud sounded above and everything went briefly dark. Realizing what was happening, Smith

grabbed Sarie and yanked her out of the way before she could be crushed by the soldier fal ing through the

cave entrance.

Smith dropped to his knees next to the man and checked for a pulse.

“Is he…,” Sarie started.

“The bul et hit him in the chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.”

Smith gave the man’s rifle to Sarie and checked his pockets for anything else they could use. Nothing but

a few Ugandan shil ings and a hot-pink rabbit’s foot that was apparently defective.

“We can’t get out the way we came in. It’s too loose and too overhanging,” Smith said, grabbing her arm

and leading her down the slope into the darkness. “Sarie? Are you listening?”

Her breath was coming in short gasps and she seemed unwil ing to take her eyes off the spotlit corpse

lying only a few yards away. Smith positioned himself to block her view and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Are you al right?”

“Just give me a second, okay?”

Her breathing began to slow and she closed her eyes for a moment. When they opened again, some of

the fear had dissipated. “What about Peter?”

“There’s nothing we can do for him right now. We have to concentrate on ourselves. On getting out of

here.”

“How exactly are we going to do that? I’ve never been pinned down in a cave by people with guns before.

How about you?”

“Actual y, I have.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope. Do you feel the breeze?”

She nodded.

“Let’s go find out where it’s coming from.”

The broken rocks made travel slower than he would have liked, but at least the ground was flat and not

sloping endlessly toward the center of the earth. They stopped every few minutes to listen for anyone

fol owing, but everything had gone silent except for the occasional crack of stone dislodging from the roof.

The passage narrowed and final y dead-ended into a wal with a three-foot-wide hole in it. Sarie shined

her flashlight inside but it just glinted off a crystal-encrusted wal where the tube jogged right.

“You’re going to tel me we have to go in there, aren’t you?”

Smith held out a hand to test the air blowing from the passage. “If you’ve got any better ideas, I’m

listening.”

She just stood there, chewing her lip miserably.

“Ladies first,” he prompted.

“You want me to go in front? You can’t be serious.”

“No offense, Sarie, but if you freak out, I’d rather have you in front of me than behind me. Just take it slow

and watch for drops-offs. I’l be right with you the whole way.”

She stood there for a lot longer than he would have liked, staring into the darkness while he listened for

any sign that they were being fol owed. Peter would hold off the attackers as long as he could, but with no

way to know how many there were or what kind of firepower they were packing, it was impossible to

estimate how much time they had.

Final y, she picked up the rifle they’d taken off the dead soldier and slithered inside.

Time ceased to exist in the tiny passage, and Smith had to keep checking the glowing hands of his watch

to confirm that minutes and not hours had passed. Sarie stopped a few times for brief hyperventilation

breaks but then soldiered on, never uttering so much as a single complaint.

They went on like that for another fifteen minutes before she stopped—a little more abruptly than she had

before. “Jon? I think we might have a problem.”

“That’s okay. I’m right here with you. Are you al right?”

“Ja. But I’m on a ledge and the flashlight doesn’t go far enough to see the bottom.”

“Is there a loose rock? Toss it down and count until you hear it hit.”

“Okay. Hold on.”

Her answer didn’t come as soon as he’d hoped.

“Six seconds.”

“That’s going to be a little longer than our rope. Does the ledge lead anywhere?”

“It goes right.”

“How wide is it?”

“Half a meter.”

“Can you get out on it?”

“Without fal ing, you mean?”

“That would be best.”

He heard her sigh and then the scrape of the rifle as she pushed it farther out in front of her.

“Damn!” she said, her shout echoing off the stone wal s. He was about to ask what had happened but

then heard the metal ic clatter of the rifle hitting the ground far below.

Great.

“It’s okay, Sarie. No problem. Focus on what you’re doing.”

He gripped her ankle as she turned the corner, though he doubted he could stop her if she fel . More likely

they’d both go over.

“Al right,” she said, struggling to keep her breathing under control. “I’m out. I’m on the ledge. But it stops

in front of me. There’s a meter gap before it starts again.”

“Can you stand up?”

“No way in hel .”

“The only way you’re going to make it across a gap that wide is by jumping it.”

“You think I don’t know that?” she snapped. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer. “I’m sorry, Jon.

I know you’re just trying to help. But the ledge I’m on is narrow enough that my left side is hanging in the air

and the wal above me just feels like a bunch of dirt and mud. There’s no way I could keep my balance.”

“I understand,” he said calmly. “Here’s what you’re going to do: you’re going to slide straight back until

your hips are even with the hole I’m in. Understand?”

“Yeah. Okay. Back. Back is good.”

The il umination from the flashlight in her hand played off the cave wal s as she careful y reversed herself.

“That’s far enough. You’re doing great.”

He slid a hand down the back of her cargo pants, getting a solid grip on the heavy cotton waistband.

“I’d like to get to know you better, too, Jon. But do you real y think this is the time?”

They both laughed, longer and harder than the joke probably warranted, but it helped drain off a little of the

tension.

“Okay, Sarie. I’ve got myself wedged in here like a tick. I’m not coming out and I’m not letting go. So just

stand up and don’t worry about fal ing.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“It was pretty easy, actual y.”

They laughed again and he dug harder into the contours of the wal as her hips rose. When her shoulders

came even with the top of the hole he was in, he started pul ing, causing her back to scrape against the rock

as she straightened.

“Move right and look around on the wal for something solid to hold on to.”

“Yeah…Okay, I found something. It feels pretty solid.”

“Your turn to help me, then.”

Less than a minute later he was on his feet, spine pressed into the wal and toes hanging over a pit as

black as outer space. They eased right and he took one of her hands, steadying her as she crossed the

gap.

They circumnavigated the chamber careful y, the breeze strengthening the farther they went. When it

turned into a wind powerful enough to affect their already precarious balance, they stopped.

“Turn off your light a second, Sarie.”

“What? Why?”

“Just humor me.”

She flicked the switch and he waited for his eyes to adjust. As they did, the blackness turned gray with the

dim glow of sunlight.

44

Northern Uganda

November 25—1549 Hours GMT+3

GIVE ME YOUR HAND.”

Smith never thought he’d actual y be happy to have the Ugandan sun pounding down on him, but he was

having a hard time remembering anything feeling so good. The hole he was hovering over was about the

same size as the one they’d entered but had the benefit of opening over a pile of shattered boulders that

reached to within six feet of it.

He grabbed Sarie’s hand and pul ed her through, making sure neither of them rose higher than the top of

the grass. She lay on her back for a few moments, staring into the sky and gulping at the humid air.

“Thank you, Jon.”

“It was a team effort.”

A single shot sounded in the distance and he peeked over the grass in the direction it had come from.

“They’re stil shooting,” Sarie said. “It never stops…”

“Yeah, but that’s exactly what we wanted to hear.”

“What do you mean?”

“If someone’s stil shooting, it means there’s stil someone to shoot at. At least one of the good guys is stil

alive.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“We’re not going to do anything. You’re going to wait here. I’m going to see if I can get to them.”

“No way. We stay together. When it comes to Caleb Bahame, you’re better off going down fighting than

sitting around waiting to get caught.”

It was hard to fault her logic. Leaving her in the middle of guerril a-control ed territory wasn’t exactly an act

of chivalry.

“Fine,” Smith said, starting to drag himself through the grass with his elbows. “Stay right behind me.

Remember: low and slow.”

Their luck held and no more shots were fired in the hour and a half it took them to cover what he

calculated was no more than a quarter mile.

Cover became more sparse as they approached the cave entrance, forcing him to signal Sarie to stop

and continue on without her. He flattened himself on the ground, timing his advance with the movement of

the wind over the grass. After another fifteen minutes, the ground cover thinned to the point that going any

farther would be guaranteed to expose him. Fortunately, it was far enough. He could see Peter Howel

sitting with his back against a low boulder next to the man who had so wisely tried to convince them to go

back to Kampala.

The brief flash of pride Smith felt at having managed to sneak up on his friend was short-lived. Howel ’s

head suddenly swiveled in his direction, the concern visible in his eyes as he reached for his rifle.

Maybe next time.

“Don’t shoot,” Smith said in a loud whisper. “It’s me.”

Howel turned as far toward him as he could without breaking cover. Behind, the African held up a hand in

greeting and then began dialing his sat phone—undoubtedly to inform Sembutu that Smith was stil alive.

“Is Sarie al right?” Howel said.

“A little beat-up, but nothing serious.”

“I was starting to think you’d buggered off back to Cape Town.”

“Stopped for lunch. What’s the situation?”

“Not good, mate. We’ve lost two men and we’re pretty wel pinned down. Every once in a while they fire off

a round to remind us they’re stil there, and I reckon they’re either sending men around to try to flank us or

waiting for reinforcements.” He thumbed toward the African speaking urgently into his phone. “Okot and I

figure our only chance is to wait until dark and try to get out to the east. But I doubt they’re going to let the

sun go down without throwing something at us we’re not going to like.”

Okot stuffed the phone back in the pocket of his fatigues and picked up his weapon. Howel never saw

the rifle butt that smashed into the back of his head and sent him pitching face-first into the dirt.

Smith tried to raise his pistol, but the African was already lined up on his head. He cal ed back to his men,

and a moment later one of them was waving a dirty white handkerchief above the grass.

45

Outside Washington, DC, USA

November 25—1159 Hours GMT–5

RANDI RUSSELL DRIFTED UP behind a slightly listing Honda and waited for a place to pass while NPR

faded to static. When the winding rural road straightened, she slammed the Chevy Aveo’s accelerator to the

floor and tapped the wheel impatiently as it limped up to seventy.

She’d sold her Porsche along with her house a few years ago, final y fed up with dealing with them from

halfway across the world. Now, on the rare occasion she was stateside, she stayed in a tiny farmhouse her

col ege roommate had renovated but never found the time to use. The property was perfect—two hours from

DC in traffic, quiet, and built around a huge fireplace that was the ideal place to unwind before her next

assignment.

All Things Considered final y completely died, and she flipped off the radio, turning her attention ful y to

Jon Smith. He stil hadn’t responded to the message she’d left, and a more insistent cal to USAMRI D had

once again gotten her nothing but the party line—Colonel Smith had taken personal leave and was

unreachable at this time.

Her friend at TSA had come through, tracking Jon to Cape Town, South Africa. Interestingly, just the

continent the late Brandon Gazenga had built his career around.

She had a plane reservation for tomorrow, made under an alias the CIA knew nothing about. A girl could

never be too safe.

The road turned steep and she pressed the accelerator to the floor again, barely maintaining forty miles

an hour as patches of snow began to appear in the trees. Honestly, a quick trip to the Cape wouldn’t be a

bad change of pace. She despised being cold and most likely she’d find Jon lying on his surfboard catching

rays. Heck, maybe she’d pack a bikini and stay on a few days.

Or maybe not.

Their relationship was one of the few things in life she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around. Fate

constantly threw them together, usual y along with a few near-death experiences and a soul-wrenching

personal disaster or two. As close as they’d become, she wasn’t sure how many more meetings they were

both going to survive.

As Randi crested the hil , the engine began to lose power, lurching weakly and final y cutting out as she

rol ed the tiny Chevrolet onto the shoulder. A few twists of the ignition key produced precisely nothing. Not

even dash lights.

The stupid thing had less than ten thousand miles on it and not so much as a scratch in the paint or a chip

in the windshield. After spending the last year on a camel that spit on her every time she got within ten feet,

was a little reliable transportation too much to ask?

Knowing from experience that there was no cel reception, Randi got out and looked down at the hood for

a moment before reaching into the back for her gym bag. It was four rol ing miles to the house, with

temperatures just below freezing under a partly cloudy sky. A nice jog, a cup of tea, and a quick cal to AAA

or an hour digging around in an engine that was probably suffering from an unfathomable computer glitch?

Not a terribly hard decision.

She was searching for her shoes when the Honda she’d passed earlier pul ed in behind her.

“Car trouble?” a man in his early thirties said, throwing his door open and leaping out with a level of

enthusiasm that suggested former Boy Scout.

“Yeah, but I’m okay. I just live up the way.”

“We’d be happy to give you a lift.”

“I appreciate it, but honestly I could use some exercise.”

The very pregnant woman in the passenger seat struggled through her door and waddled around in front

of the bumper. “We can’t just leave you out here in the cold.”

“Real y, I’m fine. I—”

Neither of their movements was fast or coordinated enough to cause alarm, but suddenly both were

holding pistols aimed at her chest.

“If you could hand over your Glock, I’d be grateful, Ms. Russel .”

She didn’t move, examining both of them careful y. Their position was perfect—far enough from each

other that she couldn’t engage both at the same time and lined up in a way that they had her in a cross fire

without putting themselves in danger of hitting each other. The woman was now standing in the slightly

crouched position of an expert marksman, apparently no longer affected by her “pregnancy.”

Whoever they were, they were good—even by her standards. Also, they were wel connected. Not only did

they know the brand of firearm she carried, but it seemed likely that they’d used the OnStar System to shut

down the Chevy. Those codes weren’t given out to every carjacker with an e-mail address.

Randi slowly pul ed the gun from the holster at her back, silently cursing her stupidity. Being in the States

with most of her long list of enemies half a world away had dul ed her edge. Not a lot, but apparently enough

to get her kil ed.

“Move away from the car, please.”

As she did, a woman she hadn’t seen emerged from the backseat of the Honda and started toward her.

They were about the same size, with exactly the same clothes and hair. Randi watched as she got behind

the wheel of the Chevy and turned the key. It started right up and she immediately sped away.

Based on that, it seemed unlikely they were just going to execute her. And every moment she was stil

breathing was a moment she could escape. If they put her in the car, they’d be close enough for her to use

the knife she stil had. It was a slim chance, but it was al she had.

“Looks like you could use a lift,” the man said. “But first, why don’t you give me the blade you keep

strapped to your thigh.”

46

Northern Uganda

November 25—2018 Hours GMT+3

MEHRAK OMIDI AWOKE TO the sound of cheering and exited Bahame’s command tent, where he had

retreated to escape the jungle’s insidious biting bugs. Young soldiers had crowded around an old pickup,

and he was forced to climb onto Bahame’s podium in order to see the two unconscious white men in the

back.

The mob kicked and spit on them as they were dragged toward captivity and, soon, death. Charles

Sembutu, for al his fearsome reputation, had proven to be an old woman where the Americans were

concerned. He had ignored every opportunity to get rid of Smith’s team, and when they’d final y gotten too

close, he’d continued to refuse to act—instead cal ing Omidi with their position and washing his hands of

the matter.

The lights of the pickup flickered off, revealing a dim glow approaching through the trees. A moment later,

an extravagant four-wheel-drive vehicle came skidding into camp. Caleb Bahame leapt out, ignoring the

adulation of his soldiers as he pul ed a woman across the front seats and out the driver’s door.

Omidi stepped forward, his gaze moving from the tangle of blond hair to the face so unconvincingly trying

to portray courage. The Ayatol ah’s continued insistence that they release the parasite on the anniversary of

the victory of the revolution had seemed impossible—even with their top biologists working around the

clock. And his unwavering belief that God would provide a solution had seemed dangerously naïve. But

Omidi once again found himself humbled by the aging cleric’s wisdom and faith.

He leapt from the podium and retreated to the blackness at the edge of the jungle, unable to take his eyes

off the woman. The doubts he’d had about their plans and his fears regarding the American intel igence

agencies were suddenly gone. God had made his presence known, and now the success of what lay ahead

seemed almost preordained. Sarie van Keuren, the person most qualified to stabilize and weaponize the

parasite, had been delivered to him.

* * *

JON SMITH OPENED his eyes, watching the vague shapes around him slowly coalesce into a stone ceiling,

rusted bars, and primitive lab beyond. He stil didn’t have the strength to get up, and he let his head lol

toward the motionless body of Peter Howel next to him.

“Peter. Are you al right?”

The blow to the back of the old soldier’s head had been vicious enough that Smith suspected he might

never wake up.

“Peter. Can you—”

A low moan came from the man and then something that may have been words.

“What? Did you say something?”

When he spoke again, his voice had gained strength. “The easiest fifty grand you ever made…”

Smith hadn’t quite managed to sit ful y upright when a piercing scream sounded. The jolt of adrenaline

didn’t do much more than amplify the pounding in his head, and he scooted instinctively away from the bars,

scanning for the source of the terrible sound.

About ten feet away, a woman was imprisoned in a similar cel built into the opposite wal of the cave.

Smith watched through a curtain of blood-smeared plastic as she stretched her arm through the bars,

looking like she’d be wil ing to break every bone in her body to get to them.

“You’re awake.”

Smith turned sluggishly toward the voice, struggling to focus on an old man wearing a canvas apron that

looked like it had spent the last fifty years in a slaughterhouse.

“Where’s Sarie?”

“Who?” the man said.

Smith used the depressingly solid-feeling bars to pul himself to his feet while Howel assessed the

damage that had been done to the back of his head.

“Sarie van Keuren. She was with us.”

“I don’t know.”

The man clearly wasn’t one of Bahame’s henchmen—he was too white, too old, and, based on his

speech, too wel educated.

“Who are you?”

“Me?” he said, looking a bit startled by the question. “Thomas De Vries. I’m a retired doctor who was

kidnapped to keep a man alive so Bahame could kil him. Then I was put in here and told to find a way to

keep a brain parasite alive outside the body so it could be transported.”

“Did you succeed?”

He shook his head. “I’m not a scientist. And even if I was, I wouldn’t do it.” He pointed to the infected

woman, who had tired a bit, but not so much that she’d completely given up trying to get through the bars.

“Bahame keeps the infection alive by passing it on to successive victims. You’re in the holding tank now.

When she starts to die, you’l be put in with her. And when you start to die, your friend wil be. I’m sorry.”

“That’s just outstanding,” Howel said as Smith grabbed him under the arm and helped him to his feet.

“Tel me, mate. Is there any way—”

He fel silent at the sound of approaching footsteps, and De Vries ran to a plywood-and-cinderblock table,

where he tried to look busy.

The man who entered a few moments later wasn’t the one Smith expected. He was clearly Middle

Eastern, and despite filthy, sweat-stained clothing, he had a strange air of meticulousness. When Smith

mental y cleaned him up, there was something familiar. He’d seen the face before.

“Colonel Smith, Mr. Howel . I have to say I’m surprised you were captured so easily.”

The Persian accent was the final piece he’d needed. “Slumming a bit, aren’t you, Omidi?”

The man smiled. “Wel done, Colonel. Of course, my presence wouldn’t be difficult to predict. Someone

has to stop America’s bioweapons division from getting hold of this parasite and using it against the Muslim

people.”

“You and Bahame make an excel ent team,” Howel commented. “What’s the old saying? Two peas in a

pod?”

Omidi ignored the insult, secure in the knowledge that he had the upper hand. “How much does the

American government know about what’s happening here?”

“It’s not going to be that easy,” Smith said.

“No, I suppose not. But it doesn’t real y matter. You’ve run out of time.”

Footsteps again echoed through the chamber, and Smith counted them, trying to add an estimate of their

distance from the cave entrance to the things he’d put together about their surroundings: The bars were

solid despite some surface rust, and the lock was modern. Much of the equipment in the lab could be used

to cut flesh, but there seemed to be nothing that could be used effectively on steel. The old doctor was

certainly an asset but had neither the temperament nor the physical ability to do anything heroic. In the end,

Omidi was probably right. Their time had run out.

Sarie appeared first, stumbling into the chamber in a way that suggested she’d been pushed. One of her

sleeves was soaked through with blood and her eyes were red and swol en, but beyond that she seemed

unharmed.

Caleb Bahame came in behind her and, with the exception of some graying at the temples, looked

exactly like the twenty-five-year-old photos Star had included in the dossier she’d prepared.

Howel moved suddenly to the bars, wrapping his fingers around them and glaring at the African as he

walked casual y to the center of the chamber.

“Peter Howel ,” he said. “It’s been many years. You look sick and weak.”

Bahame saw the surprise on Smith’s face and smiled. “Did Peter not tel you? We are old acquaintances.

He kil ed many of my men. Many of my flock.”

“You had a lot to cower behind,” the Brit responded.

“They love me. They understand who I am. What I am.”

“And what is that, exactly?” Smith said, but Bahame ignored him.

“You know, I hired a man in America to come for you, Peter. It’s unprecedented. You should be flattered to

command the attention of a man like myself.”

“I remember,” Howel said. “If you’d ever like to visit him, he’s buried out by my shed.”

Bahame’s smile widened. “You must be very anxious to hear what happened to Yakobo. He was a very

fine boy and became a very fine soldier. You’l be happy to know that I eventual y found some of his family.

An aunt, I believe. I told him to rape her and then burn her alive, though he certainly didn’t need my

encouragement. He enjoyed himself very much.”

Howel yanked powerful y enough on the bars to cause dirt to shower down on them.

Bahame laughed. “But now God has delivered you to me. Just as he promised he would. I wil very much

enjoy dealing with you.”

“Do it now,” Omidi said, speaking for the first time since the African entered.

“In good time.”

“Not in good time. Now. They’re of no use to us. Keeping them alive is an unnecessary risk.”

The African waved a hand dismissively, obviously wanting to savor the sensation of having Howel

completely at his mercy. “I said in good time. I’l use the whites to keep the spirits alive. To show my people

that no one can stand against my magic.”

“We have an agreement. We—”

“An agreement? How do prisoners that I captured enter into our agreement?”

“I’m the one who gave you their location. It was my source in the American—”

“God told me their location. You were just a convenient messenger.”

He grabbed Sarie by the hair and pul ed her to him. She was smart enough not to fight but drew the line at

hiding her hatred.

“And now I have the woman. Maybe I don’t need you anymore, eh, Mehrak?”

It was clear that Omidi understood the weakness of his position. Bahame was a mystic and a

psychopath, but he had enough of an understanding of biology to know how useful Sarie could be in making

the parasite a more practical weapon.

“Perhaps we could strike a bargain for her,” Omidi said.

Bahame looked vaguely insulted. “She isn’t part of our deal and I can make use of her myself.”

“Of course you are right,” Omidi said, his tone softening into something that approached subservience.

“But we have the facilities to put her skil s ful y to use. Certainly there is room for negotiation.”

The African nodded. “There’s always room for negotiation between good friends. Come, let’s drink and

we can talk of this more.”

47

Outside Washington, DC, USA

November 25—1244 Hours GMT–5

THE CRUNCH OF ICY gravel sounded impossibly loud as Randi walked toward a smal cabin tucked into

the woods about ten miles from the nearest asphalt. The drive there had offered no opportunity for escape,

and the situation wasn’t getting any better. Her captors were a good ten feet behind her, one thirty degrees

left and the other thirty degrees right, staying close to the tree line.

The chances of her making a break and getting to cover without catching a bul et seemed to be hovering

somewhere between slim and none. It would have been an easy shot for someone half as good as the

people covering her. But even if by some miracle they did miss, that left her running unarmed through the

snow in heels and a skirt.

Randi stopped at the front door and glanced back, unsure what to do. The woman, who looked much

more sleek after shedding the elaborate foam bel y, motioned her inside.

The trees were tantalizingly close, and Randi focused longingly on them in her peripheral vision before

reaching for the knob. At this point she just had to keep breathing long enough for someone to make a

mistake. Not a great strategy, but the only one currently available.

There was a green-wood fire crackling to her right as she entered, and she couldn’t help reveling for a

moment in the heat coming off it. The gal ey kitchen at the back of the cabin was separated from the main

living area by a granite-topped island, and there was a man standing next to the sink working on something

she couldn’t see. He was a little less than six feet tal , with thinning hair and a suit that apparently had a

healthy fear of irons.

“Randi,” he said, glancing up at her. “I’l be right with you. Pour us some wine.”

There was a carafe on a coffee table near the fireplace, and she examined the odd way the light played

off it and the two glasses next to it. Plastic. A quick sweep of the room confirmed that any object more

dangerous than a soft cushion had been removed.

The man came around the counter and slid a plate of cheese and fruit onto the table before settling into

one of the sofas surrounding it. “Please. Sit.”

He didn’t look even mildly athletic, but behind his glasses his eyes were sharp—a little sharper than she

would have liked. The intel igence didn’t just reflect there; it glowed.

Stil devoid of options, she took a seat across from him and poured. He reached for a glass and took a

careful sip, nodding approvingly. “I was afraid it might be a little past its prime, but I’m happy to say I was

wrong. Please don’t let it go to waste. If I wanted you dead or unconscious, you already would be.”

It was hard to argue with his logic, and she put the plastic glass to her lips. Credit where credit was due.

The man knew wine.

“First let me apologize for the melodrama. You’re being watched by a surprising number of people, and

not al of them are from my organization. We had to make the switch quickly enough that no one would

notice.”

“Your organization?” Randi said.

The man frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. My name is Fred Klein.”

Randi took another sip of wine, processing the name impassively.

“Can I assume you’ve heard of me?”

“There was a Fred Klein who worked for a while at the CIA and then spent years at the NSA. After leaving

there, though, I don’t know what happened to him.”

“Oh, he did a bit of this and that—final y culminating in our meeting.”

“I see,” she said, not bothering to hide her skepticism. She’d never met Fred Klein personal y, and there

was no way to confirm this was him. It was an intriguing claim, though. He had a serious reputation in the

intel community, and the suddenness of his resignation from the government had led to more than a little

speculation in the circles she ran in.

“You left Jon Smith a message a few days ago,” he said. “I mentioned it to him and he was concerned.”

Smith. Stil popping up in the oddest places.

“It was nice of him to be worried, but it was just a personal cal about my sister. Do you know where he is?

I’d like to connect with him.”

“Unfortunately, he and I recently lost touch.”

“That’s a shame. Wel , I’l try to catch up with him when he gets back. Thanks for the wine. Any chance I

could get a ride home?”

Klein smiled and stabbed at a piece of cheese with a toothpick. “Do you know where Jon is?”

“No idea.”

“So I should just chalk it up to coincidence that you booked a ticket to Cape Town for tomorrow?”

“My compliments. You’re extraordinarily wel -informed.”

“I have to admit to a little luck on that one. I’ve had occasion to do business with the same Czech forger

you used to have that passport made. But, unfortunately, Jon’s no longer in South Africa.”

“No?” Randi said, unwil ing to reveal anything herself, but perfectly happy to let Klein—or whoever he was

—talk.

“He caught an internal flight to Uganda four days ago.”

“Real y?” she said noncommittal y. “How interesting.”

Klein sank back into the sofa.

“Perhaps we should change the subject for a moment. The reason I knew about the message you left Jon

isn’t because we’re watching him. It’s because we’re watching you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because there are people high up in our government who have been interested in you joining our little

family for some time now.”

“Exactly what people and what family is that?”

Klein studiously ignored the first part of her question. “I work for an organization cal ed Covert-One.”

“Never heard of it.”

“And neither has anyone else. We were formed as a fast-response team—smal , agile, and outside the

normal bureaucracy. I think you’re familiar with one of our top operatives…”

“Jon.”

He nodded.

“I can’t tel you how much that explains…,” she said before catching herself and fal ing silent again.

“And I can’t tel you how far beyond top secret the things I’m tel ing you are.”

There was no question of that. If it came out that there were forces in the U.S. government running a black

ops group that circumvented oversight, there would be hel to pay. Having said that, she’d worked with the

conventional intel community long enough to be sympathetic to the need for such a group.

“Do you know a man named Brandon Gazenga, Randi?”

“Never heard of him,” she lied smoothly.

Klein smiled. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you? I wonder why it is, then, that you cal ed

your friend at the FBI and asked him to send someone to Gazenga’s house.”

This time, Randi didn’t bother to hide her surprise and Klein didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction at final y

getting a reaction out of her.

“Okay, Fred. I’m official y impressed. But what are we real y talking about here? Why pick this moment to

recruit me? Could it be that you sent Jon on an errand to Africa and something went wrong? That you need

me to bail him—and you—out?”

He frowned and reached for another piece of cheese. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but I

wouldn’t say your assessment is entirely inaccurate.”

“Then let’s cut to the chase. Why is Jon in Africa?”

Klein didn’t react immediately, thinking for a few seconds before using a remote control to start a video

on the cabin’s television. “This was taken in northern Uganda two weeks ago. The men are from our top

blacks ops unit. I’m afraid none of them are stil alive.”

48

Northern Uganda

November 27—1904 Hours GMT+3

CALEB BAHAME PACED BACK and forth across the clearing, his gait becoming faster and stiffer as time

passed. Most of his men had retreated to the safety of the jungle, but a few novices remained, unwittingly

standing far too close.

Omidi glanced at his watch. Two hours late.

There was no way to contact the men bringing the weapons shipment in. The transfer to Bahame’s team

had been successful y made, but there had been no communication from them since.

Even without the delay, it was a very delicate situation. Sembutu had agreed to al ow Omidi to move

freely around Uganda without informing the Western intel igence agencies and to al ow the Iranian weapons

delivery to go through, though now it appeared that he may have once again panicked. If he’d stupidly

decided that arming Bahame was too much of a risk for the reward he’d been promised, then the situation

was going to deteriorate very quickly and very dangerously.

A young soldier suddenly burst from the jungle at a ful run, skidding awkwardly and losing his balance

when Bahame raised a machete and started screaming. The boy held up a hand protectively, unintel igible

words tumbling from his mouth. The violent rage burning in the cult leader’s eyes cooled so suddenly that it

was hard to believe it had ever existed, and instead of dismembering the child, he cheerful y helped him to

his feet.

It wasn’t necessary to speak the local language to understand what had happened. The shipment had

been spotted.

It was another fifteen minutes before the first truck appeared, lumbering along the poorly maintained road

used for transporting parasite victims to and from the vil ages Bahame overran. It was painted with the logo

of one of the many aid agencies operating in the country, and when the first boxes were thrown from the

back, emergency rations spil ed out.

Despite their obvious malnourishment, the young soldiers emerging from the trees showed little interest in

the food. It wasn’t until a box ful of mortars was crowbarred open that their enthusiasm flared.

Bahame took personal control of the unloading, directing the crates of guns, mines, rifles, and

ammunition to various storage areas at the edges of the camp, watching each one with glassy-eyed

obsession.

When the second truck pul ed up, he lost interest in traffic control and stepped back to examine the single

enormous crate strapped to the flatbed. Omidi smiled imperceptibly. He hadn’t been sure if this one would

actual y arrive, but once again, God had provided.

“It is a gift,” the Iranian said. “From His Excel ency the Ayatol ah Khamenei to you.”

Bahame leapt onto the back of the truck and shouted for help as Omidi pressed two boys into service

pul ing down the ramps on the trailer. The front of the box was pried open and Bahame disappeared inside,

his excited shouts audible as he kicked out the remaining sides.

When it was done, something that looked like a smal tank sat amid the splintered wood. It was squat and

angular, with thick Plexiglas windows and a single seat.

“It’s made by an American company for police bomb-disposal units,” Omidi explained. “I’m told it can take

a direct hit from an RPG and travel more than sixty kilometers per hour.”

Bahame leapt to the ground and snatched the machine gun from around the neck of one of his soldiers.

What was going to happen next seemed obvious, and Omidi threw himself to the ground as the sound of

automatic fire ricocheting off steel fil ed his ears.

By the time he stood again, the African was already back on the truck, stepping over the body of a girl

who hadn’t fled fast enough and reaching out to caress the undamaged skin of the vehicle. He opened the

door and squeezed into the confined space, searching for the ignition. A moment later, the engine roared to

life in a cloud of black diesel smoke.

Omidi retreated to the makeshift podium set up at the edge of the jungle and dialed a number into his sat

phone. The line clicked a few times and then a familiar voice came on.

“Yes?”

“The first two trucks have arrived.”

Bahame managed to get the vehicle down the ramps and started chasing his terrified men around the

clearing.

“Then should we begin our final preparations?”

“Immediately.”

“We wil wait for your signal.”

Bahame skidded a hundred and eighty degrees and began roaring in his direction, but Omidi didn’t

bother to move. If there was one thing he was absolutely sure of, it was that the African would never risk

damaging the stage he used to display his godhood.

49

Langley, Virginia, USA

November 27—1129 Hours GMT–5

DAVE COLLEN LOOKED HAGGARD as he fel into one of the chairs facing Drake’s desk. The redness of

his eyes suggested that he’d been up for at least twenty-four hours straight, and his expression implied that

the time hadn’t been as productive as it needed to be.

“We stil don’t have any details on what happened to Smith and his people during their arrest beyond the

fact that they were taken to an old military base and released eight hours later. It could be nothing more than

some soldiers happening to witness Smith pul ing a knife on Sabastiaan Bastock—”

“Quite a coincidence,” Drake said. “And it doesn’t explain why Bastock seems to have ended up dead.”

“I’m not buying it either, but the people we have watching them don’t have access to that base. We have

no way of knowing what happened there.”

“And after they were released?”

“They picked up a vehicle at the black market and drove north fol owed by some of Sembutu’s men. No

stops to speak of until they got to a farm owned by Noah Duernberg. They spent the night there and then

headed deeper into Bahame country. That’s where we lost them.”

“Is there any link between Duernberg and the parasite?”

“None that we know of. He’s the second generation in that house. His father was a doctor by training and

was loosely connected to Idi Amin.”

“A doctor? Is it possible he had experience with the infection?”

Col en shrugged helplessly. “He’s been dead a long time, and record keeping in that part of the world isn’t

exactly state-of-the-art.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know, isn’t there?” Drake said, starting to lose control of his frustration.

“I told you before we got rid of Brandon that it was going to partial y blind us in Uganda.”

“Do we at least have someone we can we send to Duernberg’s farm to look around?”

Col en shook his head. “That’s where the news gets worse. After Smith and his people left, the farm was

burned to the ground with Duernberg in it. His wife and child were in an apartment in Kampala trying to work

out a way to emigrate. We sent people there…”

“And?”

“They found them in the bathtub with their throats slit.”

Drake ran a hand over his mouth and it came away slick with sweat. Duernberg knew something, and

someone wanted to keep it quiet. But who? Bahame was the obvious answer, but was it the correct one?

The fact that Smith and his team had been taken to a military base and were now being fol owed pointed in

another direction—Charles Sembutu. Could there be a connection between him and the Iranians?

Col en seemed to read his mind. “Larry, we’re losing control here. This started as an exercise in spinning

data. Now we’ve got an American team lost somewhere in the jungle, an old doctor’s family murdered, and

one of our most dangerous operatives sniffing around to the point that she has to be dealt with. I think it’s

time we consider going to the president with what we’ve got.”

“Are you getting cold feet?” Drake said, the volume of his voice rising in the soundproof room. “Were you

only in this as long as there was no personal risk? As long as—”

“Bul shit, Larry! I’ve been with you from the very beginning, and I’ve been the only one getting his hands

dirty. You’re not stuck trying to find reliable people to track Smith through the damn jungle. And you sure as

hel weren’t in Brandon’s bedroom when he died. But we’ve lost track of one of our top microbiologists and

the world authority on parasitic infections. What if Bahame has them? Jesus, what if Omidi has them? Then

we may not be looking at an unsophisticated infection that would be relatively easy to control. We could be

looking at something that’s been weaponized.”

Drake opened his mouth to reply but instead took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Dave. I didn’t mean to

question your commitment.”

“I guess tempers are running high,” he said, forcing a smile.

Drake nodded. “I agree that the risks—to us and to the country—are higher than we hoped. But I disagree

that pul ing the plug wil change that. What would Castil a be able to do? Go after Bahame? He already took

out our best team. Make our suspicions public? That wil just turn into a bunch of political posturing that’l

give the Iranians even more time to work on this thing and cover their tracks. Khamenei’s losing his grip—

he knows that better than we do. He’s going al -in on this. He doesn’t have any choice.”

Drake paused to let Col en respond, but the man just stared at the ground.

“Here’s what I propose, Dave. We initiate another shake-up of our bioterror response system—throw a

bunch of new scenarios at them, including one that quietly approximates a worst-case scenario for this

parasite being weaponized. That way we’l have something that can be implemented quickly if the Iranians

manage to refine the parasite before they release it. Casualties wil be worse than our estimates but should

stay within the three quarters of a mil ion that we considered the high side of acceptable. In the end, though, I

doubt we’re going to see that kind of sophistication. My hunch is that Smith and his team are dead.”

His assistant nodded silently.

“Do you agree?” Drake prompted.

Col en final y met his eye. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Larry. You’re right. We always knew that taking down the

Iranians wouldn’t be easy, but…”

“We hoped it would be easier than this,” Drake said, finishing his thought.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then. Randi Russel . Where do we stand with her?”

“The news is better there. She’s locked down tight—physical y and electronical y—and she doesn’t seem

to have done anything at al since contacting the TSA.”

“No more fol ow-up on Brandon’s death with her FBI contact?”

“Nothing.”

“Has she made any more attempts to get in touch with Smith?”

“Not after the second cal to Fort Detrick.”

“So you’re confident she’s gotten nowhere?”

“Al I can say is that I’m fairly confident she doesn’t know anything more than whatever was written on the

piece of paper Brandon put in her pocket.”

“Do you think she’s given up? Should we step back from our plans to deal with her?”

Col en shook his head. “If it was anybody else, I’d say we should reassess. But Randi Russel never gives

up. Once she gets her teeth into something, she doesn’t let go until she’s satisfied. My take is that she’s hit

a dead end and this is just a pause while she figures out her next move.”

“I agree. Now’s the time to do this—before she gets hold of some loose end we missed. Have you

contacted Gohlam?”

“Everything’s set. We’ve given him al her details and he’s waiting for the go-ahead.”

Drake drummed his fingers on his desk, fixing for a moment on the closed door to his office. Padshah

Gohlam was an Afghan mole living in Maryland on a student visa. The CIA had known about him since the

beginning and let him into the United States to try to ferret out his contacts. They’d managed to crack his

communications system, which al owed Col en to impersonate his Afghan handler while circumventing the

agency’s surveil ance. As far as Gohlam knew, he was being activated to take out an American operative

responsible for the deaths of countless jihadists across the globe.

It was a seemingly perfect scenario. Not only would there be no reason for anyone at the agency to be

suspicious of Gohlam’s motives; they would be very anxious to sweep their failure to control him under the

rug. Randi Russel would disappear and the details of her death would be swal owed by a black hole of

administrative ass covering.

“Do it.”

“To be clear,” Col en said careful y, “you’re tel ing me to give him the signal to take out Russel .”

Drake nodded. “Do it now before she figures out a way to bring al this down on top of us.”

50

Northern Uganda

November 27—2105 Hours GMT+3

CAN YOU HOLD IT out a little more, Sarie?”

She pressed herself tighter to the bars and twisted the padlock in her hands, giving Smith a better angle

to attack it with the rusted saw. They’d been at it for hours and he guessed they weren’t much more than a

sixteenth of an inch through the hardened steel. But what was the alternative? Sit and wait for death?

His arms felt like they were on fire and the sweat streaming down his nose occasional y choked him as he

gulped the blood-scented air. When he nearly fumbled the blade, he final y staggered back and let Howel

take over.

Dr. De Vries was standing lookout at the edge of the only passage into the chamber but was too old and

decrepit to be counted on for much else. The infected woman imprisoned next to them was weakening fast,

lying in mud created by her own blood. She saw him looking at her and lunged feebly at the bars with

twisted, shattered hands. It wouldn’t be long now before she was too far gone to do even that. And then

Bahame would be back.

Smith pressed his back to the cave wal and slid down into the dirt, trying futilely to find something he’d

missed. Some way to get out of there.

“How do you know Bahame?” Sarie said.

Her face and Howel ’s were only a few inches apart, and she seemed to be searching his eyes for the

answer.

“There was a time we ran in the same social circles,” he said, starting in on the lock.

“It’s a little late to be mysterious, isn’t it? We’re going to die here.”

Howel stopped sawing for a moment. “Dead is dead and almost dead is alive. Very different things.”

He went back to work, and Smith turned his attention to the equipment in the lab. There had to be

something there. Something they could use.

He was examining the broken generator against the wal for what must have been the twentieth time when

Howel started talking again.

“I did some work in Angola years ago. After it was finished, I decided to travel around the continent a bit.

See the sights. I ended up in a vil age not far from here where an aid agency was working on an irrigation

project. They were a man down and I had some knowledge from growing up in farm country, so I threw in for

a bit…A tad higher, dear.”

Sarie adjusted the position of the lock and he continued. “Bahame wasn’t the man you see today. He was

leading a group of former drug runners and cutthroats on a bit of a pil aging-and-raping spree. I suppose

this was before he found God.” Howel smiled bitterly. “In any event, I’d been at the vil age for about six

months when he and his men showed up.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, they overran us quite quickly—the people living there were a peaceful lot. No weapons beyond the

tools they used for farming.”

“But you got away.”

“You’d be surprised how effective certain farm tools can be in the right hands. I kil ed six or seven of

Bahame’s men before I was forced into the jungle. I tried to get back, but I’d been shot and couldn’t move

very quickly. I’m afraid by the time I managed to stop the bleeding, it was over.”

“Who is Yakobo?”

Howel didn’t answer immediately, focusing his ful attention on the lock. “He was a boy whose parents

had died and whose aunt and uncle weren’t particularly interested in his upbringing. I helped him out here

and there. More trouble than he was worth, real y.”

The heaviness in his voice suggested that Yakobo had, in fact, been very much worth the trouble.

“I’m so sorry, Peter.”

Howel stopped and took a step back, signaling that he needed a break.

Before Smith could push himself ful y to his feet, though, De Vries turned toward them. “I hear footsteps!”

he said in a harsh whisper. “They’re coming!”

Smith put an arm around Sarie’s shoulder, and they moved to the back of the tiny enclosure. She reached

up and squeezed his hand, a simple act that magnified the guilt gnawing at him. What had he been thinking

when he’d agreed to let her come with them? He’d known damn wel that it could turn out this way.

Bahame entered with the same young boy and three guards that he’d used to put Sarie in the cage with

them. The system the African had devised was simple, but also al but foolproof: the boy, unarmed and too

smal to use for cover, unlocked the cage while the guards set themselves up wel out of reach with guns at

the ready. Undoubtedly, there were additional men strategical y posted in the passageway, turning it into a

hopelessly constricted shooting gal ery.

Smith supposed it was to be expected. No one was going to be happy about being put in a cage with one

of the victims of the parasite—particularly after sitting a few feet away watching what it was going to do to

them. Even the gentlest soul could be counted on to risk the most suicidal opportunity to escape.

“What now, Caleb?” Howel said, approaching the bars.

The African smiled and stepped aside as Mehrak Omidi and a tal man in a spotless white turban and

galabiya entered. His skin gleamed like obsidian, as did his eyes as they scanned the room. Definitely not

one of Bahame’s fol owers. Almost certainly from Sudan.

“Who’s he?” Smith said.

Omidi didn’t acknowledge the question, instead watching as the man rol ed out the prayer rug he was

holding and knelt.

Bahame seemed barely able to contain his impatience, fidgeting like a child in church as the man prayed.

“I’d like to show you why you wil never win,” Omidi said when the man stood again and swept aside the

plastic in front of the woman’s cage. The bars clanged dul y when she stretched an arm through.

The Sudanese used a bejeweled dagger to put a long cut his forearm and then held the wound out to the

woman.

He wasn’t expecting her sudden burst of strength and was pul ed hard into the bars as she clawed at him.

Blood spattered his arm and he was forced to grab her hair with his free hand to prevent her from biting him.

They fought like that for a ful thirty seconds before he final y managed to pul away, his weight and the

slickness of sweat and blood final y trumping her superior strength.

He was clearly shaken by his experience and kept his eyes on the woman as he retreated to the sound of

her frustrated screams.

Omidi pointed at De Vries. “Tend to Dahab’s wound.”

The old doctor looked to be on the verge of col apsing from fear, but he managed to pul on a pair of

surgical gloves and keep his hand from shaking too much to suture.

Bahame grunted and pointed to their cage, prompting the boy with the key to approach and release the

lock.

“Dr. van Keuren,” Omidi said. “Please come out.”

She pressed her sweat-soaked body a little tighter to Smith’s. “I think I’l stay here if it’s al the same to

you.”

“You know what wil happen to you if you stay. I’m offering you a way out of here. I’m offering you freedom.”

She just shook her head.

Howel had the tip of the saw blade between his fingers, and he turned his hand subtly so that Smith could

see the rest of it running up his forearm. A burst of adrenaline throbbed in Smith’s head, further clouding it.

The Brit wasn’t suggesting an escape attempt—that was pointless. He was offering to put a quick and

painless end to Sarie van Keuren.

“No…,” Smith stammered. Suddenly, it was impossible to separate her from Sophia. Impossible to

separate this day from the one he’d watched the woman he loved die.

Omidi let out a frustrated breath and pointed to De Vries, who was winding a bandage around Dahab’s

arm. “Kil the old man.”

One of the guards redirected his aim, and Sarie jumped toward the open door to their cel . “Stop!”

The Iranian just smiled and held a hand out to her.

* * *

THE SUDANESE SHOVED Sarie and De Vries into the back of a canvas-covered military transport as

Omidi looked on. Her companions were stil alive—a loose end that infuriated him, but one that he would

have to tolerate for the moment. They were formidable men, but the chance that they could escape their

prison and stay ahead of Bahame’s men in unfamiliar terrain was unlikely in the extreme. Particularly with

time running out so much more quickly than they imagined.

“You remember our agreement?” Bahame said as Omidi started toward the cab of the truck. “You wil

give me whatever the woman discovers.”

“Of course, my good friend. We fight for the same thing. The freedom of our countries.”

That seemed to please the African, and Omidi accepted his hand, counting on the darkness to hide his

disgust. Bahame put his own desires before those of God—something he would be made to pay dearly for.

The Iranian climbed into the truck and started the engine, putting a hand through the open window in a

respectful salute as he pul ed away.

Bahame glowed red in the tail ights and Omidi waited until his image disappeared from the side mirror

before pul ing out a smal GPS unit and switching it on. The signal would transmit the coordinates of

Bahame’s camp to a Ugandan military force waiting some two hundred kilometers to the southeast.

In a way, it was regrettable. Smith and Howel didn’t deserve the quick death that he was giving them. No,

they deserved to die like their countrymen soon would: insane and bleeding.

51

Northern Uganda

November 27—2153 Hours GMT+3

JON SMITH HAD TAKEN over holding the lock and Howel was sawing again, though they both knew their

time had run out. The infected woman hardly moved anymore, even when their eyes met through the

spattered plastic. She’d be dead soon, and that meant the parasite kil ing her would need a new host.

Footsteps became audible in the passageway and Howel shoved the blade down the back of his pants

as they moved away from the bars. A moment later, Bahame and the team he’d so meticulously trained to

shuttle people in and out of the cel s appeared.

“I’l al ow you to choose who goes in with her first, Doctor. You or your good friend Peter?”

Howel just shrugged. There was no way he was going to spend the last few hours of his life lying in a

muddy cage losing his mind. He would undoubtedly choose to go down in a futile last charge. The question

in Smith’s mind was, would he do the same? The thought of a few quick rounds to the chest had become

strangely comforting over the time they’d been imprisoned there, but he was a survivor by both nature and

training. Could he knowingly run straight at the barrel of a loaded AK-47?

“I’m sorry,” he said, clapping Howel on the shoulder. “I think this may have been one adventure too many.”

The Brit smiled. “I told you men like us don’t get old. We just—”

The unmistakable whup of a bomb detonating was fol owed quickly by three more, shaking the ground

violently enough that Smith had to put a hand against the rock wal to keep his balance. Muffled automatic-

rifle fire started a moment later, along with a string of shouted orders from Bahame as he tried to get to the

passageway leading outside.

Another explosion sounded and Smith threw his arm in front of his face as part of the ceiling col apsed,

kicking up a choking cloud of dust that temporarily obscured everything around them. He lunged for the

bars, hoping they’d been loosened by the blast, but Howel yanked him back just as the woman who had

been imprisoned next to them col ided with the rusted steel.

“Watch your eyes and any cuts!” Smith yel ed as they pressed against the back of the cel in an attempt to

stay clear of the blood running down her outstretched arm.

It took only a few seconds for her to determine that they were out of reach, and she turned, rushing through

the haze toward the other men in the chamber. Bahame had fal en and was just getting back to his feet

when he saw her coming. One of the guards and the boy were already gone, and the last man was going for

the passageway when Bahame grabbed his arm and spun him into the woman. A joyful screech erupted

from her when they col ided—the sound of endless, unbearable frustration final y being released.

The young guard cried out to Bahame as she flailed at him with crushed hands, but the man he revered

as a god was already disappearing up the passageway.

The rumble of the fighting outside was suddenly lost in the deafening static of a rifle on ful automatic and

bul ets ricocheting off stone. Smith and Howel both dove to the ground as the guard final y managed to get

control of his weapon and press the barrel to the woman’s chest. She jerked wildly as he pul ed the trigger,

final y going limp and sliding to the ground.

Smith jumped to his feet and rammed his ful weight against the bars. Despite the considerable damage

to the cave, they didn’t budge.

“Hey!” he cal ed to the blood-spattered guard staring down at the woman’s body. The desperation in his

eyes was powerful enough to be visible even through the swirling dust. Powerful enough to use.

“Hey!” Smith shouted again, trying to get his voice to rise above the sound of the escalating battle

outside. “Do you speak English?”

The young man looked at the passageway leading out and then back at Smith. He gave a short nod but

otherwise seemed paralyzed.

“I’m a doctor. You heard Bahame say it himself. This isn’t magic. It’s just an infection. I can cure you.”

“You…You can help me?” came his heavily accented reply.

“Yes,” Smith lied. “You just need to let me out.”

The man looked up the passageway again, unsure what to do.

“Bahame ran like a woman. You saw the fear in him. He has no power over this. I do.”

Western medicine commanded a substantial amount of respect with most Africans, and fortunately for

him this man was no exception.

“Get back,” he said, aiming his rifle at the lock and firing a control ed burst. Smith kicked the door and

took a deep breath of the thick air. They were out. Probably only to die in the fighting outside, but at least

they’d go down swinging beneath an open sky.

The guard trained his gun on him and nodded toward the medical instruments strewn across the ground.

“You do it. You cure me.”

“I need—”

“No more talk!” he shouted, aiming his weapon directly between Smith’s eyes. “You cure me now. I want

to go home. To my vil age. To my family.”

A blast came a little too close, and Smith ducked involuntarily, looking up at a wide crack opening above

them. They didn’t have time for this.

He dropped to his knees and rummaged around, final y turning up a syringe. When he stood again, he

saw that the man was so preoccupied by the thought of ending up like the woman at his feet that he hadn’t

noticed Howel slipping silently up behind him. The Brit had decided to minimize any bloodletting by opting

for a softbal -sized rock in place of the saw blade. Smith fussed with the syringe, keeping the attention of the

young man as Howel closed in.

Then it was over. The guard, who had undoubtedly been kidnapped by Bahame as a child, would never

go back to his vil age. He would never again see his family.

Smith scooped up the dead man’s gun and fol owed Howel into the passageway. It took only a few

seconds to reach the mouth, and they pressed themselves to opposite sides, trying to make sense of the

chaos beyond.

Three helicopters were visible, lit by the flash of their cannons as they mowed down everything in their

path—trees, fleeing soldiers, children. The fighter planes that had carried out the initial rocket attacks were

retreating south, but Smith wasn’t convinced they’d seen the last of them.

Broken, burning bodies were everywhere, and, suddenly leaderless, the surviving soldiers scrambled for

open crates of weapons that they seemed unclear how to use.

Smith crossed to Howel and shouted over the din. “We need to find our truck. Omidi’s got enough of a

head start that it’s the only thing fast enough to catch him.”

The Brit didn’t seem to hear, instead scanning the destruction in front of them.

“Peter! Are you—”

“There!” the Brit said, pointing to the west side of the clearing. A smal group of soldiers were gathered in

a tight formation, moving awkwardly along the edge of the jungle. Smith focused on them and immediately

spotted what his companion found so interesting: the graying hair of Caleb Bahame glowing in the firelight

as he tried to escape the inevitable result of making deals with the Iranians.

Howel took off across the clearing without a thought, dodging through bodies and confused soldiers

before scooping up a machete lying across a stump. Smith cursed under his breath and fol owed, holding

the gun he’d taken at the ready despite the fact that he didn’t know if there was any ammunition left in the

clip.

Fortunately, the people around him were more interested in survival than in two running white men, and

Smith crashed into the jungle a few seconds behind Howel and Bahame.

When he came to the edge of a much smal er clearing than the one they’d just abandoned, he stopped to

look for unfriendlies and was shocked when Howel just charged into the open without breaking stride. On

the western rim of the glade, a vague outline of three young soldiers was visible in front of what looked like a

carport constructed of vines and leaves. Beneath it, the truck they’d bought in Kampala suddenly lit up.

Bahame was already behind the wheel, and the familiar whine of the starter was audible as he tried to get

the engine to turn over. Smith wasn’t paying attention, though, instead focusing on the muzzle flashes from

the frightened boys trying to line up on the crazed white man bearing down on them with a machete.

Smith squeezed off a short burst just over their heads, relieved that the clip wasn’t empty.

“Run!” he shouted, waving them off.

They didn’t, though, instead continuing to fire wildly in Howel ’s direction. None of the shots seemed to be

getting within twenty feet of him, but there was no tel ing when someone would get lucky.

Smith switched the gun to semiautomatic and winced when he put a round into the chest of a kid who, in

America, would have just started high school. The two surviving boys decided they’d had enough, and one

ran east along the edge of the trees, final y disappearing into them on what was hopeful y his way home. The

other took a less advantageous route behind the Land Cruiser that Bahame was slamming into reverse.

The rear bumper caught him in the legs, pul ing him under the tires as Bahame tried to get to a narrow dirt

track leading into the jungle. Smith squeezed off a careful shot just as the cult leader found first gear. The

round shattered the driver’s-side window a split second before Howel col ided with the door and punched

through what was left of the glass.

There was a muzzle flash from inside the car, and the Brit fel away, landing on his back in the dirt. Smith

got off another shot, but it passed harmlessly by Bahame and punched a hole in the right side of the

windshield. The African looked in his direction, realizing that the next shot was going to kil him. He ducked

down and threw the passenger door open, sliding out and vanishing into the darkness.

“Peter! Are you al right?”

The SAS man was just making it back to his feet when Smith came up alongside. Miraculously, he hadn’t

been hit, but there were powder burns on his face, and his eyes were tearing badly.

“Can you see?” Smith said, checking the sky for attack choppers before pul ing open one of Howel ’s lids

to look for damage.

“Yeah, I can see,” he said, jerking away. “I’m fine.”

There was no time to argue, so Smith pul ed open the Land Cruiser’s door and slid behind the wheel.

“Keys are stil in it and it’s got a ful tank. Get in. I’l drive.”

Instead, Howel backed away and picked up the machete he’d dropped. “Why don’t you go on ahead? I’l

catch up.”

“What the hel are you talking about, Peter? Get in the damn car.”

“I’m sorry, Jon.”

“You’re sorry? I didn’t bring you here to settle a personal vendetta. Omidi’s got the parasite and someone

with the expertise to weaponize—”

“Don’t lecture me about personal, Jon. I’d have hated like hel doing it, but we both know you should have

let me take care of Sarie back in that cage. You’re on your own, mate.”

52

Northern Uganda

November 27—2226 Hours GMT+3

PETER HOWELL JUMPED OVER a rotting log and then slowed when a group of Bahame’s soldiers darted

in front of him. None took a shot, instead scattering and disappearing in a chorus of panicked shouts.

Their deity-driven command structure had col apsed, and the forces attacking them weren’t the unarmed

vil agers they were used to. As near as he could tel , the entire Ugandan air force was overhead, unloading

the country’s stockpile of rockets and machine-gun rounds. Behind him, the jungle was on fire, sending an

impenetrable wal of flame nearly a hundred feet into the hazy, chemical-scented air.

Most of Bahame’s fol owers would be running east toward the river. It was the easiest terrain, and the

water would act as a firebreak, but it was also a fatal error. They were clearly being flushed, and the

Ugandans would have troops dug in on the far shore—something those terrified children wouldn’t discover

until the water was over their heads.

Howel spotted a streak of blood on a leaf and angled left, picking up speed again. The wind was with him

for now, but if it shifted he could find himself wandering aimlessly in a cloud of choking, opaque smoke. He

was too close to let that happen.

The sound of helicopter rotors became audible behind him, and he ignored it until he could feel the thump

of them in his chest. The people he’d seen a few moments ago were being targeted, and he was forced to

throw himself to the ground as the nose gun opened up. Rounds arced over his head, bringing branches as

thick as two inches down on top of him as the gunner refined his aim. The cries of children sounded for a

moment and Howel found himself wishing them a quick death—not out of sympathy, but expedience. He

didn’t have time to be pinned down here. Bahame was on the move.

His wish was answered, and he ignored a pang of guilt as the screams went silent and the helicopter

moved off. The trail continued—Bahame was obviously bleeding badly from the cut he’d suffered when

Smith shattered his window. Stil , the farther he got from the firelight, the harder he would be to track. Howel

knew that it would be only a matter of minutes before the trail disintegrated into the deepening gloom.

The ground rose on either side as he ran, funneling him into an inky canyon with vine-covered wal s.

Despite the obvious terrain trap, he continued, savoring the burning in his legs, the stench of the battlefield,

the intermittent gleam of Bahame’s blood. Final y, he forced himself to stop. As much as he didn’t want the

intoxicating sensation of hunting Bahame to end, he also didn’t want to be dead. Not yet.

Howel grabbed a sturdy vine and went hand over hand up the slope, turning to move paral el to the deep

furrow when he reached the top. Progress was slower than he hoped, but final y he spotted movement.

Unfortunately, the unreliable light made it impossible to discern what was causing it. He got to his knees

and crawled forward, trying to clear his mind of the possibility that he was creeping up on an aardvark while

Bahame disappeared into a thousand miles of jungle. It didn’t work, though, and he found himself going too

fast, the sound of leaves brushing past him carrying into the air.

The crack of the gunshot was quickly fol owed by a searing pain in his shoulder. He dove behind a tree,

his training demanding a strategic retreat to assess Bahame’s position and check the severity of his

wound.

Instead, he broke cover, sprinting ful bore in the direction the shot had come from. Another sounded but

went wide as the person firing tried to run and shoot at the same time. A moment later the outline of his

attacker became visible. Not another child. A ful -grown man in fatigues. Bahame.

Howel barely noticed the bul ets hissing past, a dangerous il usion of invincibility overtaking him as

everything else faded away—the jungle, the explosions, the helicopters. And when it was al gone and only

Bahame remained, he did seem strangely godlike. The last thing on earth.

They col ided near the edge of the shal ow ravine and fel into it, locked together as they tumbled through

the vines. Bahame swung a knife and Howel was forced to drop his machete in order to deflect the blow.

He went for the African’s eyes with his thumbs, but they hit the ground hard and were thrown apart.

Caught up in the emotions of final y having Bahame so close, Howel hadn’t pushed the air from his lungs

before the impact and was now completely unable to breathe. Bahame had fared better and managed to

stagger to his feet, but instead of finishing off his opponent, he went to the vines and started trying to climb

out.

Howel was grateful that the men who had trained him weren’t there to see this pathetic display—the

dazed African repeatedly climbing a few feet before sliding back to the ground, and him lying there gulping

at the air like a dying fish.

He was getting a little more oxygen in with every breath, though, and his head final y cleared enough for

him to crawl to the machete he’d dropped.

“Too…late, Caleb.”

Bahame looked back, losing his grip and slipping to the ground again. He didn’t try to run, instead just

standing there dumbfounded that this could be happening to him—to a living god.

He ripped open his camouflage shirt and used one of the bones hanging around his neck to put a gash

across his chest. His eyes rol ed back in his head, the whites gleaming in the flickering light as he chanted

in his native language.

“Are you summoning demons to strike me down?” Howel said, feeling his balance and strength return.

He tested his right shoulder by lifting the machete over his head. Ful y functional. Bahame’s bul et had only

grazed him.

“I think I’m a little old to be afraid of the dark, Caleb.”

53

Washington, DC, USA

November 27—1706 Hours GMT–5

PRESIDENT SAM ADAMS CASTILLA pushed his titanium glasses up and swiped at his exhausted eyes. “I

don’t even understand what you’re saying to me, Fred. That Larry Drake—who I’ve known for years—had

one of his analysts kil ed?”

“Sam, we—”

“Wait, I’m not done. He had one of his analysts kil ed so that he can help Iran get hold of a horrifying

biological weapon that they would then use against America?”

“That’s a little oversimplified,” Klein said.

He hated coming to his old friensd with something this speculative—the president of the United States

had more than enough concrete disasters to deal with on any given day. At this point, though, the situation

was too dangerous to ignore and impossible to pursue without Castil a’s direct involvement.

“What do you want me to do with this, Fred? Cal the FBI director and tel him that a man who spent his

entire life serving this country is actual y some kind of radical Muslim mole? And then when he asks me for

evidence—a murder weapon—I could pul out a spare rib that’s a week past its sel -by date?”

Castil a stood suddenly and began pacing back and forth across the Oval Office.

“Sam, are you al right?”

“Hel no, I’m not al right. If anyone but you came to me with this, I’d fire them and then have them

committed. But you’re not just anyone and that means I actual y have to take this seriously—I have to start

worrying about the loyalty of the man running our intel igence network.”

“If it makes any difference, I doubt Larry’s a radical—at least not a Muslim one. And in his own way, I think

he believes he’s stil serving the country.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about, Fred? By letting what kil ed those soldiers loose in the

streets?”

“He could be trying to force your hand on Iran.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What would you do if this did get out and he could prove the Iranian government was behind it?”

“I’d knock down everything in their country tal er than a fire hydrant,” Castil a replied, slowing and final y

coming to a stop. “You’re saying Drake is trying to manipulate me? Trying to get me to authorize a military

strike?”

“Based on his feelings about the threat Iran poses, I think it’s worth considering.”

Stil unable to bring himself to sit, Castil a went back to pacing, muttering unintel igibly.

“Sam?”

“Okay,” the president said. “Let’s say this is true—and I’m not convinced it is by a long shot—what do you

propose we do about it? Drake has a lot of al ies—hel , I’m one of them. And taking down a man who’s

familiar with every skeleton America has in its closet isn’t exactly trivial.”

Klein nodded and reached for the steaming cup of tea on the table in front of him. “Not trivial at al . But we

have someone I trust on the inside—”

“Randi Russel took you up on your offer.”

“Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. But I can tel you that she isn’t buying into Gazenga’s food poisoning and

she’s never going to turn her back on Jon Smith.”

“Any word from him?”

Klein shook his head. “And I’m not hopeful there wil be. The farm he visited has been burned to the

ground and the Ugandan government seems to be bombing the area around his last known position.

Reports are that they found Caleb Bahame’s camp.”

“If Bahame’s gone…”

“The threat from the parasite could be too,” Klein said. “But I wouldn’t count on it. It’s a little suspicious that

after decades of searching, the Ugandans final y manage to find him this week. More likely the Iranians got

what they were after and betrayed him.”

The strength seemed to drain from Castil a and he col apsed into a chair. “I assume you have a

recommendation?”

“If Randi wil agree to help, I think we have a chance of control ing Drake.”

“If you think he’s guilty, why not just take him down?”

“Because, frankly, I’m not sure I’m right. And because our problems with Drake—if they exist at al —are

secondary.”

“The Iranians,” Castil a said, and Klein nodded.

“I’m in the process of inserting a backup team into Uganda, and I’m working through our contacts in Iran to

see what we can find out there.”

Castil a leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. “So to sum up: you’re sending a second-string

team to deal with something that most likely kil ed your top operative and you’re trying to learn about a

beyond top secret bioweapons program in a country where we can barely figure out what day they pick up

the garbage.”

The image of Smith and Howel flashed across Klein’s mind, but he pushed it away. There would be time

to mourn later. “And that’s what we need to talk about, Sam. Covert-One’s resources are limited, but yours

aren’t. I need your authorization to bring more personnel in on this—CDC, USAMRI D, and some university

people. Also, I think it’s time you start considering what we’re going to do in the very likely event that my

people fail.”

“You’re talking about a military option.”

Again, Klein nodded. “We have to start preparing for that eventuality, and you need to decide what

threshold of intel you need in order to head down that road.”

54

Northern Uganda

November 28—0143 Hours GMT+3

JON SMITH’S FOOT HOVERED over the brake for a moment and then slammed back down on the

accelerator as he approached a washed-out section in the dirt road. It was a good ten feet wide, but the

Land Cruiser lofted obediently into the air and landed on its reinforced suspension without so much as a

creak.

It was impossible to know for certain which way Omidi had gone, but a good bet was toward Kampala,

where he would find the modern airstrips necessary to bring in a jet. Another benefit of chasing in the

direction of the city was that the wind was with him, carrying enough smoke to make the Land Cruiser

invisible from the air for the first twenty miles. By the time Smith had broken out of the haze, he’d been wel

away from the area Sembutu’s forces were concentrating on.

He came around a bend, the halogen-loaded light bar making it possible to creep up to ninety on the

straightaway that fol owed. Where was that Iranian bastard? Had he guessed wrong? Was there an airstrip

to the north? Was Omidi planning on escaping by another means?

Thoughts of Sarie encroached on his mind, and he tried to limit them to the ramifications of letting her fal

into Omidi’s hands. Soon, though, he found himself sinking into vague fantasies of a teaching job at the

University of Cape Town. About Saturdays working on her old farmhouse fol owed by gril ed kudu and beer

with the neighbors. But most of al , about never again picking up the phone and hearing Fred Klein’s voice

on the other end.

He shook his head violently. Where the hel had that come from? Concentrate!

He drifted the vehicle around another corner and leaned forward over the steering wheel, squinting at two

pinpricks of red light barely visible ahead. When he made it to within two hundred yards of the beat-up

military truck, its gentle sway turned violent and confirmed that it was the vehicle he was looking for. Omidi

had spotted him and was making a run for it.

The road was far too narrow to pass, leaving few options. Ramming the back of the heavy vehicle

seemed pointless—most likely it would just destroy the front of the Land Cruiser. Hanging a gun out the

window and trying to aim with one hand seemed equal y low percentage. And that left him with one last

possibility that was only marginal y better.

He selected the best maintained of the AK-47s he’d found on his way out of the jungle, set the cruise

control, and stood up through the open sunroof.

Before he could line up on the left rear tire, though, the flap on the back of the truck was thrown open. His

position wedged into the sunroof was surprisingly stable, and he swung the barrel in the direction of the

movement, fil ing his sights with the battered, dirty form of Sarie van Keuren. She was on her knees and

Dahab was behind her, a bandaged arm around her throat and a machine gun resting on a crate next to her.

The motion of the vehicles made it pointless to try anything more ambitious than going for Sarie’s center

of mass and hoping the bul et passed through into the man holding her.

Smith hesitated for only a fraction of a second before tightening his finger on the trigger, but it was al the

jihadist needed. He opened up on ful automatic, punching through the Land Cruiser’s gril e and then moving

up to shatter the windshield.

Smith dropped back inside, letting the AK skitter across the roof and land in the road behind him. Rounds

continued to hiss past as he grabbed the wheel, trying to get control. The tires on the passenger side

dropped into a ditch, and he felt himself being thrown around the interior as the vehicle rol ed.

A tree final y stopped it on its roof, Dahab’s bul ets pummeling the underside in an attempt to ignite the

gas tank. Fortunately, they bounced harmlessly off the protective plating that Sarie had been so impressed

with, and soon the gun went silent.

Dazed, Smith managed to crawl through the broken passenger window and stagger into the road with

one of the remaining AKs, but by that time, the truck had disappeared into the darkness.

55

Langley, Virginia, USA

November 27—1902 Hours GMT–5

RANDI RUSSELL SLID A half-eaten sandwich into the trash can next to her desk and looked around at the

temporary office she’d been assigned. The only other things in it were a computer, the chair she was sitting

in, and a framed poster by the door. It depicted four rowers in a boat, and the caption read “Teamwork.”

Someone’s idea of a joke, no doubt.

What she real y wanted at this moment was to be back in Afghanistan. To hear the wind against the cliffs,

to see the shocking color of the poppy fields, to get swal owed up by the emptiness. She longed for the

simplicity of knowing the Taliban would do everything in their power to kil her and that her men would do

everything in their power to make sure that didn’t happen.

In many ways she’d spent her life trying to prolong the game of cops and robbers that she’d abandoned

her dol s for as a child. Black hats. White hats. And a whole lot of guns.

But those days were gone. The grown-ups were playing now.

She’d spent the last two days using both legal and il egal means to dig into every aspect of Nathaniel

Frederick Klein’s life. His work record was sterling, respect for him was almost universal, and even his

enemies begrudgingly used words like “bril iant” and “patriot” to describe him. Stil more interesting was that

her vague memory of his personal relationship with President Castil a turned out to be right—they’d been

friends since col ege.

The obvious implication was that Castil a was the “people high up in our government” Klein had referred

to and the White House was behind Covert-One’s funding and power. But implications weren’t proof.

She’d contacted Marty Zel erbach because he was the first person she’d have gone to if someone had

given her a copy of that Uganda video. The hunch had paid off and he’d shown her his analysis after making

her swear that she wouldn’t tel anyone he’d kept a copy.

So everything Klein had said checked out. But did that mean he was on the up-and-up or just that he was

as smart as everyone said he was? Could he be working as a private contractor? His modest lifestyle didn’t

suggest a highest-bidder scenario, but that didn’t prove anything either. Even if he was raking in serious

cash, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to make it obvious.

And final y, there was the irritatingly enigmatic Jon Smith. Klein knew the name would be a powerful

motivator—both because of her desire to make sure he didn’t end up dead and because she would tend to

give the benefit of the doubt to anyone he’d already vetted. But how could she be sure that Jon actual y

worked for Covert-One? Hel , for al she knew, he was working against the organization and Klein wanted to

use her to track him down and get him to lower his guard.

The bottom line, though, was that Klein’s story wasn’t something she could turn her back on. If he was on

the level and she didn’t help, countless people could die. On the other hand, if she let herself be played,

even more people could die.

Randi sat in silence for a few more minutes, final y reaching for the phone and dialing Charles Mayfield,

the CIA’s deputy director.

“Don’t tel me you’re backing out of lunch tomorrow,” he said by way of greeting.

They’d been friends for a long time and Mayfield had always watched her back—even when it wasn’t in

the best interest of his career. But how far was he wil ing to go?

“We need to talk, Chuck. Now.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. About what?”

She propped an elbow on the desk and rested her head in her hand. Good question.

56

Northern Uganda

November 28—0402 Hours GMT+3

PETER HOWELL SKIDDED THE stolen jeep to a stop and jumped out, running through the dust cloud he’d

created to the Land Cruiser resting on its roof. The front and side, dimly lit by his one working headlight,

were ful of bul et holes and he hesitated before looking inside.

No blood to speak of and, thank God, no body. Just a couple of rusting AK-47s with missing clips.

He’d lost friends on ops before—in fact, Jon Smith was one of his last comrades in arms stil

aboveground. But the circumstances of the others’ deaths had been very different.

Now that the fog of vengeance had lifted, he could see clearly what he’d done. He’d jeopardized a

mission that he’d given his word to carry out, he’d turned his back on the mil ions of people who could be

victimized by the parasite, and, worst of al , he’d abandoned a man who wouldn’t have done the same to

him.

Howel pul ed back and searched for tracks, final y finding footprints in the dust at the edge of the road. He

fol owed them for a few feet, seeing the stride lengthen. Smith was not only alive but in good enough

condition to run. No thanks to him.

He jumped back into the idling jeep and floored it up the road. Its top speed wasn’t much more than forty

—something he couldn’t confirm with any precision because there were only loose wires where the

speedometer had once been. Fortunately, the one piece of electronics the vehicle’s late owner hadn’t

pawned was the temperature gauge, and Howel managed his speed to keep it just below redline.

Almost a half an hour passed without a breakdown but also with no sign of Smith. Frequent stops

confirmed that the footprints were stil there but also that the stride was beginning to wander. Despite the

darkness, the temperature was stil hovering around one hundred degrees. Even Jon Smith couldn’t run for

long in that kind of heat. No one could.

The jeep’s headlight continued to dim, and he concentrated on the tiny swath of il umination it provided,

covering the brake with his left foot in case of a sudden obstacle.

It was a strategy that worked wel for keeping him from snapping an axle but one that made it impossible

to see the man aiming an AK-47 at him until it was almost too late.

Howel slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel, sending him into an uncontrol ed fishtail as the figure

dove back into the jungle to avoid being hit. When the jeep final y skidded to a stop, the Brit jumped out, not

bothering to reach for one of the weapons in the back. “Janani’s not going to be happy about what you did

to his car.”

Smith didn’t acknowledge his attempt at a joke, instead dusting himself off and shouldering his rifle. His

clothes were soaked through with sweat and his face stil carried sooty streaks from the fires started by

Sembutu’s air force.

“Jon, I—”

When he got within range, Smith slammed a fist into Howel ’s midsection hard enough to lift him off the

ground. The Brit sank to his knees and then rol ed onto his side in the dirt, trying desperately not to throw up.

“Okay,” he said when he could breathe again. “I had that coming. But it worked out, eh, mate? It’d be a

long walk to Kampala.”

“And that’s the only reason I didn’t shoot your ass,” Smith said, holding out a hand and helping him to his

feet.

“Water in the jeep,” Howel said, and Smith limped over to it, reaching greedily for one of the bottles

before jerking his hand back and retreating a step.

“What the hel is that?”

Howel came alongside and picked up Caleb Bahame’s severed head, looking into the half-closed eyes

while Smith used his sleeve to clean the blood off a liter container.

“Just a little souvenir.”

“I think it could make keeping a low profile a little hard,” Smith said, pouring the water over his face and

into his open mouth.

Howel frowned. “I suppose you’re right. But you have to admit it would have made a handsome ashtray.”

57

Near Entebbe, Uganda

November 28—0806 Hours GMT+3

THE SUN HAD ESCAPED the horizon and was now pounding down on the chaotic morning traffic outside of

Entebbe. Mehrak Omidi swerved to prevent someone in a seventies-era pickup from passing him on the

shoulder but then mental y reprimanded himself. Now wasn’t the time to let his frustration get the better of

him.

A quick glance through the broken back window confirmed that the situation was stil under control. Van

Keuren and De Vries were bound and gagged in the truck’s canvas-covered bed, and Dahab was at the

back flap watching for anyone fol owing. Much of the power and grace the Sudanese had demonstrated in

Bahame’s camp was gone, though. He was struggling to keep his balance in the swaying truck, and his

immaculate robe was damp with sweat.

It was to be expected. Soon his usefulness as a host for the parasite would be over and he would have to

die—a fate known to him since the beginning. He would be delivered into the hands of God a martyr.

“I see them!” Dahab shouted suddenly.

“What are you talking about?” Omidi responded, looking into one of the side-view mirrors at the traffic

behind them.

The African’s English was limited and he jabbed a finger at the now closed canvas flap. “I see the white

men!”

Omidi kept his eyes on the mirror but put a hand on the pistol next to him. There had been no outward

signs of confusion. Had he simply not noticed their onset? Was the Sudanese becoming delusional?

Then he saw it: an open army jeep ten cars back swerving dangerously into oncoming traffic in an attempt

to pass. Omidi wiped the dust from the mirror and concentrated on the image of the two men. It was

impossible to make out individual features, but he felt a dul jolt of adrenaline when he cataloged their

general builds, clothing, and hair color. It couldn’t be, but it was. Jon Smith and Peter Howel .

They tried to pass again, this time on the left, and were forced to veer back into the line of traffic by a gap

in the shoulder that fel away into a ditch.

Omidi took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to quel the panic building inside him. He couldn’t fail

now. Not when he was this close.

Ahead, he could see a plane rising into the air and arcing out over Lake Victoria. Entebbe was no more

than twenty kilometers away, but his ultimate destination—a private airstrip where a jet was waiting for him

—was wel beyond that. Eventual y, the men chasing him would leapfrog the cars in front of them—a

maneuver he wouldn’t be able to match in the lumbering truck.

Omidi took his hand off the pistol and picked up a phone, dialing Charles Sembutu’s personal number. It

was picked up almost immediately.

“Mr. President. I’m on the Entebbe road nearing Kisubi. Smith and Howel are behind me. I—”

“How is this my problem, Mehrak?”

Omidi tried to keep his voice calm and respectful. “I need you to intervene. They are driving dangerously

in an open jeep. Have your police pul them over. Fifteen minutes is al I need.”

“I arrested and questioned Smith and Howel for you. But that wasn’t enough. I delivered them into your

hands in the north country. But stil this wasn’t enough. The fact that you failed to deal with them is—”

“And I delivered Bahame and his people, which al owed you to put an end to an insurgency that would

have destroyed you.”

“Then we have both honorably lived up to our agreements. I wish you good fortune.”

The phone went dead, and Omidi slammed it down on the seat. Coward.

A quick check of his mirror confirmed that the ailing jeep stil hadn’t managed to pass and now there was

steam rol ing from under the hood. They were stil moving, though, and the military truck would be easy to

track.

“Dahab!”

The African lurched through the back of the truck and came to the window.

“There’s been a change of plans,” Omidi said, enunciating careful y so the African would understand. “Do

it now.”

Dahab grabbed De Vries and rol ed him onto his stomach, ignoring his muffled screams as he carved a

deep gash in his back. Van Keuren tried to kick out as the African put a similar cut in his own thumb and

then ground it into the aging physician’s wound.

It didn’t take De Vries long to comprehend what had happened—that there was nothing left to fight

against. His body convulsed gently as he began to sob through his gag.

Satisfied, Omidi turned his ful attention back to the road. “Dahab, you’re getting out at the Entebbe

airport. Do you understand?”

“I understand. What are my instructions?”

58

Entebbe, Uganda

November 28—0828 Hours GMT+3

STOP HERE,” SMITH SAID, standing so that he could see over the steam coming from the jeep’s radiator.

The truck Omidi was driving had turned off for the airport, but then they’d lost sight of him while they were

stuck crawling along the congested road.

“Is he up there?” Howel said as he let the vehicle coast to a halt close enough to see the terminal and

parking area but not so close as to draw the attention of security. Two beat-up white men driving around in

an old army jeep coated in dried blood was bound to generate unwanted attention.

“No,” Smith said, fal ing back into his seat.

“Then what’s the plan, boss?”

He thought about it for a few moments, but no bril iant ideas presented themselves. Just desperate ones.

“We go into the airport,” he said, using water from their last bottle to try to clean the dirt, soot, and blood

from his face and hands.

“You think Omidi’s going to try to get Sarie on a commercial flight?”

Smith passed the bottle. “No, but they may handle private planes here. And even if they don’t, you should

be able to find someone who’s familiar with the private airstrips in the area.”

“And what wil you be doing while I’m playing detective?”

“Making a phone cal .”

Howel frowned at the cryptic answer. “Might I suggest the cavalry?”

* * *

They strol ed into the airport wearing matching T-shirts silk-screened with the Ugandan flag—the only thing

the souvenir vender outside stocked in their size. Smith immediately split off toward a bank of pay phones,

smiling casual y and smoothing his wet hair as he passed a mildly curious, but extremely wel -armed guard.

When he reached the phones, he immediately picked one up and pressed it to his ear. No dial tone. Same

with the second one he tried. And the third.

“They don’t work.”

The woman was wearing a neatly pressed airport uniform and spoke with a light African accent. “I’m

sorry. We had a fire recently and they haven’t been fixed. Apparently, it’s not a priority because so many

people carry their own phones now.”

He managed a polite smile. “I real y need to contact my family. Are there any phones that do work?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Do you have a phone I could use? I’d be happy to pay you.”

“I do, but it isn’t capable of making international cal s. I think your only option would be to buy a cel phone

and—”

“Buy a phone,” he interjected. “There’s somewhere I can do that here?”

“Of course. Just fol ow this corridor to the end and turn left. You can’t miss it.”

The store was right where she said it was, but there was only one person working and five customers in line.

Based on the impatient tone of the man in front of the counter and the bored expression of the woman

behind it, progress could be stal ed for hours.

“Jon?”

He spun and saw Howel at the entrance to the shop, waving him over. They retreated to the terminal’s far

wal , out of earshot of the people flowing back and forth.

“We’ve got a problem, mate.”

“What? Are there other airstrips?”

“No. But I found that tal bloke from the cave.”

“The one who infected himself ?”

Howel nodded.

“Where?”

“Going through security. He’s getting on a direct flight to Brussels and he doesn’t look like he’s feeling al

that wel .”

Smith blinked hard, calculating how long the man had been infected and adding the time it would take to

fly to Belgium.

“Even using De Vries’s most optimistic estimate, he’s going to go ful y symptomatic on that plane,” Smith

said. “When he starts attacking the other passengers, they’l most likely think he’s a terrorist. There’s no

tel ing how many people he’l infect before they get control of him.”

“Boarding has already started,” Howel prompted. “We don’t have much time. Can you get in touch with

someone who can bring that plane down somewhere safe?”

“He’s a decoy, Peter. Omidi infected someone else and left Dahab here as a diversion.”

“No question. But you have to admit, it’s one hel of a good diversion.”

He was right. Omidi could be anywhere—waiting for his jet to arrive in a private lounge a hundred yards

away, on his way to a remote airstrip in a hired helicopter, or heading for the border in an unmarked car ful

of Iranian security personnel. Their chances of finding him at this point were hovering around zero.

Smith looked at the man stil arguing about his phone and the mild interest they were getting from yet

another machine-gun-toting guard. Trying to cut in line would be pointless—it wouldn’t get him the phone any

faster and would certainly bring airport security down on them. Explaining to the guard that the Sudanese

had to be prevented from getting on that flight would likely accomplish nothing but involving an ever-

increasing number of supervisors and setting into motion the glacial African bureaucracy.

“Boss?” Howel prompted.

“I’m entertaining suggestions.”

“If we can get into the boarding area fast enough, we may be able to find a way to take him.”

Smith shook his head. “Too much possibility of blood getting thrown around. We’d be kil ed or arrested,

and someone infected could get on that plane or out into Kampala. Are there seats left on the flight?”

“Probably, but I seem to have misplaced my travel documents.”

Smith pul ed his, Howel ’s, and Sarie’s passports from his pocket. “They were stil in the glove box. The

one thing a child soldier living in the jungle would have no use for.”

“So we’re going to let him get on a plane to Europe?”

“You see a plane; I see an airtight quarantine with a good international communication system and only a

couple hundred people at risk.”

Howel shrugged, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “It’s your party. I just hope you know what you’re

doing.”

“Me too,” Smith said, starting for the Brussels Airlines counter.

59

Outside Washington, DC, USA

November 28—0257 GMT–5

PADSHAH GOHLAM LOOKED DOWN at his watch, but the hands had ceased glowing. The movement of the

stars suggested that it was past two a.m. and the aches beginning in his young body supported that

estimate.

His training for this mission had begun almost the day he was born in a remote part of central

Afghanistan. The mountains of the Hindu Kush were more barren but had the same penetrating cold, the

same overwhelming solitude. His father, a great and pious man, had taught him to move silently and

invisibly through the desolation, avoiding the Americans’ technology and ambushing their special forces as

they tried to claim his country for Christendom.

When his father died, the Americans, who stil believed the fiction that he was a supporter of the infidel

invasion, had given the young Padshah a visa to study in Maryland. And he had suffered through it—the

arrogant professors, the women sitting unashamed next to him in his classes, the curriculum devoid of God.

In truth, though, he’d only been waiting to be cal ed upon. Waiting for this night.

He reached up and gently folded back a branch of the tree he was sitting in, examining the tiny farmhouse

a hundred meters away. Much of it was obscured by foliage, but there was a natural hole that revealed the

driveway and part of the icy path to the front door. Once again, God had provided.

The snow started again, and he had to admit to himself that the Western hunting clothing he’d purchased

was far superior to what he grew up with. So many of his enemies were stil alive because of a slight cold-

induced tremor in his hands. But not tonight.

He saw headlights for the first time in hours and lifted his rifle, sighting through the scope at the vehicle

turning into the driveway. The door was thrown open and a shock of blond hair gleamed in the dome light as

the woman pul ed herself unsteadily from the car.

Probably drunk, he thought. Without the supervision of a father or husband, who knew what she might

have been doing? This was what the Americans wanted to do to his people—strip them of their identity and

turn their daughters into whores. How could a country that was unable to control its women ever hope to

control Afghanistan?

She moved awkwardly along the slick ground, turning up the col ar of her long coat as she picked her way

toward the door. This was the great Randi Russel ? The woman who had kil ed so many of his Taliban

brothers? It was almost impossible to believe the stories now that he saw her in person.

She was initial y in profile, and he waited until she turned toward the door, unwittingly squaring her back in

his crosshairs. Gohlam took a breath and held it, quel ing his excitement and concentrating on not

subconsciously anticipating the rifle’s recoil.

The crack of it seemed impossibly loud amid the fal ing snow, echoing through the forest for a moment

before fading into the ringing in his ears. Russel pitched forward, bouncing off the door before col apsing

into the snow piled at the edge of the walkway.

Gohlam chambered another round before sweeping the scope across her blood-spattered back, final y

letting the crosshairs stop on the back of her head. A silent prayer for the men who had fal en to her was on

his lips as his finger began to tense again on the trigger.

The sound of the shot was al wrong, and instead of the satisfying impact of the butt against his shoulder,

he felt the hot sting of wood shards penetrating his cheek.

It took him only a moment to understand what was happening, and he threw himself to the right, narrowly

avoiding a second bul et that exploded against the tree trunk he’d been leaning against. Branches buffeted

him as he fel , slowing his descent enough that when he hit the ground, he was able to immediately rol to his

feet and start running. Another shot sounded and he waited for it to carry him to God, but instead it hissed

harmlessly past.

Randi Russel tried to move, instinct tel ing her to get to cover when virtual y every other system had shut

down. She could hear shouting and gunshots but couldn’t feel her arms or legs. The flair of pain in her back

had disappeared into numbness, and she found it impossible to discern whether or not she was breathing.

The snow next to her had turned red and she tried to grasp what that meant.

“Randi!”

A sense of weightlessness came over her as she was dragged away from the house.

“Hold on, Randi!”

But she couldn’t. Not this time. She closed her eyes and the sense of weightlessness grew. They’d

planned this so careful y. How the hel had she ended up being the one lying facedown in the snow?

Eric Ivers had Randi’s col ar in one hand and his gun in the other, firing it in the general direction of the

woods as the man he’d set up on the roof took much more careful shots.

“Almost there, Randi! Hold on!” he said, leaving a crimson trail as he dragged her behind her car. His

partner sprinted across the street and disappeared into the woods as the voice of his sniper came over the

radio. “I no longer have line of sight. The shooter is uninjured.”

Ivers swore under his breath as he eased Randi onto the driveway, unsure what else to do. He was a

combat specialist, not a medic. In the end, he just rol ed her onto her stomach so that if she vomited her

passageway would remain clear, and then set off after his partner.

“Karen, do you have anything?” he said into his throat mike.

“Easy tracking because of the fresh snow. But I could use some backup.”

“On my way.”

Ivers entered the trees twenty-five yards south of where she had and ran hard, risking the use of open

ground to make time.

He saw a muzzle flash ahead and adjusted his trajectory to take him into the darkness just behind it.

“I got him!” he heard Karen say over the radio. “The shooter is down. I repeat, the shooter is down.”

Ivers came in from the side, spotting her creeping toward a man lying across an icy log. He was on his

back, struggling to sit up while she screamed at him to stay down.

The man released the rifle he no longer had the strength to wield and rol ed far enough left that Karen

wouldn’t be able to see his hands. From the opposite angle, though, Ivers saw him pul a metal ic tube from

the pocket of his camouflage parka.

“Bomb!” Ivers shouted. “Karen, get dow—”

He covered his eyes to protect them from the flash, dropping into the snow as a hot gale washed over

him.

When he looked up, his partner was on the ground, clearly injured but not so badly that she couldn’t give

him a shaky thumbs-up. Satisfied that she was al right, Ivers switched his radio to a separate encrypted

channel.

“Mr. Klein. Are you there?”

“I’m here. Go ahead.”

“Randi’s down—she took a bul et dead between the shoulder blades. The shooter was booby-trapped

and there’s not much left of him.”

“How did he get close enough to the cabin to take a shot?”

“I don’t know, sir. But I take ful responsibility. The rest of the team was flawless.”

“This isn’t the time to start al ocating blame, Eric. Is your situation stable?”

“We’ve got the start of a forest fire up here, Mr. Klein. I’m not sure the snow’s going to stop it.”

“Understood. An extraction helicopter is four minutes out. Burn the cabin and Randi’s car, then get out.

The better we can obscure what happened there, the more time it buys us.”

60

Over Central Uganda

November 28—0953 Hours GMT+3

THE PLANE LEVELED OUT and the seat belt sign went off, prompting Jon Smith to slip from his seat and

walk to the back of the first-class cabin. Dahab was easy to spot through a smal gap in the curtain, his

height and turban making him tower over the other passengers. He was in a window seat, looking around

him with paranoid jerks of his head and dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.

Smith brought his eye closer to the gap, looking for blood on the white cloth. Nothing, thank God. There

would be soon, though. Too soon.

“More champagne?”

Smith glanced back at the flight attendant putting a cup onto Howel ’s tray.

“Looks like it’s almost empty,” the Brit said, tapping the bottle in her hand. “Perhaps you could just leave

it?”

She cheerful y complied and then headed back to the gal ey for a fresh one. Howel brought it to his mouth

and drained it under the disapproving stare of a woman who clearly wasn’t pleased to be stuck across the

aisle from two men who smel ed like sweaty camels.

As always, Howel was thinking ahead. The bottle would be a useful weapon—heavy enough to do

serious damage to any skul it came into contact with, but blunt enough not to generate much blood.

The flight attendant reappeared, this time with a cheese tray, and headed straight for Smith. “Antsy

already? We’ve barely been in the air fifteen minutes. Would some Brie help?”

“I don’t think so,” he said and then lowered his voice. “I’m Colonel Jon Smith with the U.S. Army. There’s a

situation on the plane that I need to speak to the pilot about.”

“A situation? What kind of situation?”

“I’ve been tracking a terrorist for the past few weeks and I final y caught up with him at the Entebbe airport.

But I wasn’t able to keep him from getting on the plane.”

Her eyes widened a bit, but she was clearly not convinced. “Do you have any identification?”

“Just a passport. For obvious reasons, I don’t have anything on me that could connect me to the U.S.

government.”

She examined his face for a moment and, finding nothing to suggest that he was joking or a crazy, turned

toward the cockpit. “I’l speak to the pilot.”

When he looked through the curtain again, Dahab was in a heated exchange with the man sitting next to

him. Smith tensed, preparing to signal Howel to move, but the Sudanese seemed to lose his train of

thought and the argument was suddenly over.

“Sir?” the flight attendant said, reappearing behind him. “If you could fol ow me, please?”

She led him to the gal ey, where a short, fastidious-looking man in uniform was waiting.

“I’m Christof Maes, the captain of this flight,” he said, extending his hand hesitantly. “I’m told you believe

we have a problem?”

“I’m afraid so, Captain. A Sudanese terrorist I’ve been tracking managed to get on board—”

“Is he armed? Did he get a weapon through security?”

“Not in the normal sense,” Smith said, deviating into the story he’d invented during takeoff. “What he does

have, though, is an extremely serious form of drug-resistant tuberculosis. His plan is to get into Europe and

spread it.”

“And it’s my understanding you have no identification or proof of this.”

“If you let me use your radio, I think I could get you confirmation.”

“Perhaps it would be better if I notify the authorities in Brussels myself. They can—”

“It may be too late for that, Captain. He’s also extremely violent and borderline psychotic. He knows that

my partner and I are on board, and it’s likely that he isn’t going to go quietly. Also, there’s the matter of

quarantining the passengers.”

“Quarantine? You think that wil be necessary?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Now, if you could please let me use your radio to contact my people, they can get in

touch with your government and we can try to deal with this thing as efficiently as possible.”

“I’m afraid it’s against regulations to al ow you access to the cockpit,” he said, pul ing a satel ite phone

from his pocket. “I can offer you this, though. In the meantime, I’l notify ground control—”

“The phone wil work just fine,” Smith said, having to supress the impulse to snatch it from the man’s hand.

“But could you hold off contacting ground control? It might be more appropriate to let our respective

governments handle that.”

Maes frowned as Smith dialed. “I’l wait for a short time, Colonel. But then I’m going to expect to be

satisfied as to who you are.”

Smith nodded and turned away when Maggie Templeton came on the line. He never thought he could be

so happy to hear someone’s voice.

“Creative Party Supplies. How can I direct your cal ?”

“Hi, this is Jon on an open line. Is Fred around?”

“He’s been anxious to talk with you,” she said with practiced ease. “Hold, please.”

Klein came on a moment later. “Hi, Jon. It’s good to hear from you. We were disappointed when we lost

touch.”

“Sorry, Fred. I wasn’t able to get to a phone. But now Peter and I are on a Brussels Air flight heading for

Europe.”

“Should I have one of our salespeople meet you at the airport?”

“I don’t think that’l be necessary. There’s an il man on the plane and Mehrak and Sarie decided they

didn’t want to fly back with us. I’m not sure how they’re getting home.”

There was a brief pause before Klein responded. “Understood. How il is the man on the flight?”

“I think in the next couple of hours he’s going to need attention.”

“And are there facilities on the plane to give him the help he needs?”

“I hope so.”

“Let me see if I can make some arrangements, Jon. I’l get back in touch as soon as possible.”

The line went dead and Smith handed back the phone.

“That was a very cryptic conversation,” the pilot observed cool y. “Perhaps your British friend has some

sort of identification?”

He did, but an Argentine passport in the name of Peter Jourgan wasn’t going to carry a lot of weight.

“Just hold off a little longer, Captain. My people are working on this. You should get confirmation of my

identity soon.”

“And in the meantime?”

“I’d like your permission to subdue the man.”

The pilot shook his head. “Impossible. Until I know exactly who you are and have some kind of

authorization, you will not take action against any passenger on this flight. Is that understood?”

Smith wasn’t happy about the response, but there was very little he could do about it at this point. He

headed back into the first-class cabin and crossed over to where Peter Howel was standing at the curtain.

“Were you convincing, mate?”

“Apparently not. I talked to my CO. He’s going to contact the Europeans and try to get us some

cooperation.”

“I hope your CO is very fast and very persuasive,” he said, pointing through the gap in the curtain. “Take a

look.”

A flight attendant was offering Dahab a drink, but he didn’t react at al , just sat there banging his knuckles

into the window at an alarmingly precise six-second interval.

“We can go anytime, Peter, but at best we’re on our own.”

“And at worst?”

“The crew fights us.”

Howel sighed quietly. “Too many passengers and too little space, Jon. This is a cock-up waiting to

happen.”

They had been watching the Sudanese for an excruciating two hours when the flight attendant came up

behind Smith and tapped him on the shoulder. He fol owed her back to the cockpit, saying a silent prayer

that Klein had been able to work his magic. A thin ring of red was visible at the edge of Dahab’s turban and

he seemed to have completely lost touch with the world around him. The only good news was that the

passenger sitting next to him had retreated to a vacant seat at the back of the plane. One problem down, a

thousand to go.

“I’m stil not entirely certain who you are,” the pilot said as Smith stepped into the cockpit and closed the

door. “But I’l grant that you have a great deal of influence. We’ve been diverted to a military base on an

island near the Maldives. It also appears that we’l be acquiring a fighter escort from a nearby American

carrier.”

His expression suggested that he wasn’t happy about the assist from the U.S. Navy. Maes was smart

enough to know that there was nothing a fighter could do to help them. The only reason for its presence was

to make sure that if things went seriously south, the plane never made it to land.

“I’ve also been told in no uncertain terms that you are now in ful command of this flight and that we are to

fol ow your orders without question.”

Smith nodded, not bothering to hide his relief. Fred Klein once again had come through.

Jon Smith strol ed casual y down the aisle in the copilot’s uniform, sunglasses on and hat pul ed low over his

forehead. He smiled and nodded at the passengers as he passed but stayed focused on the Sudanese in

his peripheral vision.

The flight attendants had been fending off an increasing number of complaints about the African, and as

Smith got closer, he could understand why. The edges of Dahab’s turban were wet enough that the blood

would soon be running down his face. He didn’t seem to notice, though, and continued to rap split knuckles

against the window.

As bad as viruses like Ebola and Marburg were, Sarie was right—they were just mindless biological

machines. The creatures infesting this man seemed almost sentient. It was as if they understood that their

host was dying and were consciously trying to find a way to escape.

Dahab’s stare remained fixed as Smith approached carrying a canvas mailbag containing a heavy

wrench and a rol of duct tape—the most sophisticated weapon and hazmat equipment the plane had to

offer.

He stopped at the rear bathrooms, watching a terrified flight attendant come down the aisle and lean her

impressive bosom into the row behind the Sudanese.

“You look like two very fit gentlemen,” she said, fol owing the script they’d concocted. “A drink cart tipped

over up front. Would it be possible for you to help me?”

Smith retrieved the tape from his bag and used it to secure the sunglasses to his face while the men

fol owed her up the aisle. A pair of surgical gloves completed his protective clothing, and he ran a latex-

covered hand over a gash in his cheek sealed with Krazy Glue.

Showtime.

He tried to keep his gait relaxed as he slipped into the empty seats behind Dahab, removed the wrench

from the bag, and double-checked the cord threaded through the grommets around the opening.

His actions had attracted a fair amount of attention, and he grinned at a toddler staring at him three rows

forward. The gloves were easy to hide, and most of the duct tape was obscured by his hat, so after a few

minutes the passengers went back to their books and movies.

He rose casual y and gave the child stil staring at him another quick smile before ramming the canvas

bag down over Dahab’s head. The African immediately tried to jump from his seat but discovered that his

seat belt was fastened—something Smith had confirmed when he’d walked past.

By the time he thought to reach for the clasp, Howel had vaulted the people trying to escape the seats

directly in front, going headfirst over them and clamping a hand around the buckle mechanism. Smith used

the cord to tighten the bag around Dahab’s neck with one hand and arced the wrench toward his head with

the other, ignoring the rocking of the plane as the passengers shifted en masse.

It was only inches from impact when the Sudanese jerked forward. The power of his movement felt utterly

inhuman, and the wrench missed its target as Smith was pul ed helplessly over the seats.

With three grown men now thrashing around in the confined space of two economy seats, there was no

way to cock the wrench back far enough to build any real momentum. Smith abandoned it, concentrating on

trying to keep the bag in place as Dahab reached back and found his throat.

His grip felt more like a five-fingered vise than anything human. Air and blood flow suddenly cut off, al

Smith could do was grab weakly for the man’s wrist. He tried to use the wal for leverage, but his vision

began to swim and he became confused as to where the wal was. The sound of a snapping bone that

initial y seemed to be signaling the col apse of his spine instead eased the pressure suffocating him.

Another quiet crack and his vision cleared enough to see Howel digging beneath Dahab’s fingers,

breaking them one by one.

When the third one went, Smith pul ed back, fal ing into the aisle gasping for air. He was free.

But so was the Sudanese. The seat belt had released and he was now staggering into the aisle with

Howel hanging like a rag dol over one of his shoulders. Smith stayed low and wrapped his arms around

Dahab’s legs, unintentional y bringing him down on top of Howel . The bag slipped, but the Brit managed to

shove it back down despite the fact that he was absorbing a steady stream of blows that reverberated with

the same sickening thud as a butcher pounding meat.

Smith released the African’s legs and grabbed for the wrench, bringing it down ful force on the back of

his head.

Instead of fal ing over dead, though, Dahab just kept beating the increasingly defenseless Howel . The

protection provided by the bag and turban had combined with the infection to al ow him to completely ignore

the impact.

Smith brought the wrench down again and again, grunting and huffing like a madman. The African’s skul

turned soft on the left side and he focused on that spot, gritting his teeth and throwing his entire weight

behind each swing.

Final y, the man went limp and Smith fel back against the seat behind him, gasping for breath. The

sunglasses he’d taped to his head were stil in place and he ripped them off, checking to make sure the cut

on his face was stil glued together. It was, but that didn’t mean much.

Howel final y managed to get out from under Dahab’s lifeless body and tried to get to his feet like any

self-respecting SAS officer would. His legs couldn’t support him, though, and after a few valiant attempts, he

just sank back to the ground, coughing uncontrol ably.

61

Over Northern Ethiopia

November 28—1312 Hours GMT+3

JON SMITH STEPPED OVER Dahab’s garbage bag–cocooned body and peered into the open door to the

bathroom. “You okay, Peter?”

Howel was leaning over the sink, supporting himself with palms planted on either side. When he spoke,

the water in his mouth ran out red.

“Just cricket, thank you for asking.”

“Do you think any of his blood got in your cuts?”

“How the hel should I know, Jon? There isn’t a square inch of me that isn’t torn or broken.”

“Yeah…”

“What about you?”

“The same.”

“Wel , I guess we’l know soon enough, then.”

The pilot had done the best he could to calm the passengers, tel ing them that Dahab was a drug runner

wanted for murder and that they were from Interpol, but not everyone was convinced. Cautious whispers had

evolved into loud, multilingual discussions, and then into a constant, panicky drone. Ten rows up, two men

were standing in the aisle jabbing at each other in one of a number of arguments that seemed almost

certain to get out of hand. When one got shoved into the lap of the woman behind him, Smith stepped

through the curtain and banged loudly on the wal .

“Hel o! Can I have your attention, please?”

Silence immediately descended on the plane, and everyone turned toward him.

“My name is Jon Smith and I’m a doctor with the U.S. Army. If you’l give me a minute, I’d like to tel you

what’s going on.”

His voice didn’t quite achieve the calm authority he’d hoped for, but in truth, he was lucky he could talk at

al . The sensation of Dahab’s grip on his throat was stil palpable beneath the finger-shaped contusions.

“The man who was kil ed was a terrorist.”

The volume went up again as people shouted a barrage of questions: Could he have accomplices on the

plane? Was there a bomb? Why had he been al owed to board?

Smith waited for the cacophony to die down before starting to flesh out the story told to the flight crew.

“He wasn’t armed and there are no explosives. He had a drug-resistant form of tuberculosis that he

planned on trying to spread throughout Europe.”

More shouted questions as the level of fear notched noticeably higher.

“Please! Let me finish. I want to stress that this strain of TB can be cured with special antibiotics.

However, those antibiotics are expensive and we only have a few thousand doses stockpiled. Obviously,

that would be a serious problem in a pandemic, but it’s not a serious problem for the people on this plane.

We’re currently being diverted to a naval base where we’l be met by American medical specialists. In the

extremely unlikely event you’ve contracted this il ness, you’l be given medication that wil take care of it.”

* * *

JON SMITH STOOD at the back of the cockpit, looking through the windscreen at the scene below. There

were three C-5 transport planes on the ground, and medical tents were in the process of being set up.

Various military vehicles were lined up along the runway, and green-clad figures rushed through the glare of

portable spotlights. This wasn’t going to do much for the passengers’ peace of mind, but the time for

subtlety was long past.

They touched down and bounced around a bit before rol ing to a stop in front of a steel barricade. Armed

men in biohazard gear immediately surrounded the plane, and blocks were put around the wheels to make

certain the plane couldn’t take off again. The frightened voices of the passengers rose to a volume that

almost obscured the ringing of the pilot’s sat phone.

Smith picked up. “Go ahead.”

“What’s your situation?” Fred Klein asked.

“Unfortunately, the patient didn’t make it. We’ve wrapped up the body and put it in the back.”

“Possibility of spread?”

“To the passengers and crew, I’d say minimal. To me and Peter, medium to high.”

“I’m going to get you two off the plane. We have a situation that needs your attention. Everyone else stays

put until we finish setting up. Go to the door closest to the cockpit. We’re bringing up a ladder.”

“Two minutes,” Smith said. “I need to brief the passengers.”

“Two minutes.”

He went back out and found Peter trying to make his way to the front of the plane as people grabbed at

him and pointed out the windows at the soldiers.

“Hel o! Can I have your attention again, please?”

They al looked to him, and Howel used the diversion to limp to the front of the plane.

“Peter and I are getting off,” Smith started before once again being drowned out.

“Everybody calm down and listen to me! We came into direct contact with the infected man, so we’re the

most likely people here to have contracted the il ness. We’re being taken to quarantine so there’s no chance

of us passing it on to any of you. More medical personnel and equipment are being flown in and you’l be let

off when they get set up.”

“When do we get the antibiotics?” someone shouted.

“Most likely you won’t need them, because I doubt any of you are going to get il —this strain isn’t

particularly contagious. Look, I know a lot of the doctors out there and they’re the best in the world. You’re in

good hands.”

Someone outside banged on the door and he twisted the handle. By the time he got it open, the man on

the ladder was already on the ground and retreating to a sandbagged machine-gun placement.

A few of the passengers surged toward the door, but Howel blocked them. “Please stay back,” he said,

retreating toward the ladder. “I could be infected.”

That slowed them enough to al ow Smith to climb onto the ladder and quickly descend, trying not to think

about the battery of guns trained on his back.

62

Diego Garcia

November 28—2300 Hours GMT+6

KEEP MOVING, SIRS.”

Smith glanced back at the soldier coaxing them forward and then at the armed men in hazmat suits fal ing

in around them. The private jet he and Howel were walking toward seemed to have just come off the

assembly line, with nothing that would betray the identity of its owner or suggest any connection with the

United States. Smith dutiful y climbed the steps to an open hatch, pausing at the threshold before

committing to enter.

A thick wal of plastic had been erected to his left, sealing off the front third of the plane. To the right, al

the seats had been removed with the exception of the rearmost two, and portable filters had been instal ed

to keep the air supplies separate. A bottle of single-malt scotch gleamed on one of the cushions, and the

other contained two glasses and two pairs of handcuffs. The incredibly thorough hand of Fred Klein.

Howel fol owed him down the aisle and fel into one of the seats, examining the bottle and reclining in the

soft leather with a satisfied groan. Smith held out the glasses and the Brit fil ed them, raising his in salute.

“To the fleeting pleasures of the here and now.”

It was as good a sentiment as any, and Smith tipped the glass up, reveling in the smoky sensation of the

liquor burning its way down his raw throat. When he leaned back, he spotted a shoebox-sized device set up

near the plastic wal . It was topped with a line of green LEDs and, unless he missed his guess, was fil ed

with enough plastique to completely disintegrate the plane should it become necessary.

“How are you gentlemen feeling?”

Smith leaned forward and squinted, trying to put the man emerging from the cockpit with the voice that

unmistakably belonged to Fred Klein. His normal y medium-length hair was cropped close to his skul , and

his glasses had been replaced with blue contacts. The rumpled suit that he seemed to have been born in

was gone, too, in favor of a heavily starched U.S. Army uniform that clung to a waist so narrow that it

suggested some kind of girdle. An expedient disguise that would shield him from undue attention and

prevent Peter Howel from recognizing the old spook.

“Better now, Brigadier,” Howel said, using the scotch bottle to effect an improbably respectful salute.

Klein took a seat facing them through the plastic. “Based on the reports I’ve read, I thought you boys could

use a drink.”

“Thank you, sir,” Smith said, playing along.

He gave a short jerk of a nod and then moved on. “It’s my understanding that if you’re infected, you’l start

showing symptoms between seven and fifteen hours from exposure.”

“Yes, sir,” Smith said, calculating for the hundredth time how long it had been since their fight with Dahab:

seven hours, thirty-nine minutes. “It appears to start with general disorientation, fol owed by the bleeding

you’re familiar with and then violent insanity.”

The plane started taxiing and Klein pointed in their general direction. “Buckle up.”

The implication was clear, and after fastening their seat belts they each secured one wrist to their seat

with the provided handcuffs.

“I also understand, Colonel, that if you start showing symptoms, there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

“That’s correct, sir. But I think I speak for both myself and Peter when I say we’d appreciate it if you didn’t

let us die like that.”

“If it becomes necessary, we’re equipped to take care of the situation.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Another curt nod from Klein. “The two of you have left us in a bad way. We’ve talked to a few top people,

and they al believe that van Keuren is going to be able to weaponize the parasite and that it’s not going to

take her long. Apparently, she wrote the book on transporting live parasites. And I mean that literal y—she

wrote a text on getting parasites from the field to the lab.”

Smith took a swig of his drink, swishing it painful y over the cuts in his cheek. Again, it was his failure.

He’d had multiple opportunities to do what was necessary with regard to Sarie and he’d hesitated. Now it

wasn’t just her blood on his hands; it could be the blood of mil ions.

“I’ve spoken at length with the president,” Klein continued, “and we don’t have many alternatives. Let’s

start with the bad news. Diplomacy is a dead end—there’s no point in even starting. The Iranians wil deny

involvement and we’ve got no cards to play other than the testimony of two men who—and I regret saying

this—wil probably be dead in a few hours.”

“What about military options?” Howel said.

“Complicated. We don’t have anything convincing enough to get our al ies on board, and the Russians

and Chinese aren’t going to stand by while we go in with guns blazing. And that’s assuming we even had

the troops available. A more surgical strike would be feasible, but we have no idea where Omidi is or where

he’s taken the parasite.”

“I already know I screwed up,” Smith snapped. “Do we real y have to dwel on the point?”

Klein’s eyebrows rose perceptibly, and Smith went into self-examination mode. Was his outburst the

product of frustration and exhaustion or something more?

“I didn’t intend that as some kind of backhanded reprimand, Colonel. Everyone involved knows that you

did everything you could. Now, where was I?”

“I hope getting around to the good news, Brigadier,” Howel said.

“The good news. Yes. The CIA has a number of contingency plans for dealing with bioterror attacks, and

one of them was easily adapted to this scenario. We’ve put together a team of experts to refine the plan and

we’re quietly rol ing out equipment and procedures across the U.S., as wel as pul ing back some military

from abroad to handle implementation.”

“Are there casualty projections?” Smith asked.

“Three hundred thousand is a best-case scenario from the infection. Another twenty to thirty thousand in

the general chaos. A more likely number would be in the mil ion range.”

“That’s the good news?” Smith said. “That over a mil ion people could die?”

“Our hope, obviously, is to keep it under that number, and with the body of the infected man you kil ed on

the plane, we might be able to learn something useful. At the very least, though, it’l help us refine our

containment plan.”

“A containment plan? That’s it? The Iranians are creating a weapon that could make people look back

fondly on the atomic bomb and we’re working on a containment plan?”

“No, there’s more. We’ve been talking to the Iranian resistance.”

“The resistance? You have a line to Farrokh?”

“Line might be an overstatement. We have tentative communication with people who say they’re linked to

him. This is about as back-channel as you can get, Colonel. You can imagine what would happen if word got

out that we’re involved with the leader of the Iranian resistance.”

Howel had abandoned his glass and was now drinking directly from the bottle. “Al due respect, sir, but it

sounds as though you’re not sure if you are.”

“That’s not entirely unfair. Look, we took the leap of being more or less honest with them about the

situation and we asked them to help us get a special forces team into Iran to track down the facility where

Omidi’s working on the parasite.”

“What did they say?”

“They flatly refused. However, they may be amenable to a visit from the investigating doctor and his

British escort.”

“May be amenable?”

“It’s the best I can do. They’re a very suspicious bunch.”

“So, assuming we don’t die en route, you’re sending us into Iran?”

“I’m afraid so. You’re going to be inserted from Turkey and link up with a resistance force. Get them to

trust you and help you find van Keuren. Then contact us with what you’ve learned and stand by.”

Smith just stared at his boss. “Is that al ?”

“I know it’s a tal order, Jon. And to be honest, I don’t expect you to succeed. In the unlikely event you

actual y make contact, there’s a good chance Farrokh wil just decide you’re spies and kil you.”

“And then a mil ion people die,” Smith said.

Klein shook his head. “A mil ion Americans. We’ve drawn up plans for a retaliation, and I can tel you that

it won’t be pretty.”

“What are you estimating Iranian casualties at?”

“After we take out their entire military capability, we’re looking at destroying al their major cities and

annihilating their power grid and freshwater systems. It’s not possible to accurately estimate casualties

because there’s honestly no historical precedent. What I can tel you, though, is that the deaths from

disease, starvation, and thirst in the aftermath could be more than ten times what they are in the initial

assault. If we can’t use the scalpel, Jon, it’s been made clear that we’l use the hammer.”

63

Above Central Iran

November 28—2234 Hours GMT+3:30

SARIE VAN KEUREN COULD feel Omidi’s eyes on her as she walked to the back of the plane holding a cup

of water.

“Thomas? Are you thirsty? Would you like something to drink?”

The white-haired doctor was belted tightly into his seat, further restrained by a straitjacket and ankle

shackles. It was an incredibly dissonant image—the frail, elderly man trussed up like some kind of

psychopath or mass murderer.

Despite everything she’d seen in her years researching parasites, al this stil seemed impossible.

Intel ectual y, she knew that humans weren’t special in the animal kingdom, but somewhere deeper she had

always harbored a belief in the soul. To see it so easily stolen, to be forced to watch this gentle man turn into

a monster, was terrifying.

“Thomas?”

He was staring blankly at the seat in front of him, and she was ashamed at the fear she felt when his head

final y turned toward her. There seemed to be no recognition in his eyes at al , no acknowledgment of the

fact that another human was close.

As it always did when she was depressed or lonely or scared, Sarie’s mind retreated into science. How

did the parasite work? What places in the brain did it target? How fast did it multiply? Was the detachment

she was seeing the first step in creating a creature with no compassion or mercy?

“We’re nearly there,” Omidi said. “Sit.”

She glared back at him but his face remained a mask—not much different from poor Thomas’s. Some

men didn’t need a parasite. They became monsters al on their own.

The landing strip was wel camouflaged and they were probably less than a hundred meters from the ground

when two dim strips of light appeared to mark its boundary. Beyond that, al she could make out was a few

rocky outcrops and a distant wal of cliffs outlined by moonlight.

“Your new home,” Omidi responded. “The place where you wil make the parasite transportable and more

virulent.”

“What? Why in God’s name would you want to do that? Bahame’s insane, but you’re not. How could

someone who understands what this does to people—innocent people—want to use it as a weapon?”

The Iranian smiled easily. “The West has created a moral framework for the world that is unwaveringly in

their favor, Dr. van Keuren. If an American missile hits a primary school or market in an effort to kil a single

man whose ideology they don’t agree with, the casualties are considered col ateral damage—an

unfortunate by-product of a war that doesn’t exist. If, on the other hand, a plane flies into an American office

building, it’s an earth-shattering act of terrorism. Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t even know what the hel you’re talking about.”

“The West tel s the world that it is right and just to kil only if you use the weapons they consider honorable.

And then they do everything they can to prevent others from acquiring those weapons. They can stockpile

thousands of nuclear weapons and threaten my country with them, but we cannot do the same. They can kil

countless women and children with sophisticated bombs built by Lockheed Martin and General Dynamics,

but it would be unthinkable for a Muslim to do the same with an explosive built in his basement. The

Americans have brainwashed the world—constantly changing the rules of the game in their favor. But that

time is over. Their time is over. The order of things is about to change.”

64

Eastern Turkey

November 29—0820 Hours GMT+2

A TRAIN SOUNDS HIGHER pitched as it approaches and lower when it moves away. What is that

phenomenon known as?”

Jon Smith snapped out of a half doze and blinked a few times. “Uh…the Doppler effect?”

The man behind the wheel grinned at him in the rearview mirror and pushed the station wagon’s

accelerator to the floor, punching through a snowdrift as he piloted the station wagon up the steep mountain

road.

It had been more than nineteen hours since they’d kil ed Dahab, but Klein had decided to err on the side

of caution. He’d provided their escort with a lengthy list of questions designed to ferret out signs of

disorientation and clear instructions on how to proceed if they should display any.

It was a bit like being a contestant on hel ’s top-rated game show. Miss a question, get two in the head

and a gasoline-fueled roadside cremation.

The vehicle lurched right and high-centered on a drift, prompting their driver—Nazim was the name he’d

given—to throw up his hands in frustration. “What is it you say? End of the line?”

He shoved his door open and stepped outside, grimacing at the fat snowflakes suspended in the wind.

Smith knew nothing about him beyond the fact that he was one of the many talented free agents that Klein

maintained contact with al across the globe.

Howel leapt out after the Turk, throwing an arm around his shoulders as they made their way to the rear of

the vehicle. It was good to see him back to normal. Bahame was dead and they were wel past the time

symptoms would have presented if they’d been infected. In the context of the lives they’d chosen, things

were more or less back to normal.

Their skis and packs were already lying in the snow next to the car when Smith eased himself out into the

cold. He felt like he’d been run over by a semi. No serious injuries, but at least two lifetimes’ worth of

bruises, strains, and abrasions. Combined with the fact that he’d spent most of the flight to Turkey

monitoring every angry impulse and moment of confusion while Howel snored into his scotch bottle, he

wasn’t sure how much he had left.

“This is the best I could do without making it look like camouflage,” Nazim said, handing them each a

stack of used backcountry clothing in tones of light gray and white. Smith stripped, letting the cold attack the

swel ing in his lower back and elbow for a few moments before getting dressed.

“I checked over the skis personal y and they’re in perfect condition,” Nazim said. “One of the pairs of

boots is less so, but I’m told that this isn’t a problem.”

When he saw them, Smith managed a smile at Klein’s—or more likely Maggie Templeton’s—

otherworldly efficiency. They were his. Taken from his garage and flown to Turkey in time for their arrival.

“You’re going there,” the Turk said, pointing toward a steep canyon sandwiched between two wind-

scoured mountains. Smith tried to look up it, but between the snow and the gray clouds hanging from the

edges of the rock wal s, it was impossible to penetrate more than a quarter mile.

“The Iranian border is about ten kilometers, and while there are no fixed defensive structures, there are

patrols. Your passports and other papers are in your packs and the cover story of two adventurers getting

turned around in bad weather is solid but less than original. Better to just avoid contact.”

“What about Farrokh’s people?” Smith said, settling onto the bumper and pul ing his boots on. Despite

the ungodly pounding he’d taken only a few hours ago, Howel was already busy attaching climbing skins to

his skis in order to give them the traction necessary to carry him up canyon.

“They know you’re coming and by what route.”

“How wil we identify them?”

Nazim thought about it for a moment. “They probably won’t kil you right away.”

“No code word?”

“Our communication with them isn’t that good. It’s channeled through too many intermediaries to be

reliable.”

“Great.”

The Turk slammed the back hatch closed as soon as Smith stood, obviously anxious to get out of there.

“Do you know anything about the snowpack, Nazim? Is it stable?”

“I’m afraid I’m from a smal vil age on the Mediterranean,” he said, climbing behind the wheel. “To me,

snow is snow.”

The motor roared back to life and he began rocking the car out of the hole his wheels had sunk into.

When he was free, he rol ed down the window and motioned Smith over.

“Mr. Klein says you have many enemies. Perhaps even in your own intel igence agencies. Be careful who

you trust.”

With that, he started backing down the way they’d come. After a few yards, though, he slammed on the

brakes and leaned out the window again. “Peter! The Battle of Gaugamela in 382 BC. Who had the larger

army?”

“Darius. And it was 331.”

Another thumbs-up from Nazim and he disappeared into the fog, guiding the car in a control ed skid down

the slope.

Smith clicked into his bindings, then checked to make sure the batteries in his avalanche beacon were

ful y charged. “You ready?”

“Absolutely.”

Smith nodded in the direction of the canyon. “Age before beauty.”

65

Central Iran

November 29—1044 Hours GMT+3:30

SARIE VAN KEUREN FOLLOWED along obediently. There was no other option.

She’d spent the last eleven hours locked in a dormitory-style room, unable to sleep. De Vries, the

Iranians, Smith, and the parasite were enough to keep her awake for the rest of her life.

Mehrak Omidi opened a heavy steel door that looked like every other door they’d passed and motioned

her inside. When she started to back away, he shoved her through.

It turned out to be nothing more than a simple conference room. There weren’t enough chairs around the

large table and some of the people were standing against the wal s, expressions ranging from stony resolve

to barely control ed panic.

Sarie barely saw them, though, instead focusing on a Plexiglas wal that displayed a white cube of a room

and its lone occupant: Thomas De Vries.

He rushed at the glass when he saw her enter, slamming into it, mouth twisted in a silent scream. Blood

washed across his face as he tried to get through, adding fresh streaks to the dried ones already there.

She looked away, tel ing herself that the thing in that room wasn’t the person she’d known in Uganda. De

Vries was gone—destroyed by Mehrak Omidi and the indifferent cruelty of nature.

“I’d like to introduce your team,” Omidi said, closing the door behind him with a metal clang that carried a

strange finality.

“My team?”

“The men who are going to help you alter the parasite. Make it more control able.”

She had a hard time tracking on the names as he went around the room introducing biologists, chemists,

and lab techs. Instead she looked each one in the eye, trying to find something meaningful. Why had they

been chosen and not someone else? Were they the best minds Iran had to offer or were they just believers?

When the introductions were complete, Omidi pointed to a stack of folders centered on the table.

“They’ve al read my report on what I’ve observed about the parasite, and everyone is aware of your

background and reputation.”

“My background and reputation?” she said, though it almost sounded as if someone else were speaking.

“What are you talking about? What are you people doing here?” She pointed at De Vries, who had

exhausted himself and was now on his knees in front of the glass. “Do you see him? They want you to turn

this into a weapon. To use it against other human beings.”

“Your moral outrage is commendable,” Omidi said. “But weren’t you part of a team that included a

microbiologist from America’s bioweapons research program and a former employee of the British Secret

Service?”

“The U.S. doesn’t have a bioweapons program,” she responded.

“You’re being a bit naïve now, aren’t you, Doctor? The Americans spend more on their military than the

rest of the world combined. They are the only country to have ever used a nuclear device during war—

against primarily civilian targets.” He looked at the people in the room as he spoke and it became obvious

his words were meant more for them than for her. “They invade and bomb any non-Christian country at the

slightest provocation—sometimes at no provocation at al . Do you real y believe that they’ve drawn some

sort of line that prevents them from doing this kind of research?”

“Even if that’s true, why would you want to do the same?”

“What we develop here wil never be used, Doctor. It wil be held up as a deterrent—a safeguard against

America trying to take away our freedom again.”

“What makes you think you can control it? That no one else wil ever get hold of it? That it won’t get out of

this facility by accident? We have to destroy it. We have to let it disappear.”

“It can never disappear again. You know that.”

“It doesn’t have to—”

“Enough!” Omidi said, clearly finished using her as a foil for his lecture. He pressed a button on the

room’s intercom and said something that Sarie couldn’t understand. Everyone else did, though, and the

sound of rustling fabric fil ed the room as everyone shifted uncomfortably and shot nervous glances at one

another.

A moment later, a door at the back of the room holding De Vries slid open, revealing a tiny elevator and

its lone occupant. He was tal and dark skinned, with a thick build and matching beard. There was no fear in

him at al , only defiance.

De Vries heard the door and turned, leaping to his feet and charging the man, who, unable to retreat,

stepped forward and raised his fists.

He had the look of someone who had seen, and probably perpetrated, a great deal of violence in his life.

It was understandable that he didn’t see the pudgy, bleeding old man as much of a threat.

The shock was clearly visible in his eyes when he was lifted into the air and slammed into the wal behind

him. De Vries clawed at his face, going for his eyes as the man threw a forearm up and used the leverage

of the wal to push his attacker back.

The gap opened between them was wide enough for the man to lift a booted foot and deliver a kick that

caused De Vries to slide back on the slick floor. He stayed on his feet, though, and ran at the man again,

this time bringing him down.

The battle became impossible to fol ow after that—De Vries’s arms blurring as he broke down the man’s

pathetic attempts to defend himself. They stayed locked together like that for what seemed like an eternity

before the elevator door slid open again, revealing an armed man in a hazmat suit.

De Vries abandoned his barely conscious victim and charged to within a few meters before a muzzle

flash glinted off the glass. He went down hard, thrashing wildly but unable to get back to his feet.

A uniform gasp rose when the gun sounded again, sending a round into the center of the old man’s chest.

It was impossible to know if it was the act of shooting the helpless man that affected them or the fact that De

Vries didn’t stop trying to get up until the gun was empty.

Smoke swirled around the room as De Vries’s body was dragged into the elevator and the man on the

floor crawled toward the glass. His right cheek was split from the edge of his mouth almost to his ear, and

bare cartilage was visible on the bridge of his nose. Both eyes were stil intact, but one no longer tracked

straight as he silently pleaded with the people watching from the safety of the conference room.

Sarie swal owed hard, fighting the urge to throw up as Omidi looked on.

“We got him from a rural prison where he was awaiting execution for rape and murder. To pity him would

be a waste of time you would be wel -advised to use more productively.”

She’d been in danger al her life—in the backcountry, on her father’s farm, in her home outside of Cape

Town. But it was danger she had grown up with, that had become part of her.

This was different. There was no sky above her, no beat-up rifle in her hand—nothing familiar at al . It

wouldn’t be malaria or a snake or even a gang of violent men. No, she’d lose who she was a thousand feet

underground, final y bleeding to death while Omidi’s people jotted notes.

She took slow, even breaths like the psychologist had taught her as a child and felt a little of her calm

returning. She wouldn’t let Omidi use fear and empty promises to break down her resistance. There would

be no reward for helping him—no safety, no flight home, no rescue. Her life was coming to an end. The

question was, what was she going to do with the time she had left?

Sarie let the fear and uncertainty remain etched deep into her face, though she felt only anger and hate. It

would be those emotions that would get her through this. Anger and hate.

* * *

“Al diseases spread quickly in Africa,” she said, beginning the speech she’d worked out during the hours

she’d spent locked away. “AIDS is a perfect example of that. But it’s different in the West. They have

sophisticated medical response systems, reliable media, and an educated population.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the man in the glass cage staring at her, and it caused her to

lose her train of thought.

“Go on,” Omidi prompted.

“The initial symptom of the infection is obvious disorientation. Warnings wil be al over the news about

this, and since nearly everyone in America has a house, a gun, and a phone, they’l have a lot of options.

They could barricade themselves somewhere, shoot the infected person, cal the police or an ambulance…”

Of course, she was talking nonsense. The disorientation phase wasn’t serious or lengthy enough to

ensure that it would be noticed. Even a married person with a family might become sick while their spouse

went to work and go ful y symptomatic while alone. Or, even more likely, the disorientation phase could

occur at night when the victim was asleep. Hospitals, unable to provide a cure and handle thousands of

violent patients, would shut down. Family members would try to protect loved ones from authorities, who

would have no choice but to euthanize victims in an effort to contain the pandemic. And to the degree that

people in America had guns, did it real y help? Many would find it impossible to shoot family and friends,

while others would panic and shoot everything that moved.

Omidi nodded thoughtful y. His own arrogance and misogyny would work against him. Despite not having

a background in biology or disease control, he would never believe that anyone could outsmart him—

particularly a woman.

“I agree,” he said final y. “Along with making the parasite easily transportable, we’l have to make the

onset faster and more violent. We can’t leave time for people to react.”

66

Langley, Virginia, USA

November 29—1607 Hours GMT–5

SO WE’RE STILL NOT completely certain,” Lawrence Drake said, leafing through the stack of police and

fire reports.

Dave Col en slid another folder onto the desk. “We don’t have a body, if that’s what you mean. But the

local investigation is stil ongoing and I wouldn’t expect to at this point. What we know is that Russel ’s car

was there and that she hasn’t been seen since. The cops believe she was in the house when it went up.”

“And what do you believe?”

“I don’t know. It was too risky to have surveil ance there when it went down. We’re stil not sure how the fire

started or what happened to Gohlam. It’s possible that instead of using a gun, he decided to use some kind

of incendiary device and he blew himself up in the process of getting Russel —either by accident or by

design.”

“That’s a lot of speculation, Dave.”

“I know, but at this point there isn’t anything we can do about it. It’s possible that Russel escaped and

went to ground, but I doubt it. With an Afghan coming after her, it’s more likely that she’d want to use our

resources to find out where the orders came from.”

“Unless Brandon’s message spooked her.”

Col en nodded. “Unfortunately, it gets worse. I think we have to assume at this point that the Iranians have

van Keuren.”

“Do we have updated casualty estimates?”

“Even with the response plan we’ve put together under the cover of upgrading our biological attack

readiness program, adding her into the equation could push it to a mil ion.”

Drake let out a long breath and pointed to the file Col en had placed on his desk. “Smith and Howel ?”

His assistant nodded. “They were on the plane to Brussels that got diverted to the military base on Diego

Garcia. The public story is that the plane had a problem with its navigation system and made a safe

emergency landing. Based on what little I’ve been able to get out of Army Intel igence, the real story is that

there was a Sudanese man with an unknown infection aboard and that he’s been kil ed. The passengers al

look clean and wil be released soon.”

“What about Smith and Howel ?”

“They got on a private jet that we don’t know anything about. Every avenue I’ve tried to get information on

it turns into a dead end.”

Castil a, Drake thought. It had to be. “Do we know where it went?”

Col en flipped open the folder, paging to a satel ite photo of a smal jet landing on a remote airstrip.

“Turkey. They got immediately into a car and started toward the Iranian border. The satel ite lost them in the

cloud cover when they started into the mountains. By the time I got a man up there, the tracks were already

covered. He estimates that they couldn’t have gotten their vehicle any closer than seven or eight miles from

the border before the snow got too deep.”

“To what end?”

Col en jabbed a finger onto a topographical map of eastern Turkey. “In al likelihood, Smith and Howel

went up this canyon on foot.”

“So we have the enigmatic Dr. Smith and a former MI6 operative headed into Iranian territory under

orders from what can only be the White House. The Iranians may have van Keuren, and no one has actual y

seen Randi Russel ’s body. Jesus Christ, Dave. Is there anything left to blow up in our faces?”

“It’s not al bad news. Even if it is Castil a, I think we can be pretty confident that he’s grasping at straws by

sending two lone men across the border like this. How are they going to find the facility Omidi’s taken the

parasite to? And even if they do find it, how are they going to stop him?”

Both interesting questions, but by no means the ones foremost in Drake’s mind. Clearly, the CIA was

being purposeful y kept out of the loop. Given the fact that Castil a wouldn’t want to reveal that he was

operating an extralegal team, it wasn’t entirely surprising. But it was stil extremely worrying.

“Do we have anyone we can use in that part of Iran?”

Col en nodded. “Sepehr Mouradipour. He’s a former Iranian special forces man who grew up not far from

where Smith and Howel were inserted.”

“Reliable?”

“If the money’s right, he and his men never fail.”

Drake leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring down at the carpet. There were two

paths laid out in front of him. He could walk away and explain the CIA’s ignorance of the situation as just

another intel igence failure. Or he could stay the course and do everything he could to bring about a

permanent end to a threat that was potential y greater than even the Third Reich or Soviet Union. Germany

would have never been able to mount a viable invasion of North America, and the members of the politburo

had never been anxious to destroy their world of Crimean dachas and young Czech models.

But the Muslims were different. They were acquiring first-strike technology that Hitler could only dream of,

and they didn’t share the Soviets’ aversion to self-annihilation. In many ways, they courted it.

Final y, he looked up at Col en. “Pay the man what he wants and get rid of them.”

67

Western Iran

November 30—0802 Hours GMT+3:30

JON SMITH UNZIPPED THE tent and crawled out, leaving Howel to rol up their sleeping bags. The rising

sun was stil obscured by clouds, but the gust seemed to be dying down. For most of the night, it had

sounded like they were camped in a train station—the wind would build in the north, the roar of it slowly

approaching until it got hold of their nylon shelter and tried to tear it apart.

He waded through three feet of new snow, skirting along a stone wal that probably dated back a couple

of thousand years. At its end was a six-foot sculpture of a face topped by an elaborate headdress. It had

once watched over the entrance to a thriving city but was now relegated to the less lofty job of securing one

of their tent’s guylines.

This was the beginning of their second day skiing from the-middle-of-nowhere Turkey to the-middle-of-

nowhere Iran, and he could feel the stress building in his stomach. Sarie was out there somewhere, as was

the parasite. Had she agreed to use her expertise to modify it and doom mil ions to death? Or had she

refused and doomed herself ?

It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep himself in check, to think things through and give their

situation the respect it deserved. Al he wanted to do was throw his skis on and go until his lungs burst. But

to where?

Howel ’s head appeared from inside the tent and he examined the sky with a smile. “Doesn’t look so

bad.”

“See if you stil feel that way after ten hours of breaking trail.”

“Every day aboveground is a good day,” he said, dragging their packs into the snow. “What’s on the

agenda for today?”

Smith pointed down a steep slope that started thirty feet from their camp and then started dismantling

their tent. At one time, the grade had probably given the city’s archers an advantage over invading armies,

but now it just screamed “terrain trap” to any backcountry skier or military man worth a damn.

Howel clicked into his skis and eased up to the edge, frowning down at the cliff bands and cornices that

overhung the shadowed canyon. He thumbed back at the silent heads watching them. “One wel -placed

grenade and we’l be joining our friends here as permanent residents.”

Smith stuffed the tent in his pack and skied up next to the Brit. “You’re forgetting one thing—we’re actual y

trying to get ambushed.”

Howel shrugged. “I guess we should look on the bright side, then.”

“Which is?”

“We’l probably get kil ed skiing down.”

With that he kicked off and arced graceful y down the slope. Normal y, the British weren’t known for their

skiing prowess, but Howel ’s time in the California mountains had obviously overcome the chal enges of his

birth. Fresh powder curled over his head as he dodged a rock outcropping and picked up speed.

Smith tensed when a large slab of snow around his friend began to move, pacing him as gravity dragged

it into the gap ahead. The avalanche he thought was coming didn’t materialize, though, and a few moments

later, Howel was waving a pole enthusiastical y up at him.

He put his AvaLung in his mouth but then spit it out. The device was designed to help a buried skier

breathe long enough to be rescued, but if he kicked off a slide, they would both be buried. And with no help

forthcoming, it would only serve to prolong his suffering.

The cornice he was standing on was about five feet high, and he jumped off, hip checking in the deep

snow before springing upright and hurtling down the slope. Under other circumstances, it would have been a

perfect day, and he tried to enjoy the rol er-coaster sensation as he dove in and out of the powder,

occasional y looking back to see if the snowpack was holding.

It did, and he pul ed up to Howel , who was grinning through the ice clinging to his stubble. “I don’t

suppose we have time for one more?”

Smith actual y laughed, managing for a brief moment to forget why they were there.

“Maybe we’l hit it again on our way out,” he said, taking off his skis and reaching for his skins before

realizing that Howel wasn’t listening. Instead, he was completely focused on the canyon wal ahead of them.

“You got something, Peter?”

“Movement at the top.”

“Nothing we can do. Skin up and let’s get moving.”

He did but clearly wasn’t happy about it. Walking into an obvious trap was embarrassing enough for an

SAS man, but not fighting his way out of it would be downright mortifying.

“Anything behind us?” Howel said.

Smith tried not to be obvious scanning the ridge. “I don’t see anything. But that—”

A puff of snow erupted ten feet to their right and they dove away from it as the muffled sound of the

gunshot filtered down the cliff. Smith immediately rol ed upright and tried to get to their skis, but more rounds

rained down on them, spraying him with ice and snow.

“We’re in a cross fire!” Howel shouted, reaching instinctively into his jacket for the gun that wasn’t there.

Lost backcountry skiers tended not to be armed.

The intensity of fire increased, closing in on them as the snipers found their range. Howel started wading

toward a smal rock outcropping at the base of one of the canyon wal s, making comical y slow progress

through the deep powder. Shots were striking within two feet of him, one every second or so, from what

Smith calculated to be at least three separate guns. He wasn’t going to make it.

Then everything went silent.

Howel slowed and final y stopped a few yards short of cover. A hole in the clouds had opened up, and he

raised a hand to shade his face as he scanned the ridge again.

“Stay where you are! Do not move!”

The accented voice echoed through the gap, making its source impossible to pinpoint. A moment later,

ropes appeared above them, tumbling graceful y through the air. Before the ends had even hit the ground,

men appeared on both sides of the canyon, rappel ing quickly as a few more shots kicked up the snow

between Smith and Howel . A reminder that any aggressive move on their part could be easily dealt with.

68

Western Iran

November 30—1449 Hours GMT+3:30

AFTER THEY WERE RELIEVED of their backpacks, it was made crystal clear that if they fel behind, they

would be left to die. And the threat wasn’t an idle one. With the wind picking up again and a high-pressure

system pushing temperatures into the single digits, they wouldn’t last long with only their skis and the clothes

on their backs.

For now, though, it appeared to Smith that they were safe. The nine men who had ambushed them were

disbursed in an ever-lengthening line across the open plain. He glanced back to check on the man charged

with guarding him and saw that he was stopped more than a hundred yards back, leaning weakly on his

poles as someone helped him off with his oversized pack and slipped it over his own shoulders. Smith

smiled when he realized that the young soldier’s benefactor was none other than Peter Howel .

Beyond the initial barked orders and threats, none of their captors had said much of anything. In fact,

Smith stil wasn’t dead sure who these men were. Had they been sent by Farrokh? Were they an Iranian

military patrol taking them to prison for violating the border? Were they bandits or drug runners interested in

a ransom? Al questions had thus far gone unanswered.

What he did know was that it was a fairly ragtag unit. Their fitness and skiing ability were al over the

place, and their equipment was dated at best and on the verge of fal ing apart at worst.

Smith picked up his pace, feeling the cold air penetrate his lungs as he closed in on the unfortunate man

who had been stuck taking possession of his seventy-pound pack. One of the soldier’s hands was stuffed in

his jacket, and he held both poles in the other as he shuffled awkwardly forward, the cold and monotonous

grade starting to take their tol .

He was startled when Smith came alongside and yanked down one of the pack’s side zippers but was

too tired to do anything to protect himself against the weapon he assumed his American prisoner was

retrieving.

Instead, Smith pul ed out a pair of state-of-the-art ice-climbing gloves that he’d been carrying as spares.

The young man looked at him over wire-rimmed glasses caked with ice and gave a short nod of thanks.

Smith sped up again, passing one exhausted captor after another until he settled in behind the man on

point.

“Your team needs a break.”

The man tensed and twisted around, apparently surprised that his prisoner had been able to close the

gap between them so quickly and silently.

“Perhaps it’s you who needs the rest?”

By way of response, Smith just thumbed behind him.

The man looked out over the line of stragglers, his irritated frown turning to an expression of disgust when

he saw Howel , now carrying both a pack and a rifle, giving an impromptu seminar on efficient snow travel.

“Academics and intel ectuals,” the man said in lightly accented English. “They’re loyal to the movement,

but even with training so many are…What’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Unathletic?” Smith offered.

The man shook his head, sending a cascade of snow from his hat to his neatly trimmed beard. “Wimps.

That’s it. Not like you Americans and British. In the West a doctor and an old man can penetrate the jungles

of Uganda, escape one of the cruelest terrorists in the world, and then travel forty miles into the mountains of

Iran. You’re kil ers. Born and bred for it.”

He skied away and Smith just let him go.

“Making a new friend?” Howel said, coming up behind him. The next closest man was more than fifty

yards back, struggling to incorporate the Brit’s advice into his skiing technique.

“Actual y, I’m getting the distinct impression he doesn’t like us. Based on what he just said, though, I think

we found the people we were looking for.”

“And that means we’re supposed to trust them?”

“Don’t have much choice.”

“I used to have a mate who liked to say, ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’”

“Used to have?”

“IED. We never managed to scrape up enough of him to put in a box. I guess he final y answered his own

question, though.”

Smith didn’t respond, taking off up the canyon at a pace that once again brought him up behind the man

breaking trail. “I think we need to remember that we’re on the same side here.”

“Are we?” he said without looking back. “Like we were in 1953 when the CIA deposed our democratical y

elected leader and replaced him with a dictator?”

Smith knew he should just remain silent—this man was their only chance to find Farrokh. On the other

hand, it wasn’t in his nature to just rol over when his country was insulted.

“Am I mistaken, or was that in response to him nationalizing British Petroleum’s holdings in Iran?”

“Ah, yes. Your oil. The most important thing in the world—more important than the lives of innocents. More

important than the democracy you want to force on everyone. That is, everyone but the Saudis, where

women aren’t even al owed to operate a car.”

“Al we ask is that you send us a relatively stable supply of fuel and don’t harm our citizens. In return, we

agree to keep a gigantic money hose aimed at the entire region.”

“And if we don’t want your money? If we want to pursue a nuclear deterrent against your government,

which has publicly threatened us with annihilation?”

“That was never our government’s position—it was just a few congressmen shooting their mouths off.”

“But regimes and circumstances change, do they not?”

“I don’t think we’re going to resolve the world’s problems today,” Smith said as the sun dipped behind the

mountains. “So why don’t we just say that both of our countries have been very naughty and focus on what’s

ahead instead of what’s behind?”

69

Central Iran

December 1—2206 Hours GMT+3:30

SARIE VAN KEUREN MOVED careful y in her hazmat suit, constantly glancing back at the poorly maintained

tubes supplying her with fresh air. The lab had the look of something slapped together over the course of a

few weeks, with containment protocols that were wel below one hundred percent functionality. And anything

less than one hundred percent might as wel be zero.

She could credit Omidi with one thing, though. He’d been incredibly diligent in making certain that the lab

—and virtual y every other room she used—shared a glass wal with the cel where he kept his parasite

victim. A constant reminder of where she would end up if she didn’t behave.

The man Omidi had cal ed a rapist and murderer was ful y symptomatic now but hadn’t yet started to

weaken. Every move she or the people working in adjacent rooms made attracted him, and he went back

and forth in a mindless frenzy, slamming into the glass barrier over and over in a desperate attempt to find

the parasite a new host.

She tried to forget about him, but it didn’t do much to calm her. A few feet away, De Vries’s corpse was

lying on a table with the top of his head missing and an expression of rage frozen into his face. Blood had

pooled on the floor beneath him due to a backed-up drain that probably just emptied untreated into the

ground. Overal , better than Bahame’s cave, but only just.

The slide in her microscope contained one of many cross sections of his brain, which combined with a

heavily monitored Internet connection, had been useful in confirming some of her guesses about the

infection and providing some surprising refutations of others.

The initial targets of the parasite were the frontal lobe and anterior cingulate cortex, virtual y shutting off

any complex reasoning that would al ow the victim to control base emotions such as rage or to understand

the potential consequences of their actions.

Even more interesting was the damage to mirror neurons that had a hand in giving humans empathy and

a connection to others. The pattern of damage was very specific, though, and she wasn’t sure why. A

compel ing hypothesis was that it destroyed victims’ ability to identify with uninfected humans while al owing

them to continue to identify with infected humans—thus explaining why they didn’t attack each other.

Most interesting, though, was the bleeding. The capil aries in the head burst due to high concentrations of

the parasite in that area and not necessarily because the infection was targeting them specifical y. It was

similar to sneezing or coughing or diarrhea—a symptom that evolution selected because it al owed for the

spread and survival of the pathogen. In the end, though, the bleeding from the hair was nowhere near as bad

as it appeared. Victims did not die of blood loss as everyone assumed. They died as a result of brain

damage.

The parasite multiplied unchecked and seemed to have a frighteningly slippery genetic code that

adapted quickly. As crowding in the targeted areas got worse, parasites with a mutated taste for other parts

of the brain became increasingly successful. Eventual y, they began going after areas control ing autonomic

functions such as heart rate, thermoregulation, and respiration.

The good news was that it was far more than she’d expected to learn in such a short time. The bad news

was that she wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the information.

70

Central Iran

December 2—0755 Hours GMT+3:30

THE ONLY EMPTY SEAT remaining was at the head of the table next to Omidi. Along each side sat what

could be described as her department heads—highly educated scientists with different specialties and

backgrounds. While none had degrees specific to parasitology and some were less impressive than others,

each was perfectly competent. And that made them dangerous.

“Dr. van Keuren,” Omidi said as she sat. “You’ve had an opportunity to do the initial autopsy on Thomas

De Vries. What did you discover?”

She’d never been a good liar, but it was time to learn or die. There would be no white knight or last-

minute rescues. She was on her own.

“The parasite has a very fast breeding cycle and is as adaptable as any I’ve seen. That should make it

relatively easy to modify. Getting a quicker onset of ful symptoms wil just be a matter of using lab animals

to artificial y select the fastest-acting parasites over the course of successive generations.”

She wasn’t tel ing Omidi anything a second-year biology student couldn’t figure out, but he didn’t seem

aware of it. Maybe this was going to be easier than she’d thought.

“Would that also have the potential of decreasing the time to death, Doctor? And if that’s true, wouldn’t the

parasite’s ability to spread be compromised as its hosts die off more rapidly?”

The glimmer of hope she’d felt a moment before faded. It was a question that she’d wanted to avoid as

long as possible—one that demanded lies that could expose her. Once again, Omidi had demonstrated

that while he was as evil a son of a bitch as she’d ever met, he was by no means stupid.

“Attacks on the frontal lobe and related areas of the brain are correlated with blood loss, but only loosely.

What I’m talking about here isn’t increasing parasitic load; it’s making it more targeted. It’s actual y possible

that this would slow the time to fatal blood loss, because bleeding is just a secondary effect.”

“Are you certain that death is from blood loss?”

His question sent a jolt of adrenaline through her that she struggled to hide. Did he know something?

“Injury and exhaustion are probably the number one kil ers,” she equivocated.

“But barring that?” he said.

“I…I think blood loss is the obvious answer, but I haven’t looked directly into it. I’m not a neurologist.”

“Ah,” he said, gesturing toward the man directly to his right. “Fortunately for us, Yousef here is.”

Dr. Yousef Zarin was the only person on her team that she hadn’t been able to fit into the categories she’d

developed. The men she now thought of as the softies were general y clean shaven and round faced—

academics and research scientists who appeared to have been plucked from their cushy university jobs by

Omidi right before she arrived. Many seemed as frightened as she was and were prone to dropping things

if you walked up behind them too quietly.

The second category was the believers. They were men with wiry builds and ful beards who had less

intel ectual horsepower than their softy counterparts. They, too, seemed to fear Omidi, but more in the sense

of being awestruck by him. When he talked about the rise of Iranian power and the decline of the West, they

tended to get a faraway stare that recal ed Soviet paintings of farmers.

Then there was Zarin. He was wiry and wore a rather grand beard, putting himself firmly in the category of

believer. On the other hand, he was quite bril iant and, when he thought no one was looking, seemed

worried. Clearly softy traits. The final test—his reaction to Omidi—was impossibly enigmatic. He seemed

almost dismissive of the man.

“I’d be interested to hear what Dr. Zarin’s found,” Sarie said.

He nodded, fixing dark, control ed eyes on her. “I believe that the victims’ blood loss is exaggerated by

their profuse sweating and constant motion. Dr. van Keuren is correct that injury or exhaustion is the most

likely cause of death, but if we ignore those factors, it wil be damage to autonomic brain functions, and not

blood loss, that kil s them.”

Sarie realized that her polite smile had been frozen long enough that it was probably starting to look

painted on. She tried to relax, but inside she was cursing like her father used to when one of the cows

knocked down a fence. If Zarin had already figured that out, what else did he know? What else had he told

Omidi?

“And the issue of making it transportable?” a believer whose name she couldn’t remember said. “Faster

onset makes using a human host even more difficult.”

“I don’t think it should be much of an issue,” Sarie responded. “I’ve never found a parasite that couldn’t be

transported with much more primitive equipment than you have access to. But trying to work out a way to do

that now isn’t a good use of our time. There’s no tel ing what sympathetic changes wil occur when we start

the selective-breeding process, so any transportation procedure we come up with now may not work later.”

In truth, the likelihood of the modifications they were talking about having any effect on transportability was

about zero. But the longer she could keep them from being able to deliver their weapon, the more time she

had to carry out her plan to sabotage it.

71

Western Iran

December 3—1051 Hours GMT+3:30

SEPEHR MOURADIPOUR PEERED THROUGH his scope at the line of men partial y obscured by blowing

snow. The shal ow draw they were traveling along was nearly flat, and the easier terrain had, as anticipated,

al owed their formation to tighten.

He was wearing a white hooded jumpsuit and was partial y buried, lying on an inflatable mattress to keep

him insulated from the cold. Even his face was streaked with greasy white paint, breaking up its outline and

transforming it into just another exposed area of earth and rock.

The group he was tracking appeared to consist primarily of his own countrymen—fol owers of Farrokh,

according to his information. Traitors and atheists. It would be a pleasure to kil them, but that was just an

unplanned bonus.

He final y found the men he was being paid to take out near the middle of the column. Both were wearing

light gray Western ski clothing, the one in front broad shouldered and dark complected, with black hair

poking out from beneath a wool hat. His companion was thinner and had fair skin burned red behind ski

goggles.

Mouradipour pressed a button on the side of his rifle, sending a signal that the targets were two hundred

meters out. An LED built into his sunglasses flashed seven times in response. His men were ready.

It took a little longer than expected for the column to cover the distance, but speed was notoriously hard to

predict in this kind of terrain and he was confident that his team would make any necessary adjustments

without his involvement. He demanded nothing less than perfect discipline from his men and had dug many

graves for those who didn’t live up to that standard. The group he was working with now had completed nine

missions of this type without a single material error.

Mouradipour waited until the middle of the column was even with a cliff band that he was using for

perspective, then sent out three clicks in quick succession.

It was over almost before it started.

His men burst from their buried positions and snipers appeared along the ridge across from him. A few of

Farrokh’s men made awkward grabs for their weapons, but most were hung on packs out of reach or were

incompatible with the bulky gloves they seemed to favor. In less than five seconds, everyone in the column

was on their knees with hands laced on top of their heads.

Mouradipour snowshoed down the slope and approached the first of the Westerners, ripping his hat off

and comparing his face to the photo he’d burned into his memory. The coloring was right, as were the high

cheekbones, but the eyes were not the intense blue he’d been expecting. A trick of light? Contacts?

When he dragged the broad goggles off the second man’s face, Mouradipour was horrified to find the

unlined skin of someone in his early thirties.

“Trap!” he screamed in Persian, clawing for the rifle on his shoulder.

The intermittent crack of control ed gunfire sounded and his men began crumpling around him. Their

prisoners, who had seemed so awkward and exhausted a moment before, dove to the icy ground so as not

to block their hidden compatriots’ line of fire and pul ed weapons from beneath their jackets.

Mouradipour had barely managed to get a hand around his rifle when his feet were swept from under him.

Before he’d even landed, a thin strand of wire was looped over his head, cutting through the insulated col ar

of his jumpsuit and tightening around his neck. Every move he made now caused the icy metal to dig a little

deeper.

A lone skier became visible down canyon, moving stiffly through his dead and dying men. The outline was

inexplicable—strangely curvaceous and wil owy despite heavy clothing. He squinted upward, his confusion

growing when the figure stopped in front of him and pushed back a thick hood, revealing the short blond hair

and perfect skin of a young woman.

“Make your phone cal ,” Randi Russel said, gritting her teeth and adjusting her rifle into a slightly less

excruciating position on her shoulder.

The flight from America crammed into the cargo hold of a C-141B Starlifter, the clandestine crossing of

the Iranian border, and nineteen hours tracking these bastards hadn’t done much for her mood.

Fred Klein had been so enamored with the body armor he’d provided her—waxing rhapsodic about how

the genetical y modified silk was four times stronger than Kevlar and how it tipped the scales at only ninety-

eight pounds including the fake blood packs duct-taped to it.

In the end, though, her reluctance to stand in front of an Afghan assassin’s bul et wearing something made

of the same thing as her lingerie had been entirely justified. The bruise across her back was almost a foot in

diameter and radiated over her spine in roughly the color scheme of a Miami sunset.

“Phone?” Mouradipour said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Randi retrieved a bottle of ibuprofen and shook five into her mouth, swal owing hard before speaking

again. “You don’t want to screw with me today, Sepehr. I swear you don’t.”

He didn’t answer immediately, instead watching the bodies of his men sink into snow melted by the heat

of their blood. “And what if I agree to make your cal ?”

“Then we’re going to hold you long enough to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid like use some sort

of code word to indicate you’d been caught. Then, if everything works out, we’l let you go.”

“What assurances do I have?”

“How’s this: I assure you that if you don’t get on that damn phone in the next five seconds, I’m going to

have my friend here cut your head off.”

The wire around his neck tightened, and after a brief hesitation, he reached slowly for his pocket.

Randi took a step back and squinted into the distance. Al the maps, satel ite photos, and coordinates

Mouradipour had been working with were elaborate fakes—careful y altered to hide the fact that Jon and

Peter were actual y a hundred miles to the north. That is, if they hadn’t frozen to death, run into an Iranian

border patrol, or been shot in the back of the head by the notoriously unpredictable Farrokh.

She pul ed out her own sat phone and sent Covert-One a notification that Mouradipour’s cal was about to

go through so they could begin tracking it. Unknown to Klein, Charles Mayfield would be doing the same

thing at CIA headquarters—a little independent verification to help her sleep at night.

Randi turned and skied slowly away, feeling the anger building inside her but also an unfamiliar sense of

despair that wasn’t as easy to deal with. Only when the voices of her men had been swal owed up by the

wind did she stop and reflect on how much she’d hoped to find nothing out here but snow. How much she’d

wanted Klein to be wrong.

But there was no way to nurse that il usion anymore. In her gut, she knew that cal was going to go exactly

where he said it would: to a man whose orders she’d risked her life countless times to carry out. To a man

she’d respected and admired.

To Lawrence Drake.

72

Western Iran

December 3—1503 Hours GMT+3:30

THEY WERE NEARLY ON top of it, but the vil age was stil virtual y invisible. Cone-shaped rock formations

jutted a hundred feet in the air, many with windows and doors built into them. The more modern buildings

looked a thousand years old—crooked one-room dwel ings constructed of stone blocks and surrounded by

ancient fences designed to corral livestock.

They skied in from the east, Smith taking a route too steep for the Iranians, most of whom had given up al

pretense of guarding him. His momentum took him to the base of a packed-down track that acted as Main

Street, and he skated along it. Faces appeared in icy windows and then just as quickly disappeared at the

realization that he was a stranger.

He felt a poke in the smal of his back and turned to see that it had come from the man who’d led their

seemingly endless expedition through the mountains. They stopped near a set of rough-hewn steps and

removed their skis before climbing up to a door that led directly into the cliff. The man went through a

complex series of knocks, and a moment later he was being embraced by a bear of a man carrying an AK-

47.

The sensation of heat against his skin was incredibly seductive, and Smith stepped inside, crossing a

mishmash of traditional rugs to the fireplace.

“Is Farrokh here?” he said, pul ing off his gloves and holding his hands to the flames. The journey had

taken three days—far longer than he’d anticipated—and there was no tel ing what progress Omidi was

making with weaponizing the parasite. Or if he was even bothering. By now, it was possible that he’d

smuggled a victim over the U.S. border and the infection had wiped out half the population.

“Have something to eat.”

A beautiful young woman in a head scarf appeared a moment later with a plate of Middle Eastern meze

and two steaming cups of tea.

“Look, I don’t have any more time to screw around. I want to see Farrokh. Now.”

The Iranian took off his outer clothing and flopped onto a pile of colorful pil ows by the fire. “Farrokh is a

busy man.”

Without his hat and sunglasses, he looked quite a bit younger than Smith had original y estimated. His

eyes reflected not only unusual intel igence, but also a calm sense of power and confidence. Not a man

you’d waste on an errand like the one he’d just performed.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Smith said, silently cursing his own stupidity. “You’re Farrokh.”

His only reaction was to point to the pil ows next to him. “Please, Dr. Smith. It’s been a long journey. Rest.”

He did as he was told, pul ing off his ski clothes and trying to keep his impatience in check. The pace in

this part of the world was different, and trying to fight mil ennia of cultural norms was going to get him

nowhere.

“Our organization must be diffuse so that it wil live on if any individual dies. But, to answer your question,

yes. I am the one they cal Farrokh.”

Despite his best effort to play the diplomat, Smith couldn’t hide his anger. “Then what the hel have we

been doing? I was told you’d been briefed on what’s happening.”

“Rash action is never advisable,” Farrokh said. “And taking the measure of a man who wants to be my

al y is never a waste of time. In fact, it’s why I’m stil alive.”

When Smith spoke again, he’d managed to calm down a bit. “What’s the verdict?”

“You appear to be a man who should be taken seriously.”

“So you trust me now?”

Farrokh laughed and reached for one of the cups of tea, offering it to Smith. “I can count the number of

people I trust on one hand, and I don’t anticipate needing an additional finger because of our

acquaintanceship.”

“But you believe that the parasite exists and that your government has it.”

“Yes, though I fail to see why this is my problem.”

Despite his attempt at nonchalance, it was clear that he knew exactly why it was his problem.

“I understand that you don’t much like the U.S., but you have to admit that we’ve been leaving you and your

country alone. Do you think that’l continue if Omidi succeeds in releasing a biological weapon inside our

borders?”

Farrokh shrugged. “America is directly or indirectly responsible for mil ions of Iranians dead, the reign of

a brutal dictator, and frankly the repressive and backward Islamic system we live under now. Perhaps this is

simply a balancing of the scales.”

“No,” Smith said. “You’re smarter than that. It doesn’t matter how many Americans you kil ; there wil stil

be one of us left to push a button. And then there won’t be an Iran for you to liberalize.”

Farrokh nodded thoughtful y. “The ayatol ah has become senile and Omidi is insane. They believe that

God has delivered this weapon to them and that he wil guide their hand as they use it to destroy the

enemies of Islam.”

“I’m not sure it’s going to work out that way.”

“No. I have come to understand that God rarely takes sides in such matters. The righteous and innocent

are as likely—perhaps more likely—to suffer as the wicked. To rely on his intervention is the height of

arrogance and stupidity. America has both the power and the wil to butcher anyone who shows even mild

defiance.”

Smith tried to shut out the quiet tick of the ancient clock on the wal . It seemed to get louder and louder as

their pointless geopolitical debate dragged on.

“America is a massive stabilizing force in the world, and you know it as wel as I do. How many countries

with our military and economic power would have shown the same restraint? What would your country do

with our arsenal? Hel , what would the Germans do with it?”

Farrokh sipped his tea for a few moments before taking a step away from philosophy and toward

something more concrete. “Do you know where Dr. van Keuren has been taken?”

“No. Our intel igence-gathering capabilities inside Iran are pretty much a joke.”

“Ah, so this is to be left up to me too?”

“It’s your country, and I’m guessing you keep up with these kinds of things.”

Another shrug. “I hear whispers.”

The words were enigmatic, but the tone wasn’t. Farrokh’s network had undoubtedly been digging into this

from the moment Klein’s people first contacted him.

“Where? Where is she?”

Farrokh browsed the food on the tray between them, crinkling his nose and final y smearing something

unidentifiable on a piece of flatbread. “There has been recent activity at an abandoned research facility in

the central part of the country. Also, a number of academics have been cal ed away on government

business and have been out of touch with their families ever since. The timing seems more than

coincidental.”

“How heavily protected is it?”

“It’s underground and the entrance is wel guarded.”

“I don’t know if I can get us air support, but I can sure as hel try.”

Farrokh frowned and lay back in the pil ows. “Do you real y think I would coordinate a foreign attack on my

own country? I am a reformer, not a traitor.”

“But—”

The Iranian held up a hand, and a moment later the man who had let them in appeared in the doorway.

This time he looked less cheerful and his weapon was no longer safely shouldered.

“Teymore here wil take you to your quarters. I hope we have an opportunity to speak again soon.”

73

Central Iran

December 3—1912 Hours GMT+3:30

SARIE VAN KEUREN GUIDED the scalpel careful y as she cut a cross section from the brain on the table in

front of her. Its smal size made it more difficult to work with, but she was grateful she’d been able to

convince Omidi that working with animals would be more productive. The glassed-in room bordering her lab

was now ful of a bizarre variety of caged monkeys—some lab animals but others appearing to have been

snatched from zoos and private owners.

Each individual cage was covered with cloth draping, something she’d accurately said was necessary to

prevent them from dying of injuries sustained trying to get to the people on the other side of the glass. The

real reason, though, wasn’t to keep them from seeing her new col eagues, but to keep them from seeing

each other—a subtle distinction easily missed by Omidi and his scientific lapdogs.

Sarie glanced up and noticed that the canvas covering a number of the cages in the middle section of

animals had blood on it. She jotted down the time on a pad next to her and went back to working on the

brain.

There were a number of potential strategies for making the parasite less dangerous, but almost al fel

apart under the weight of any serious thought. The most obvious was to nurture the mutation that attacked

the victim’s corneas in order to cause blindness. Biological y straightforward, but it was a bit far-fetched to

believe that a bunch of infected animals wandering around bumping into things would escape notice.

Omidi’s toadies weren’t world-class, but they weren’t complete idiots.

Improving attention span had been her second plan. At first it had seemed perfect in a somewhat

horrifying way. If she could reduce the infected’s ability to be distracted during an attack, she would increase

the probability that they would kil their victims and stop the chain of infection. Unfortunately, though, the

areas of the brain responsible for that type of focus were too diffuse to target. The parasite had been

working on the problem for mil ions of years. Her time was somewhat shorter.

The answer, surprisingly, had been lurking in the mirror neurons. The pattern of damage was easy to

change, and she’d already managed to affect the way that parasite victims identified with each other—

creating the first seeds of reciprocal animosity. While the plan had many obvious weaknesses, if she could

get them interested in attacking each other, she estimated that she could reduce the rate of spread by as

much as forty percent.

Even more important, she’d discovered that the parasite had a significant exposure-response

relationship—the higher the initial parasitic load, the faster the onset of symptoms. She’d used that to

convince Omidi that she was actual y making progress in reducing the time to ful symptoms when, in

actuality, she was just giving progressively larger doses of infected blood to the test animals.

What he wasn’t happy about, though, was that this was creating a corresponding effect on the time to

death. The fact that the believers were starting to slowly disappear seemed to indicate that Omidi was

setting up an alternate group somewhere else in the facility to review her research and work on the time-to-

death problem. She also had to assume that they would be testing her “modifications” on humans and that it

wouldn’t be long before they figured out that they didn’t actual y work.

That’s why it was so important that phase two of her plan be enacted quickly and decisively. Unfortunately,

she hadn’t yet been able to come up with a phase two.

Sarie finished with the brain and went through the primitive decontamination procedures before entering

the large room next to the lab. Five softies manning somewhat-dated computers watched her as she took a

seat in front of the only terminal with an English operating system.

She was just starting to enter her notes when Yousef Zarin slid his chair up next to her.

“I know what you’re doing,” he said, leaning close and keeping his voice barely above a whisper.

“Excuse me?” she responded, continuing to enter numbers into a matrix of bogus mortality rates.

“I’ve been looking at your data and examined some of your samples myself.”

She smiled weakly through clenched teeth, refusing to let her growing fear affect her ability to think.

“Mirror neuron damage is evolving very quickly.”

“I have to apologize for my ignorance of neurology, Dr. Zarin. What are mirror neurons again?”

It was his turn to smile. “You might be surprised to know that I actual y read your paper on the effects of

toxoplasmosis on human behavior. Your intel ectual gifts and grasp of brain function were very much on

display.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” she said, sounding a little too cheerful for a woman in her position but

finding it impossible to get the right balance. “It’s just that I’m not sure what—”

His voice lowered even more. “I believe that if these changes continue, victims of the parasite wil no

longer be able to differentiate between infected and healthy people.”

She stopped typing, but her fingers seemed frozen to the keyboard.

“It’s very clever,” Zarin continued. “I would have thought you’d simply try to reduce aggressive impulses,

but of course that would have been too obvious, wouldn’t it? How do you say…I take my hat off to you.”

“I think you’re misinterpreting—”

“I don’t pretend to be your equal, Doctor, but I am not an uneducated man.”

“You…,” she stammered, trying to come up with something credible to say. “Maybe it’s a side effect of

decreasing onset times that I missed. We could—”

He shook his head and she fel silent.

“No, the more I think about it, the more I see the bril iance of it. Given time, it could have a significant

effect on the spread of the infection. Unfortunately, time is something we don’t have.”

“What?”

“We are not al fundamentalists and fanatics, Sarie. The time for more and more horrifying weapons is

done. It must be. Technology has put too much power into men’s hands—the power to destroy everything

that God has created.”

Was it a trick? Was he just trying to find out the details of what she had done in order to reverse the

damage? How the hel was she supposed to know? The bottom line was, she’d been caught. There was no

point to further scheming or protests. If Yousef Zarin was truly with her, he could potential y help her save

mil ions of lives. If he was against her, she was already dead.

“You’re not going to tel Omidi?” she said, mindful of the ever-present cameras bolted to the ceiling above

them.

“Omidi is a pig. This is an act of desperation—an evil perpetrated by politicians trying to cling to power

and disguising it as piety. I wil help you. But I’m afraid the path you’ve taken is of no use.”

He was right, of course. It had been her own act of desperation. In the unlikely event that she was given

the time necessary to perfect the genetic modifications, they wouldn’t last. The parasite was too adaptable

—if it were released in a place that didn’t have Africa’s geographic isolation, it would evolve with

devastating speed, hiding its symptoms, modifying the way it spread, extending the contagion period in the

people it infected.

In the back of her mind, she knew she should be cautious, but she so desperately needed someone to

stand with her. To not be alone anymore.

“Is there a way out, Yousef ? Or a way to communicate with the outside world? I have friends who might be

able to help.”

The Iranian shook his head. “We are a hundred meters underground and al messages leaving the facility

have to be approved by Omidi personal y.”

“Then we have to think of something else.”

He nodded. “And quickly. I suspect that the scientists who are no longer with us—the ones loyal to Omidi

—are working on a way to transport the parasite outside the human body.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“He came to me and asked if I agreed that work on transportation should wait until the final genetic

sequence was done and I supported you, but he asked questions that were too technical for him to have

devised on his own. It was clear that his people were advising him that the modifications wouldn’t affect

transportation modalities.”

“Then we have to get out of here, Yousef. We have to get help.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. However, we are not powerless.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was brought here years ago when this was a secret bioweapons lab and asked to write a report on

safety issues. There were many problems—systems that are archaic or nonfunctional, poorly thought-out

procedures, unrepaired cracks in the wal s and ceiling. The government counted on the facility’s isolation.

The closest population center is a vil age two hours’ drive from here.”

“As near as I can tel , they didn’t listen to you. This place is a disaster waiting to happen.”

He nodded. “Shortly after my inspection, America attacked Iraq because of the WMD program they

believed was going on there. My government feared the same fate could befal Iran and shut the facility

down.”

“So you stil understand the weaknesses in the systems here?”

“Better than anyone, I imagine.”

She leaned back in her chair and stared past him, watching the other people in the room doing their best

not to cal attention to themselves. She wondered what they’d say if they knew what she and Yousef were

about to doom them to.

74

Above Central Iran

December 4—1014 Hours GMT+3:30

THE ANCIENT RUSSIAN HELICOPTER felt like it was going to rattle apart as it skimmed across the top of

the ridge. Smith gripped the rusted instrument panel as the ground fel away and Farrokh dove hard toward

the val ey below.

He hadn’t been given access to his phone or any other method of communication, and al questions—

about the search for Omidi and the parasite, about where Peter Howel had disappeared to, about when the

hel they were going to do something—had been politely deflected.

“There,” Farrokh shouted over the sound of the rotors. He pointed toward a group of fifty or so people who

were stil at the very edge of visibility, some in formations that were obviously military, others moving quickly

over what may have been an obstacle course.

“Our newest training ground,” the Iranian explained, tracing a sweeping arc over the men and then setting

down in the shadow of a towering cliff. “Before this, we were focused on purely peaceful protest techniques

enhanced with technology. But the more successful we are, the more desperate and violent the government

becomes.”

“So you’re developing a military arm?”

The Iranian shut down the engine and jumped out with Smith close behind. “It isn’t intended as an

offensive force. I believe that if we’re patient, we can win without blood on our hands. Trying to depose the

old men entrenched in our government would be a poor strategy.”

“Better to just wait for them to die and quietly replace them.”

“Just so,” Farrokh said. “Overt violence against the government would be a publicity disaster for us. I

suspect it’s no different in the United States. No matter how despised the government, any attempt by a

group to physical y overthrow it would be wildly unpopular. On the other hand, having no capability to protect

my fol owers seemed irresponsible.”

“Hope for the best but prepare for the worst,” Smith said. “It’s a policy that’s always worked for me.”

He shaded his eyes from the sun and watched two men fail to climb a ten-foot obstacle course wal , then

scanned right to a line of prone men having mixed success shooting targets at fifty yards. An instructor

paced impatiently behind them, occasional y stopping to adjust a poor position or give a piece of advice.

His face was shaded by a broad straw hat, but the athletic grace and pent-up energy were unmistakable.

“Wil you excuse me for a moment?” Farrokh said, breaking off and heading toward a knot of men

studying something rol ed out on a col apsible table.

Smith nodded and kept walking, cupping his hands around his mouth as he neared the range. “Peter!”

Howel turned and then barked something at the men on the ground. A moment later, they were running in

formation toward a scaffold hung with climbing ropes.

“I was starting to worry about you, old boy,” he said, taking Smith’s hand and shaking it warmly.

“I could say the same. But you don’t look any worse for the wear.”

“A cot and three squares a day. What more can men like us ask for?”

It was an interesting philosophical question, but one better dealt with later. “What have we got?”

“Forty-eight men with a few months of combat training and nine army veterans, two of whom have a

special forces background. They’re like me, though—a little long in the tooth.”

“What about the forty-eight? Can they fight?”

Howel frowned. “They’re dedicated and smart as hel . But I’l bet at least half of them are carrying

inhalers, if you take my meaning.”

“You go into battle with the army you have, not the army you wish you had.”

“Indeed. Just make sure you’re behind them when they start shooting.”

75

Central Iran

December 5—0201 Hours GMT+3:30

JON SMITH ADJUSTED HIS stiff legs into a slightly less uncomfortable position on the hard ground. They

were 180 miles northeast of Farrokh’s training camp, and the last quarter of the trip had been done on

horseback. Quiet and efficient in the torturous terrain, granted, but a mode of transportation he’d last

employed at his fifth-birthday party.

He swept the tripod-mounted night-vision scope slowly, taking in the double chain-link fence, the guard

towers, the machine-gun placements. Worse, though, was what he didn’t see: a building. The entire

bioweapons lab was underground—deep underground if Farrokh’s intel igence was right.

There was a stone outcropping at the center of the heavily defended perimeter, and he could see a

smooth gray section set into it. Steel doors about twenty feet square and of unknown thickness. It was hard

to imagine a worse scenario that didn’t actual y involve giant alien robots.

“You stil haven’t been able to get a schematic of the facility?” he said quietly. They were lying in the rock-

strewn sand a mile east of the fence. Getting any closer would demand military skil s his companion lacked.

“I’m afraid not,” Farrokh replied.

“Old building permits? Architectural plans? Inspection reports?”

“The information blackout is absolute. In some ways, too absolute. It was the sudden disappearance of al

information relating to this place that first led us here.”

The towers and the outer fence looked new and haphazardly constructed of local materials. The apparent

shoddiness, though, was an il usion—the result of the Iranians’ trying not to erect structures that would create

a pattern that could be identified from above.

Smith adjusted the scope again, focusing on the base of the easternmost of two towers protecting the

entrance. Even though he knew exactly where to look, it was an impressive thirty seconds before his eye

picked up movement.

Peter Howel and an even older retired Iranian special forces operator had spent the last five hours

beneath a dirty piece of canvas, inching their way toward the facility’s outer defenses. They’d final y made it

to the top of the low berm that was their objective and Smith heard the vibration of the phone on Farrokh’s

hip. The Iranian looked down at it for a moment and then held it out so Smith could read the text on the

screen.

Ditch. 2Ms deep 4Ms wide. bridge booB trapped.

He’d suspected as much but had been hoping for a little luck. Any assault that attempted to breach

anywhere but the main entrance would get trapped and cut to pieces by the machine guns in the towers.

“So it’s through the front door or not at al ,” Farrokh said.

Smith nodded in the darkness but couldn’t help thinking that the most likely scenario was not at al . There

was no way for an adequate force to approach without being seen for miles and no way to avoid stopping

on the bridge, which was apparently rigged to blow at the first sign of trouble.

Farrokh punched in a brief response and then returned to his spotting scope as Smith rol ed onto his

back and looked up at a sky ful of stars. He wondered if Sarie was stil alive. If she was in that bunker.

“What can you bring to the party, Farrokh?”

“Fifty good men wil ing to die for what they believe in.”

And that was exactly what his green troops would do if they went up against battle-tested soldiers in an

entrenched position.

“Artil ery?”

“No. We have some explosives, but no way to deliver them other than by hand.”

“What about technology? Can we cut communications to the facility?”

“No, they’re using satel ite and there’s no practical way for us to jam the signal.”

“What about power?”

“There are no lines in, so it must be generated on-site.”

Smith let out a long breath. This wasn’t an operation that could be done by half measures. Breaching the

security and then not finishing things created the possibility of the parasite escaping. If they got in, the place

had to be sterilized. And Sarie van Keuren had to be either retrieved or eliminated.

“You need to let me talk to my people, Farrokh. We might have enough information to convince them to

enter Iranian airspace. We have bunker busters that—”

“Out of the question. I wil not use the American military against my country.”

“I am the American military.”

“A bit different, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mil ions of lives are at stake, Farrokh. This isn’t a—”

“What if you had known for a fact that the Iraqis didn’t have weapons of mass destruction? Would you

have helped the Iraqi air force cross your border and destroy your military bases in order to stop an invasion

that has spread death and misery throughout the region? We have fifty men wil ing to die at my order,

Colonel. Nothing more.”

Smith rol ed onto his stomach again, fantasizing about slamming a rock into the back of the Iranian’s

head and taking his phone. Unfortunately, he’d noticed him entering a PIN to unlock it with every use and he

hadn’t been able to determine what that PIN was.

“You’re the boss, Farrokh. Cal Howel and your man back. I want to be wel clear of here before the sun

comes up.”

The Iranian punched in another text and a few moments later the phone vibrated with a response.

nt yt. got idea. gnteed fun 4 all.

76

Central Iran

December 5—0654 Hours GMT+3:30

THE HORRIBLE SCREECHES AND metal ic rattle of cages were nearly unbearable as Sarie entered the

room containing the test monkeys. She fought the urge to strip off her stifling hazmat suit and run out,

instead calmly setting down her clipboard and slipping a thumb through the ring at the back of an oversized

syringe.

It was ful of blood from an animal in the final stages of infection, and she knew that the sensitive parasites

suspended inside would soon begin to die. There was no more time for reflection. No more time to second-

guess or try to devise a less horrifying end to this. No more time for anything.

As she passed the first of the canvas-draped cages, the monkeys inside keyed on the sound of her

footsteps and attacked the bars imprisoning them, trying desperately to get to her. The next section

contained animals infected only a few hours ago, and they didn’t react at al , trapped in a dazed, silent

stupor. It was the third section she was interested in, though—the one containing the group that hadn’t yet

been exposed.

Each animal was connected to an IV that led to a central system for introducing drugs and pathogens.

Sarie fil ed it from the syringe and tapped a command into a plastic-covered laptop. The parasitic load sent

was an order of magnitude greater than they would have ever been exposed to in an attack. Based on the

formula she’d come up with, groups of two and three would reach ful symptoms around the same time. By

then, group one would be dying but stil in possession of around thirty percent of their peak strength and

mobility. More than enough to be deadly.

The procedures for disposing of the syringe and shedding her protective clothing were pointless now, but

she went through the motions with the same deliberate resolve as she had every other day. Even with time

so short, she couldn’t risk the security cameras picking up anything out of the ordinary.

By the time she entered the outer office, the clock on the wal read seven thirty a.m. Yousef Zarin was the

only person there, working on a computer terminal surrounded by files and loose papers.

She sat next to him, keeping her back to the surveil ance camera as she looked at the schematic fil ing

his monitor. In a monumental stroke of luck, the facility had been shut down so soon after flunking his

inspection that no one had bothered to delete the passwords he’d been given. Zarin had ful access to the

system and enough knowledge of programming to put that access to use.

“Is everything ready?”

He nodded. “When we signal an emergency, al doors leading to the outside world wil automatical y seal,

as they were designed to do. However, I’ve made two subtle changes. The first is to the interior doors. The

original programming caused them to close and lock in order to section off the building and contain any leak

in as smal an area as possible. I left the locking subroutine intact but introduced an error into the subroutine

that causes them to shut.”

“So they’l stil be open when the deadbolt extends,” Sarie said. “It’l block them open.”

“Exactly. The other change was more difficult because I had to create the code from scratch, but I just ran

a simulation and it is ful y functional.”

“The monkey cages?”

“Yes. The locks on the cages wil retract and then be permanently frozen in that position.”

She nodded slowly, trying to wil her heart to slow. For al intents and purposes, they were turning the

facility into a tomb. One that would descend into unimaginable violence and chaos before going silent

forever.

“Are you al right?” Zarin said, concern visible in his dark eyes.

“Yes.”

“It’s not a pleasant prospect, is it?”

“No. But I’m coming to terms with it.”

“As am I,” he said. “But I would like to have seen my family again. There is so much left unsaid when you

think you have time.”

She smiled weakly, a bit queasy at the realization that there was no one she needed to see. The

university would have a tasteful memorial when it became clear that she was never going to reappear. Her

col eagues would shake their heads and say that they’d warned her about spending so much time alone in

the bush. And then life would go on.

“If you’l excuse me,” Zarin said, standing. “I’m going to pray.”

She watched him leave, wishing she’d inherited her father’s devotion to the Bible. A little comfort from

above would be welcome in light of the facility’s complete lack of alcohol.

The coffee machine stil had some dregs in it from last night, and she’d have to settle for that. It seemed a

bit surreal to have reached the point in her life that there was no longer time to brew a fresh cup.

She wondered what the people who found them would think of what they saw: the blood, the demolished

makeshift barricades, the human and animal corpses stil tangled together.

The important thing, though, was that by then, the parasite would be long dead.

77

Central Iran

December 5—0902 Hours GMT+3:30

SARIE VAN KEUREN SAT in front of Zarin’s terminal listening to the endless drone of the monkeys and

watching the clock march inevitably forward. She’d hoped he would come back—that she wouldn’t be left to

do this alone. But she respected his desire for solitude.

It was hard to recognize herself in the reflection on the sleeping computer screen. The drawn features,

dark-rimmed eyes, and dead expression seemed to belong to someone else. Someone who had

wandered too far from home.

She wiped away a tear and touched the keyboard, bringing the monitor back to life. A few clicks of the

mouse brought up the emergency lockdown button, and she hovered the cursor over it, thinking of Zarin and

the family he was leaving behind. Of the family she would never have.

An insignificant twitch of her finger activated the alarm, overpowering the screams of the monkeys. She

held her breath, resisting the urge to run. Better for it to be over quick.

But nothing happened.

Sarie turned in her chair and examined the closed door leading to the hal way. It should have

automatical y opened and the deadbolt should have extended. Confused, she clicked the button again. The

alarm kept droning, but the door stayed closed and the monkeys remained safely in their cages.

The screen flickered and went blank for a moment, final y reverting to the log-in page. She typed in Zarin’s

password and was trying to access the facility’s schematic when the door behind her final y opened.

The computer wasn’t responsible, though, and she jumped to her feet as three men with machine guns

burst in. Omidi fol owed a moment later, dragging Yousef Zarin along behind him. The academic’s right leg

was broken and it gave way when Omidi let go, leaving him bleeding and confused on the tile floor.

“Do you think I wasn’t watching you?” Omidi screamed. “Do you think I didn’t read the report Zarin wrote

about this place?”

“I…,” Sarie stammered. “I thought one of the cage locks was defective. That—”

The Iranian rushed her, slamming an open hand into the side of her face hard enough to knock her to the

ground. “We have people monitoring the computers! We saw him rewriting the security subroutines. Now tel

me what you’ve done!”

Sarie shook her head violently, trying to clear it. Zarin hadn’t talked. He’d managed to hold out despite the

torture he’d endured.

“I…I infected the rest of the lab animals,” she said, sticking to the obvious. “We—”

“I know that,” Omidi said, aiming his pistol at Zarin. “You’ve been working day and night with the parasite.

Tel me what you’ve done to it!”

“Nothing!”

Omidi pressed the barrel of his gun into the back of the injured scientist’s head. “Tel me or he dies!”

“That’s what I did—nothing!” Sarie said, being careful not to give away anything his believers couldn’t

easily figure out on their own. “I haven’t real y sped up the time to ful symptoms; I’ve just been infecting the

animals with larger and larger loads.”

“The great Sarie van Keuren could think of nothing better than that?” he said, curling a finger around the

pistol’s trigger. “Give me the truth! Now!”

It was over. One last diversion that might save a tiny handful of lives was al that she had left. “Okay! Don’t

hurt him. I was selecting for parasites that attack the corneas to add blindness to the symptomatology.”

She jerked at the sound of the gun, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the blood and brain matter

splashing across her.

“You wil show our scientist exactly how you have sabotaged the parasite and how to repair the damage,”

Omidi said, redirecting his aim to her.

Sarie stared down at the scientist’s body, no longer feeling fear. No longer feeling anything. Final y, she

just raised her hand and extended her middle finger.

78

Central Iran

December 5—0930 Hours GMT+3:30

THE TRUCK FISHTAILED IN a bog of deep sand, causing the canvas at the back to flutter open. Through it,

Peter Howel could see a similar vehicle close behind, straining to keep up. It’d be a miracle if it made it. Or,

perhaps more accurately, it would be a miracle if any of them made it.

He pul ed the canvas closed again and scanned the faces of the men crammed in among the sandbags

used to make the truck heavier. The stoicism and laser-like focus he’d found so comforting in the SAS were

completely absent. Every expression told a different story: hatred—for him, for the British in general, for the

Iranian government. Fear. Self-doubt.

A rousing pep talk was probably in order, but since only a few of the men spoke English, it probably

wouldn’t have much impact. Instead, he peered out a smal hole cut in the canopy, squinting into the sun at

the approaching guard towers. There was one on either side of the entry gate, each armed with a wel -

placed machine gun and manned by soldiers he suspected were far more seasoned than any of his boys—

many of whom were now enjoying what would be the last few minutes of their short lives.

Their driver, a rock-solid former special ops man named Hakim, began to brake. They’d done no fewer

than fifty live-fire simulations, and Howel was pleased to see the young men around him begin to check

their rifles as they’d been taught.

When the truck bumped up onto the concrete bridge, he returned to the peephole. One of the two soldiers

in the guardhouse cautiously approached the driver’s door while the other made his way to the back. Howel

had no idea what Hakim was saying, but the bored irritation in his voice sounded spot-on over the grinding

gears of the truck rol ing up behind.

Howel pul ed out a silenced .22 pistol, frowning down at it as he listened to the approaching footsteps of

the guard. A knife would have been more appropriate for the situation, but Smith, who was in the other truck

with Farrokh, had been concerned that it could end up being messy enough to spook their green troops.

The canvas rustled as the guard untied it, and Howel careful y raised the pistol. No need to rush—it would

take a moment for the man’s eyes to adjust, and if Hakim was as convincing as he sounded, there would be

no reason for anyone to expect trouble.

Howel waited until the flap was ful y thrown back, reaching out casual y with one hand while using the

other to put a round neatly through the man’s eye.

The low-caliber and elaborate silencer combined to produce almost no sound at al , and Howel guided

the limp body over the gate. After an inexcusable second-and-a-half pause, two of his men pul ed the

corpse inside.

The driver of the second vehicle gave a subtle nod through the windshield to indicate that no one yet

realized what was happening. The trade-off to putting the machine-gun towers in an ideal position to create

a cross fire on the bridge was that their line of sight was blocked by the trucks’ canopies.

Howel wiped a streak of blood from the gate and helped one of his men to the ground. They’d taken

photos of the soldiers in the guard shack and had reasonably convincing doubles for both of them, right

down to uniforms hand-sewn by the women in Farrokh’s training camp.

The young man did himself proud, walking casual y to the window of the driver behind them as Howel

climbed out and unloaded a few more of his people. Smith would be doing the same, getting his team into

position by the rear wheels.

Howel gave the frightened men next to him the thumbs-up, then calmly stepped out into the open and

began firing on the west machine-gun placement. The surviving guard clawed for his sidearm, but Hakim

dropped him with a pistol shot before slamming the accelerator to the floor and leaving Howel and his men

completely exposed.

As expected, the first vol ey from the tower guns went wide as the soldiers manning them tried to make

the adjustment from boredom to combat. It was obviously not the first time they’d been under fire, though,

and it didn’t take them long to realize what Howel already knew: the design and construction of the towers

made them completely impervious to the smal arms that Farrokh’s fledgling army had access to.

In his peripheral vision he saw Smith and his team concentrating their fire on the other tower and Hakim

ramming the gate. The truck managed to get through but then went up on two wheels and teetered for a few

moments before tipping on its side. The Iranian tried to crawl through the window but made it only halfway

before a sniper from a tower along the facility’s western perimeter blew most of his neck away.

The young man a few feet to Howel ’s right was caught in the side by a round from the machine gun, and

the Brit dove toward the truck stil stopped on the bridge, a loud grinding coming from the transmission as

the driver tried to force it into gear.

The gunners in the towers were gaining confidence, and with it came accuracy. Another man went down,

and Howel saw Smith running, barely staying ahead of a steady stream of bul ets knocking loose chunks of

concrete behind his heels.

Inside the shattered gate, men were pouring out of the back of the capsized truck, ducking behind it to

stay out of the sniper’s sights but leaving them defenseless if the tower gunners should decide to turn on

them.

The sound of the truck behind him going into gear rose above the drone of the machine guns, and he

rol ed out of the way as it started forward, taking heavy fire.

“Blow the bridge, you bloody idiots!” Howel said to himself as he fel in behind the vehicle.

As if they’d heard him, a sudden, searing blast knocked him to the stil -intact concrete.

Dazed, he did his best to focus on the east tower, watching it sway for a moment before tipping toward

the one on the other side of the bridge.

“Hakim, you beautiful bastard,” Howel said when the structures col ided and the machine guns went

silent.

During their reconnaissance, they’d moved the charges meant to take out the bridge to the base of the

tower. Hakim had spent most of his career attached to an elite demolition unit and personal y guaranteed

that the tower would fal exactly like it had. Of course, Howel hadn’t believed it. How often did things actual y

go to plan once the shooting started?

The second truck was inside the perimeter now, picking up speed as it closed on an enormous steel door

set into a rock outcropping. Howel ran to the east edge of the bridge and fel into a prone position above

Smith, who was dug in at the lip of the protective moat.

The vehicle was up to at least forty when it hit, the impact setting off charges hidden beneath the

floorboards. It was impossible to tel if the door had been breached, but Howel silently saluted the dead

driver’s courage as he flipped the lens cover off his scope.

“What am I looking for?” he shouted.

“Towers at nine o’clock and three o’clock are active,” Smith yel ed back. “There are men coming in from

the north trying to get an angle on our guys in the overturned truck.”

Howel peered through the scope, final y catching a glimpse of movement along the west fence line. He

squeezed off a round and winged the first of six men running for the cover of a boulder about 150 yards

away.

“Oh, and Peter?” he heard Smith say as he searched for another viable target. “It’s good to see you stil

breathing.”

79

Central Iran

December 5—0946 Hours GMT+3:30

SARIE VAN KEUREN STRUCK uselessly at the man dragging her down the corridor, losing her footing and

nearly fal ing as the deafening alarm final y went silent.

She had no idea what was going on, but there was no way to miss the change in her captors’ demeanor

when the sound of a muffled explosion had drifted down to them a few minutes before. Omidi’s casual

superiority and smug smile immediately disintegrated, and he’d run ahead, barking orders at the frightened

people occupying the offices and labs lining the hal way.

She swung another pointless fist into the side of the man holding her as they passed through a set of blast

doors she’d never seen open. Inside, the scientists who had slowly been going missing—Omidi’s believers

—were scurrying around with arms ful of files, samples, and computer drives.

The guard released her, jabbing a finger in her direction and saying something that clearly meant that she

wasn’t to move.

He ran off to help the others pile everything that wasn’t bolted down into a chute that led to the incinerator,

while she turned her attention to the glass wal to her left. There were three infected men imprisoned behind

it, pounding their broken and bleeding hands against the barrier as the chaos in the lab continued to

intensify. They didn’t display any animosity toward each other—or even seem aware of the others’

presence. Were they not infected with her latest version of the parasite? Were her modifications not

effective in humans? Perhaps the alterations weren’t yet powerful enough. It was possible that they stil had

a strong preference for uninfected victims and wouldn’t turn on each other unless they were isolated from

that temptation.

Mehrak Omidi was desperately punching commands into a computer terminal as he looked at two

monitors near the ceiling. She took a few hesitant steps toward them, squinting at the tiny images of the

exterior of the facility.

Sarie felt a wave of elation at the sight of men with guns engaging the guards but then felt some of it fade

when she saw that it wasn’t the Americans. They appeared to be Iranians, and even she could pick out their

lack of cohesiveness. Some didn’t even seem to be looking in the direction they were shooting.

Omidi was on the move again, running to a refrigerated safe and entering a lengthy code into the keypad

on the front. It opened with a puff of frosty air, and he retrieved a rack of glass vials, careful y transferring

them to a foam-lined briefcase.

Less and less attention was being paid to her, and she edged over to a desk a few meters away. She felt

around behind her for the scissors lying on it and was in the process of slipping them down the back of her

pants when Omidi closed the briefcase and ran at her with three guards in tow.

He grabbed her arm and pul ed her toward the hal , pausing in the doorway to shout a few last orders at

the two remaining security men in the room. They slid the guns from their shoulders and she watched in

horror as they opened up on the scientists stil working to destroy the evidence of their work.

It was over in a few brief seconds. Smoke hung in the room and the stench of gunpowder fil ed her nostrils

as she looked down at the dead researchers, at the men who had murdered them, and at the three parasite

victims stil trying to get through the glass.

When Omidi began pul ing again, she no longer had any strength to resist.

They came to the end of the corridor amid the echo of continuing gunfire behind them. One of Omidi’s

men punched a code into a pad mounted to the wal , and a steel door slid open to reveal an enormous cave

hung with lights and reinforced with concrete pil ars. She was shoved into the cab of a military truck,

fol owed by Omidi, who was cradling his briefcase as though it contained the cure for cancer.

He noticed her staring at it and smiled humorlessly. “My people have kept the parasite alive outside the

body for almost forty-eight hours. Plenty of time to get it to Mexico and smuggle it over the U.S. border.”

One of the guards slipped into the driver’s seat carrying a laptop that she recognized as belonging to

Yousef Zarin. Omidi started the computer as another of his men jumped into the back of the vehicle to take

control of a machine gun mounted to the bed.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Omidi said. “That the program you created to destroy us wil be the thing that saves us?”

The engine started and a moment later they were reversing out of the parking space. There was no more

time. She had to do something.

The scissors were stil in her waistband and she grabbed them, swinging the blade into the driver’s ribs

with one hand while using the other to take hold of the wheel. He shouted in surprise and pain, but the

scissors penetrated only a few mil imeters and left him with the strength to slam on the brakes.

They were thrown forward, and she instinctively reached for the handle of Omidi’s door. It flew open and

she pushed off, sending them both through it. They hit the ground hard, but she’d been ready for it and

managed to tuck into a rol , while Omidi landed square on his back.

The impact knocked the briefcase from his grip and sent it skittering across the dirt. She made a grab for

it, catching the handle and letting her momentum carry her back to her feet.

There was no point in looking back, and instead she sprinted toward the door they’d come through.

Shouts rose behind her, fol owed by the static of the gun mounted on the bed of the truck, but the rounds

went wide.

It didn’t take as long as she had hoped for the guard to swing the gun into position, and she was forced to

dive behind a support pil ar as he zeroed in. The powerful rounds hammered it for a few moments, tearing

away enough concrete to expose the rebar inside. Then suddenly everything went quiet.

“Dr. van Keuren,” Omidi cal ed, breaking the silence. “Listen to me. There’s nowhere for you to go. Come

out and I wil guarantee your safety. Do you hear me?”

She poked her head from behind the column and then pul ed it immediately back. The man she’d stabbed

was working his way right with a pistol in his hand and a bloodstain spreading across his shirt. Omidi was

on the ground typing on the laptop, which apparently hadn’t been smashed into the mil ion pieces she’d

counted on.

His offer of safety was complete bul —he’d cal ed off his gunner only because he was afraid of damaging

the briefcase. Given the chance, Omidi would either kil her and unleash the parasite on America or take her

prisoner again and set her back to weaponizing it. Neither was a particularly attractive scenario.

She heard a creak behind her and saw the door leading back into the facility begin to close. He was

running Zarin’s program—trying to seal in the force attacking them and set the infected animals loose.

With no other choice, she ran for the closing door, gripping the briefcase tightly to her chest as she broke

into the open. She ignored the sound of gunshots behind her, focusing entirely on getting to the door before

the gap became too smal to pass through.

A searing pain flared in her leg and she went down, sliding uncontrol ably forward as the briefcase flew

from her hand. She came to a stop halfway across the threshold and made a move back toward the case

but was forced to stop when a bul et exploded against the rock wal next to her.

The door hit her in the shoulder and she shoved uselessly back against the powerful motor closing it. The

man she’d stabbed was running hard in her direction, and the barrel of the mounted machine gun was

aimed directly at her. There was nothing she could do. They were going to get the briefcase. But hel if they

were going to get her.

She dragged herself the rest of the way through the door, barely managing to clear her feet before it

sealed, and then just lay there trying to get control of her breathing.

The wound in her leg was only a graze, and she tore off one of her sleeves to use as a bandage. There

was no way to know who was attacking the facility, but whoever they were, they were her best—only—hope.

Sarie pushed herself to her knees and was trying to get to her feet when she froze, straining to decipher a

faint buzz just beginning to rise above the ringing in her ears.

It was the monkeys. They were free.

80

Central Iran

December 5—1015 Hours GMT+3:30

JON SMITH LOOKED OVER the edge of the dry moat and studied the tower on the northeastern edge of the

fence line, searching for the sniper ensconced there. Hakim’s truck tipping over had been a complete

disaster, pinning down Farrokh’s team and potential y turning the entire operation into an unwinnable war of

attrition.

Howel was prone on the bridge above, using his freakish marksmanship to cover the men huddled

behind the capsized truck. Farrokh was crawling back and forth among them, patting shoulders and

delivering words of encouragement, but most stil looked like they were about thirty seconds from melting

down.

The distance between them and the remaining towers had neutralized the advantage of elevated machine

guns, and the men in them had switched to rifles. They were good, but not particularly great shots—with one

exception. There was a sniper in the northeastern tower who was a damn prodigy. He’d already taken out

three of their men and was throwing an extremely large wrench into what little was left of their machine.

His bearded face appeared over the rim of the tower, and Smith was unable to adjust his aim before the

muzzle flash. The round ricocheted off the bridge and he turned to see that it had knocked loose a chunk of

concrete near Howel ’s shoulder. The Brit remained completely stil , eye glued to his scope.

“I’d be much obliged if you’d kill that son of a bitch, Jon.”

“Working on it.”

A bul et kicked up some sand two feet from Smith’s head, and Howel fired off a few rounds in the general

direction it had come from. Sitting there waiting for the Iranians to find their range and cal in reinforcements

wasn’t an option. If they broke cover, though, the sniper to the northeast would have a field day.

And so it was a guessing game. On what part of the tower would he appear next? In order to have time to

get off an accurate shot, Smith would have to anticipate his position within about a foot.

“I think I’m starting to get a sunburn,” Howel said, making the point that he hadn’t come there to get

involved in a deadly stalemate.

“South, east, or west?”

“What?” Howel said.

“Choose one.”

“South.”

“Pick a number between one and ten.”

“Six.”

Smith aimed at the south side of the tower, about six feet from the left, and waited. Five seconds. Ten.

Fifteen. When the dark face appeared again it was almost exactly where Howel had unknowingly predicted.

Smith held his breath and squeezed off a round, waiting the split second it took to travel across the

compound before seeing the head jerk back in an explosion of blood.

“You have the luck of the Irish, Peter. Go!”

Farrokh’s men laid down suppressing fire at the line of men Howel had been keeping in check, but their

position made it impossible to do anything about the remaining snipers in the towers.

Smith heard the bul ets hissing by as he tried to coax a little more speed from his legs in the heavy sand.

“Break right!”

Howel did as he was told, diving behind the sandbags that had torn through the truck’s canopy when it

tipped. He fired control ed rounds at the towers as Smith jumped over the body of one of their people and

slid up next to Farrokh, who was trying to keep his surviving nine-man force from completely depleting their

ammunition in one panicked burst.

“We’re safe! Pul back!”

Farrokh shouted for his men to retreat ful y behind the truck again. Smith grabbed the youngest of them,

swatting away the phone he was inexplicably using to film the battle, and dragging him toward Howel .

“The tower at three o’clock!” Smith said, throwing him down next to the Brit. “Do you understand? Cover

the tower at three o’clock!”

He cried out when a round struck a few feet away, but then rol ed dutiful y onto his stomach and propped

his rifle on a sandbag. It was his first time in combat, but he’d grown up hunting with his father and was a

better-than-average shot.

Howel reached over and patted him on the back. “That’s a good lad. You’re going to do fine.”

Farrokh and the others had crammed themselves into the now empty bed of the truck while Omidi’s men

blasted away at its underside, undoubtedly trying to penetrate the armor protecting the fuel tank.

Final y afforded an unobstructed view, Smith looked toward the rock outcropping that held the entrance to

the facility. The heavy doors were blackened and dented, but the breach wasn’t what he’d hoped—no more

than a two-foot-by-five-foot gap where the steel plates had been pushed apart. It would be enough, though.

That is, if they could get to it. The truck was the only thing keeping them from a cross fire no one could

survive. And since there was no way they could abandon it, they’d just have to take it with them.

“Come on!” Smith shouted, digging his fingers into the sand beneath the top of the cab. “Let’s get this

thing on its wheels!”

Farrokh and his men came to his aid, and with al ten of them working together, it began to rise.

“Keep going!” Smith yel ed over the sound of Howel and his new protégé trading fire with the towers. The

man to Smith’s left was hit in the shoulder blade and went down, causing the truck to lurch back toward the

sand. “Harder!”

They managed to get it on the edge of its tires, and he walked his hands up the windshield pil ar as the

load lightened. When gravity final y took over, he dove through the open window, shoving Hakim’s body out

of the way and jamming the clutch down with his elbow.

He twisted the ignition key and was surprised to hear the engine fire almost immediately. Maybe their

luck was final y changing.

Stil stuffed up under the dash, he used his knee to move the shift lever and eased off the clutch,

propel ing the truck toward the facility’s entrance as bul ets rang off the armored door.

After what seemed like an hour but was probably less than a minute, the truck slammed into something

and came to a stop. The motor stal ed and Smith kicked the door open, sliding out to see that Howel and

his companion had already repositioned themselves and were once again lining up on the towers.

In the distance, he could see a cloud of dust coming toward them and knew it was the convoy of men

they’d held back so that they wouldn’t arrive on the bridge looking like the invading army they were. It would

be another fifteen minutes before they arrived, though, so no help there.

Keeping tight to the truck, Smith approached the blackened steel doors. He could feel cold air blowing

through the gap and see the shimmer of fluorescent light inside. But that was al . There was no sound and

nothing that would indicate movement.

He stood motionless for a moment, hearing a round shatter the windshield of the truck behind him. Howel

was doing everything humanly possible, but it was just a matter of time before the snipers picked them off.

“What now?” Farrokh said, slipping up next to him. Smith shouldered his rifle and pul ed out the .45 he’d

been given. It felt heavy and clumsy compared to the one Janani had made, but it would have to do.

He eased forward, but when the gun came even with the gap in the doors, a shot sounded and the pistol

was ripped from his hand.

“Damn it!” he said, jerking back and making a quick count of his fingers. Al stil there.

A few more shots fol owed, scattering Farrokh’s confused men as Smith tried to decipher what he was

hearing. Three, maybe four, separate guns, al trained on the narrow gap that they needed to pass through.

“Do we have any explosives left?”

Farrokh shook his head. “The men coming have a few grenades, but we put everything else we had in the

truck.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. You didn’t hold any back?”

“If we didn’t get through the door, what would we have done with them?”

It was a valid point, but not what he wanted to hear. They stil had the truck. How could they use it?

Ramming the doors was unlikely to get them anywhere—they stil looked solid. Maybe attach chains and

pul ?

Great idea, if they had chains. And a few hours. And no one trying to kil them.

More shots sounded from inside, and Smith backed away from the opening before he realized that the

bul ets weren’t coming through. Panicked shouts became audible a moment later, fol owed by an eerie,

echoing screech that sounded strangely like monkeys.

He picked up the charred remains of a fender and waved it in front of the breach. The shooting and

shouts continued inside, but none of it seemed to be directed at the fender.

As much as he hated leaping in blind, an opportunity had presented itself and it was impossible to know if

there would ever be another.

“Peter!” he shouted. “We’re going!”

Howel slapped the young man next to him on the back and then ran toward Smith, who was barking

orders while Farrokh translated.

“You. Take Peter’s place and cover those towers as best you can. You three, use the truck and whatever

else you can find to block this entrance after we go in. Nothing comes out. You understand what we’re

dealing with, right?”

They al nodded. “Al right. Hold tight. Reinforcements are on their way. The rest of you are with us.”

Smith pul ed his assault rifle in front of him and took a deep breath before leaping through the gap. He

immediately fel to the floor, staying as close to the wal as he could and yel ing for anyone fol owing to do the

same.

He had been right about there being three men covering the entrance, but now they had so little interest in

it, they hadn’t even noticed him come in. They were firing wildly at two smal , blood-soaked monkeys darting

from wal to ceiling to floor so quickly it was hard to believe they didn’t have wings. Ricochets fil ed the air as

the rounds bounced off stone and steel in search of something more forgiving.

Farrokh came through next and Smith grabbed him, making sure he stayed low as his men fol owed.

“Hold your—,” he started, but it was too late. The second man through let loose a series of uncontrol ed

bursts at the red blurs streaking around them, fil ing the air with even more lead.

“Peter! The monkeys!” he yel ed as the Brit came through.

The benefit of Omidi’s guards’ being completely preoccupied with the animals on the ceiling was that it

made them easy targets. They crumpled unceremoniously to the floor when Smith put a single round into

each of their chests.

“Stop shooting!” Smith yel ed as Howel crammed himself into a corner and began tracking a monkey

darting across an oblong light fixture hanging on cables. No one seemed to hear, so he threw himself over

Farrokh, grabbing the closest man’s rifle and giving it a hard jerk. “Stop!”

A series of bulbs exploded as Smith went for the next man firing out of turn. In the dark, their chances

against these little demons went to precisely zero. He managed to yank the gun from him and was trying to

get to the last man shooting when one of the monkeys dropped down and did his job for him.

The young man screamed and dropped his rifle, clawing at the animal sinking its fangs into the back of

his neck.

It was just the opportunity Howel needed. His bul et shattered the right half of the monkey’s skul and

passed through, severing the desperate man’s spinal cord. A quick and humane end for both.

The last monkey was smal er and faster but obviously confused by the shadows created by the swinging

of the last light fixture. Farrokh and his men tracked it with their guns but to their credit managed to control

their fear and not fire.

The animal leapt for the wal and missed the hole in the concrete it was going for, causing it to somersault

to the floor. The impact dazed it, slowing its chaotic movements enough to make it a viable target. Howel ’s

first shot spun it around and his second tore away most of its chest.

Suddenly, al that was audible in the room was their ragged breathing and the creaking of the light. Smith

was the first to stand, feeling a little disoriented in the stil ness. He pul ed Farrokh to his feet and then held a

hand out to the other three men. They just stared blankly at him as Howel started toward a steep ramp

leading into the earth.

“Look on the bright side,” the Brit said as he disappeared around the corner. “How much worse could it

possibly get?”

By the time they reached the main level, Smith’s heart had slowed to what stil felt like twice its normal rate.

He was on point as he came around a blind corner, rifle thrust out in front of him.

Nothing.

“Clear!” he said, aware of the cameras looking down at them but unable to do much about it.

Halfway down the passage they came upon three corpses wearing lab coats, each with a neat bul et hole

in the back of the head.

“Nobody touch anything.”

When he got no response, he turned back to Farrokh. “Are you going to translate?”

The Iranian gave him a quizzical look and thumbed back at his men. “Do you real y think it’s necessary?”

He was right. They were clearly petrified. It was unlikely that there was enough money in the world to get

them to come into contact with those bodies.

They continued on, clearing every room in sequence, finding some empty and others strewn with corpses.

None had been attacked by the animals they’d run into when they entered, though. They’d been executed.

Smith backed out of a room containing two people slumped over their desks, once again feeling a sense

of relief at not finding Sarie. In truth, though, it would be better if he had. His problems were bad enough

without her in the hands of Iranian Intel igence.

A dul whine started in the distance, and he froze, listening to it separate into a chorus of shrieks as it

closed on them.

“Are you hearing that?” Howel said. “It’s not going to be two of them this time.”

He was right. It was impossible to pick out individual voices in the screams of the approaching animals. If

his team got caught in the confined space of the hal way, they wouldn’t last thirty seconds.

“Inside!” Smith said, leaping back into the room with the others close behind. He slammed the door

behind them only to find that the deadbolt was extended far enough to prevent it from ful y closing.

“Farrokh. The lock. Can you get it to retract?”

The Iranian knelt to examine it. “No. It’s electronic. Control ed central y, probably.”

“Incoming!” Howel shouted, grabbing a rifle and slipping the barrel through the narrow gap between the

door and the jamb.

There were at least ten of them, coats so wet with blood that they were leaving streaks on the floor and

wal s as they charged. Smith dropped beneath the Brit, aiming his .45 into the corridor and trying futilely to

track individual targets.

“Farrokh! Hold the door.”

The Iranian shoved his back against it and waved his men over to help him. Their prayers were just barely

audible over the howls.

81

Central Iran

December 5—1102 Hours GMT+3:30

THE ARM APPEARED AGAIN, flicking around the crack in the door and grasping desperately at darkness.

Sarie jerked back, tangling herself in the coats hanging in the crowded closet but keeping a death grip on

the leather belt looped over the knob.

She stabbed at the arm with the sharp end of a broken broom handle, connecting with the blood-soaked

biceps on her fifth try. The man gave no indication that he even noticed, adjusting his strategy from groping

blindly for her to trying to pry open the door.

Al she wanted to do was cover her ears to block out his enraged screams. And maybe she should. There

was no way out of the facility, and she would eventual y get tired, while he would just keep coming until his

heart failed. If she let him in, it would be over in a minute. Maybe less.

He managed to get a shoulder through, and she could see his face in the dim light—the saliva hanging in

long, pink strands across his beard, the wide eyes trying to catch a glimpse of his prey.

She swung the broom handle at his face, and it tore a deep gash beneath his eye. Other than making him

even more grotesque, though, it accomplished nothing. Dropping her useless weapon, she put a foot

against the wal and gripped the belt with both hands, trying to use her superior leverage to trap him

between the door and the jamb.

Her forearms felt like they were on fire and her palms were slick with sweat, causing the leather to slip

slowly but irretrievably through her fingers. The door opened another few centimeters, and the man’s head

intruded a little farther, the gash in his face flowing with parasite-infested blood. She felt the heat of it splash

across her hands, but it didn’t matter. In a few seconds she wouldn’t be able to fight anymore—she’d lose

her grip, the door would fly open…

And then he was gone.

The extended deadbolt clanged loudly as she pul ed it into the metal jamb, her mind unable to process the

meaning of the muffled shouts and gunfire outside.

A few moments later, fingers curled around the edge of the door and began trying to pry it open again.

“Get away from me!” she screamed, grabbing the broom handle and narrowly missing the hand when it

was jerked away at the last moment.

“Sarie! Is that you?”

The hand reappeared and she slashed at it again.

“Let go of the door, Sarie! And for God’s sake, stop trying to stab me!”

The accent wasn’t Iranian. It was American. And there was something familiar about it.

“Sarie. Listen to me. Open the door, okay?”

The belt fel from her hands and she squinted into the light as Jon Smith lifted her from the closet.

“Are you al right?” he said, looking her over for cuts that the parasite could have invaded, final y settling

on her leg. “What happened? Is it from an attack? Did it—”

She shook her head and threw her arms around him, sobbing uncontrol ably. The man who had been

trying to get to her was lying on the floor fifteen meters away with most of the top of his head missing. Peter

Howel was standing next to the body, keeping watch over the empty hal way with three armed Iranians.

“I’m sorry, but there’s not much time,” Smith said, gently pushing her away.

“Less than you think,” Sarie said, wiping at her eyes. “Omidi’s people made the parasite transportable. I

tried to stop him, but he’s gone. And he took it with him.”

Smith looked up the hal way as the howls of monkeys started echoing along it. Luck had played a

significant role in their surviving their last encounter—the fact that none of the animals had been smal

enough to get through the crack in the door or large enough to push it open, combined with a one-in-a-

thousand shot that he stil couldn’t believe he’d made. The gods wouldn’t be as kind the next time around.

“What do you mean gone, Sarie?”

“I mean he got in a truck and drove away.”

82

Central Iran

December 5—1123 Hours GMT+3:30

MEHRAK OMIDI SQUINTED THROUGH the dusty windshield at the road disappearing into the horizon. The

rutted surface and the insecure position of the guard manning the machine gun in back was limiting them to

eighty kilometers per hour—a speed that seemed impossibly slow.

“How far are you from Avass?”

Omidi held the satel ite phone with his shoulder and scrol ed on a handheld GPS. The vil age, a crumbling

rural outpost with fewer than three thousand residents, was too smal to be noted on it, but based on the

topography he could make a reasonable estimate.

“Less than an hour, Excel ency.”

“And the facility?” Ayatol ah Khamenei said. “What is the situation there?”

“The infection is loose inside and the main door has been breached.”

“Was it the Americans?”

“Iranians. Members of the resistance, I suspect. But there can be little doubt that the Americans have a

hand in it.”

“Then they know a great deal.”

“Too much, Excel ency.”

The alien sensation of fear was slowly working its way to his bel y. There was no way to go back—they

had burned every bridge behind them. Bahame was almost certainly dead, and according to the

international press his guerril a army had been al but wiped out. Whatever Jon Smith’s fate, it was certain

that he had told his superiors everything he’d learned and the Americans would act on that information—

with al ies if possible, alone if necessary.

“Excel ency, I’m sorry. I—”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Mehrak. You have been nothing but a loyal and tireless soldier in

the service of God.”

The years seemed to have drained from his voice, which resonated with the certainty and confidence that

Omidi remembered from decades before.

“Continue to Avass,” Khamenei said. “I have contacted the police there, and they are gathering others

who are loyal to God and the revolution. They wil offer protection until the military can reach you.”

“How long?”

“The first transport plane should arrive in less than four hours.”

“Four hours,” he repeated quietly. It seemed like an eternity. The forces that had breached their defenses

would almost certainly know by now that he had escaped and would be coming for him.

“Excel ency, I—”

The window next to him exploded, showering him with glass as the truck swerved violently. Omidi

dropped the phone and slid to the floorboards, protecting the briefcase with his body as bul ets pounded the

door next to him.

His driver was bleeding from a deep cut in his forehead but managed to regain control of the vehicle. The

man in back had been slammed into the cab and was struggling to swing the machine gun in the direction of

the riflemen who had appeared on a ridge bordering the east side of the road.

A moment later, the satisfying roar of the mounted gun replaced the ring of bul ets on the door, and Omidi

rose enough to see over the dashboard while the driver wrung al the speed he could from the engine.

A rusting compact car appeared from behind a low rise in front of them, entering a narrow section of road

bordered by a deep ditch on one side and a cliff face on the other. It continued to pick up speed, and Omidi

saw unwavering resolve in the hunched position of the man behind the wheel. He was going to ram them.

The sound of the machine gun grew in volume as it turned on the approaching vehicle, ripping through the

gril e, pockmarking its hood, and final y tearing away most of the roof.

The car skidded left and then careened right, its driver’s head now held on by nothing more than a thin

ribbon of skin. The truck’s right fender took most of the impact, slamming the much smal er vehicle into the

rock wal and grinding along its length.

The machine gunner’s back was pressed against the cab again, and he was laying down suppressing

fire, moving smoothly between the intermittent muzzle flashes fading behind them.

“Mehrak! Are you there? Mehrak!”

Khamenei’s tinny voice was audible again, drifting out from beneath the truck’s seat. Omidi remained on

the floorboards, reaching around blindly for a few moments before laying his hand on the phone.

“Yes, Excel ency. I’m here.”

“What happened?”

“We were attacked. The resistance is obviously aware that this is the only road leading away from the

facility.”

“Are you injured?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“And the parasite?”

Omidi tapped a code into the briefcase’s keypad and popped it open, revealing nine separate vials.

“Intact.”

“Praise be to God.”

“If there are terrorists on the road, Excel ency, there may be more in the vil age.”

“I’l contact our people in Avass and warn them. They wil be waiting to escort you in.”

“Thank you, Excel ency.”

“Mehrak, I know I don’t have to impress upon you how important it is that those vials reach Tehran intact.

We have seven men with U.S. visas standing by. We must strike quickly and fatal y before the Americans

can move against us.”

83

Central Iran

December 5—1141 Hours GMT+3:30

THIS IS ALL WE have?” Smith said, staring down at a single grenade that looked like World War I surplus.

The young man standing in front of him nodded weakly, bending at the waist and trying to slow his ragged

breathing.

“How hard would it be to get back to the main entrance?”

“There were four of us when we entered,” he replied in thickly accented English. “I’m the only one left.”

“Jesus, Sarie. How many of those monkeys are there?”

“Thirty-one. And two people not counting the one you kil ed.”

“Everybody back!” Howel shouted as the clatter of claws became audible down the hal way.

They’d erected floor-to-ceiling barricades on both sides of the corridor, but the available materials—

mostly office furniture—made for a fairly porous barrier. Howel and Smith stood in the middle of the floor

with their pistols at eye level as the others retreated behind them. The animal was approaching fast, brief

flashes of crimson through the gaps.

Despite its less-than-impressive construction, the barrier did what it was designed to do. The monkey hit

hard and immediately went for an obvious hole they’d made sure was large enough to be enticing but not so

large that it would be easy to ful y pass through. The macaque got its head in but then was stal ed when its

shoulder got caught. Smith held his fire and let Howel use his superior marksmanship to put a round

through the top of the animal’s skul .

“It worked!” Farrokh said, coming up behind them. “I have to admit I had my doubts.”

“We were lucky,” Howel responded, checking his clip. “One is easy to handle. Maybe even two. More

than that and they’re going to get through.”

He was right. As bad as infected humans were, they were relatively large, slow targets compared to these

little horrors. And according to Sarie, there were six ful -grown chimps that wouldn’t be drawn in by the gap

left in the barricade. They’d make their own.

“What now?” Farrokh said. He was holding a walkie-talkie in his hand, but after his initial success in

getting the grenade brought down to them, al attempts to raise his men had failed. Beyond knowing that

their reinforcements had arrived, they were completely in the dark as to what was happening outside the

hal way they’d barricaded themselves in.

“Sarie, you’re sure this is the door Omidi went out?” Smith said.

“Positive. The fact that it’s locked means it leads outside,” she said and then pointed to a smear of blood

on the floor. “And that’s mine.”

“Then we have to get through.”

“The steel’s too thick,” Farrokh said. “That grenade won’t penetrate.”

He was right. Putting the explosive directly against the door would probably just bend the metal—making

it even harder to open.

“Perhaps…,” Farrokh continued hesitantly.

“What? If you have an idea, speak up.”

“I’ve never worked on this type of mechanism specifical y, but I used to be an engineer. If you were

designing this, how would you make it lock?”

“Sure…,” Smith said, focusing on the wal to the left of the door. “Why make things any more complicated

than you have to? Al you need is a simple actuator that moves something to block it.”

They worked quickly, tearing down the rear barricade and using the pieces to create a structure that

would help direct the blast against the wal next to the door. It left them unprotected, but at this point, there

was no choice but to go al -in.

When they were finished, Smith pul ed the rusty pin on the grenade. “Everyone back!”

They ducked around the corner and flattened themselves against the wal as the explosive detonated,

fil ing the air with a haze of shattered concrete.

It worked. The mechanism was exposed, but also twisted and charred. Smith used his hands to clear

away the debris while Farrokh examined the design.

“This is it,” he said, pointing to a simple steel rod lodged against the main gear.

Smith picked up a piece of concrete and swung it repeatedly at the bar, bending it back while Farrokh

and his men pul ed on the door. It moved a couple of inches and then stopped.

“Harder! Come on!” Smith said.

They put everything they had into it, but it didn’t budge.

“Again!”

“Jon,” Sarie said, coming up behind him. “What’s that at the top of the hole you made?”

He wasn’t sure how he’d missed it, but there was a blackened wiring harness tangled in the top rail,

blocking the door’s movement. He reached up and yanked it out as Farrokh and his men curled their fingers

through the smal gap they’d made.

It happened a painful y slow quarter-inch at a time, but the door ground its way back. When they’d opened

it a little more than a foot, the young man who had brought them the grenade stepped in front of it. “I think it’s

large enough!” he said. “I can get through.”

“Stop!” Smith shouted, but it was too late.

The man had barely entered the gap when a gunshot sounded and he went limp, his body suspended

between the door and the jamb—a victim of the same trap they’d set for the monkeys.

Farrokh dove for cover, but Smith moved up behind the man. There was no time for regret or respect for

the fal en. Omidi was getting farther away with every minute and they couldn’t afford to get pinned down

here.

More shots rang out, thudding dul y into the dead man’s flesh as Smith grabbed him by the back of the

jacket and lifted him ful y upright. It sounded like a single gun, semiautomatic, with rounds designed for

impact, not penetration.

“Peter! You’re with me!”

The Brit fel in behind as Smith shoved the bleeding corpse through the hole, using it as a shield as he

entered a cavernous, intermittently lit parking garage.

The shots kept coming, absorbed by the dead weight of the body, which was getting increasingly

awkward to maneuver. He could feel Howel pressed up against him as they moved right, taking cover

behind a concrete pil ar that looked to be on the verge of col apse.

Howel returned fire, getting close enough to the prone man to spray sand and broken rock into his eyes.

He leapt to his feet and ran stumbling toward a van twenty yards behind him, but instead of taking cover

behind it, he just kept going.

“I believe he’s had about enough of this day,” Howel said. “Hard to blame him.”

Smith turned back toward the door. “It’s clear. Come on through.”

After Sarie, Farrokh, and his surviving men were safely out, Smith ducked back into the facility and

worked a table into the cavern so that he could use it to block the gap.

“You three stay here,” he said, pointing to Farrokh’s men. “Nothing comes out—even if it’s someone you

know. Do you understand? If they want out, tel them to go back to the main entrance, where we’ve got

people trained to check them for wounds that could indicate infection.”

They nodded and he ran toward a group of vehicles parked on the other side of the cavern with Farrokh in

tow. A quick search didn’t turn up any keys, and Smith jabbed a finger in the Iranian’s direction. “You said

you’re an engineer, right? Can you hot-wire a car?”

“An engineer is different from a thief, Colonel.”

“Great,” Smith muttered as Howel kept watch in case the guard they’d chased off rediscovered his

courage. Sarie, though, had disappeared.

He was about to cal to her when the sound of an engine firing up echoed through the enormous chamber.

A few moments later, a pickup ful of maintenance equipment skidded to a stop in front of him.

“Need a ride?” Sarie said, leaning out the open window.

“Peter! We’re rol ing!”

She slid over and let him take the wheel as Farrokh jumped through the passenger door. They were

already pul ing away when Howel threw himself into the bed, tossing out toolboxes and shovels to make

room as they accelerated toward what Smith prayed was an exit.

The cavern was much larger and more complex than he expected, but they fol owed a set of fresh tire

tracks until they passed through the mouth of a meticulously camouflaged cave entrance.

Farrokh immediately got on his phone and Smith squinted into the blinding sunlight, heading toward the

road leading north. They were a good half mile outside the facility’s perimeter fence and probably two

hundred feet higher in elevation. It looked like al the fighting was inside the building now, and trucks had

been used to block the bridge, with supporting gun placements being constructed out of sandbags.

Farrokh spoke urgently into the phone in Persian and then looked over at him. “My men engaged a

vehicle with a mounted machine gun on the road to Avass.”

“That’s it,” Sarie said. “That’s the truck Omidi was in. Did they stop him?”

The Iranian shook his head. “We have people in the vil age, though. They’ve been told what to look for.”

“Can they stop a vehicle like that?” Smith said.

“Given a free hand, yes. But Avass is a conservative place, and the government wil have many friends

there.”

“What about the lab?”

“We are gaining control. The two remaining infected men are dead, though there are stil some animals

loose.”

“How many of your men have been exposed?”

“Many more than we anticipated. But that problem is being handled with the procedures you put in place.

Everyone understood the risks of volunteering for this. And the consequences.”

Sarie leaned forward and put her head in her hands. “It’s my fault. I infected them—we were going to lock

down the facility and set them loose. If I just hadn’t done anything, you’d have only had a few half-dead

animals to deal with. Your men would be okay.”

“There was no way for you to know,” Farrokh said. “You had to act. It was my own stupidity for not

anticipating the possibility that Omidi would release lab animals to cover his escape.”

“Our stupidity,” Smith corrected. “Any word on the Iranian military?”

“I’m afraid so. An elite force is in the air.”

84

Near Avass, Iran

December 5—1204 Hours GMT+3:30

AVASS CAME INTO VIEW as they crested a smal rise, and Mehrak Omidi examined the ancient buildings

lining a maze of poorly maintained streets. The terrain steepened precipitously at the edges of the vil age,

asphalt giving way to cobblestones worn down by a thousand years of foot traffic.

“There!” he said, tapping his driver on the shoulder and pointing to four cars idling by the side of the road.

A police vehicle and a pickup ful of armed men pul ed out in front of them, accelerating to match their

speed. Omidi looked in the side mirror as they passed the remaining two vehicles, watching them fal in to

protect their flank. According to Khamenei, they were to be escorted to the city center and deposited at the

police station, a building that had been heavily fortified over the last few hours.

It was another ten minutes before they penetrated Avass, and Omidi held the briefcase tightly to his chest

as his eyes shifted from the buildings hanging over them to the pedestrians rushing to get out of their way.

Farrokh’s traitors were everywhere—watching, waiting, plotting. No one was above suspicion. Not anymore.

They passed a crowded market with vendors lined up in front of a stone building hung with antique rugs.

Through the windows he could see booths sel ing jewelry and spices, as wel as the Western conveniences

that his people had become so addicted to.

At the northern edge of the market, two men dressed in slacks and wool sweaters were struggling to get

a large wooden crate to the curb while a woman on a cel phone watched disinterestedly.

As the motorcade closed, the men gave up and started toward an al ey, their gait slightly unnatural, as

though they were struggling to hold themselves back from running. The woman broke off, too, threading

herself through the people on the street and into the market building.

“Stop!” Omidi shouted, and his driver slammed on the truck’s brakes, locking up the wheels just before

they were hit by one of their chase cars. The sound of the impact, though, was completely obscured by the

roar of an explosion.

The device in the crate had been surrounded by nails, and the pickup in front of them was enveloped in a

deadly cloud of fire and shrapnel. The police car swerved right, running down a group of fleeing shoppers

before crashing into the stone archways of a pharmacy.

Gunfire erupted a moment later, seemingly from everywhere—the narrow al eys leading off the main road,

the rooftops, the open windows of shops and private homes.

“Go!” he yel ed, sliding to the floorboards. “Get us out of here!”

When the truck just idled slowly forward, he looked up and saw his driver slumped over the wheel. The

machine gun in back started but went silent again when the gunner’s body bounced off the rear window and

toppled into the street.

Bul ets hissing overhead kept him pinned down, and steam bil owing from the radiator surrounded him in

a hot, blinding cloud. He wouldn’t last much longer—one lucky shot or wel -placed grenade and he would die

along with Iran’s only hope of survival.

The door was jerked open and he shrank back, trying to push the briefcase behind him for protection.

Instead of shooting, though, the man held out a hand. “Come! Hurry!”

Omidi fol owed, running crouched toward the pharmacy building as others loyal to the republic closed

around him, firing wildly in every direction.

The man in front of him and the one to his right fel in rapid succession, causing the cohesiveness of his

human shield to fail. Omidi abandoned them, sprinting toward the arches protecting the front of the

pharmacy. He was only a few meters away when something impacted his back and threw him toward a

table stacked with oil lamps. He toppled over it, hitting the ground before a powerful hand lifted him and

dragged him through the pharmacy’s doors.

He managed to keep hold of the case, but it was becoming slick with his own blood. The man released

him and went to one of the broken windows, pressing his back against the wal as bul ets streamed through,

pulverizing the items neatly lining the store’s shelves.

Omidi managed to get to his knees, crawling unsteadily toward the shoppers huddled beneath a row of

tables. When he got within a few meters, two men came out and pul ed him to safety.

“Are you al right?” one said. “I think you’re shot!”

He tried to examine the wound, but Omidi slapped his hand away. The sensation in his legs was already

beginning to fade, as was the sharpness of his mind. Farrokh’s force was too large and wel prepared for

the men Khamenei had recruited. They would gain access to the pharmacy before the military could arrive.

“Do you work here?” he said to the woman next to him, trying to give his weakening voice authority.

She shook her head and pointed to a white-haired man cowering in the corner. Omidi struggled over to

him, dragging the briefcase with numb fingers.

“You! Are you the pharmacist?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes wide as he watched splinters fly off a wooden display case that two policemen were

pushing against a shattered window. “I am Muhammad Vahdat.”

“I am Mehrak Omidi, the director of the Ministry of Intel igence.”

The man’s face went blank for a moment, but then registered recognition. “Yes…Yes, of course. I have

seen you—”

“Listen to me now,” Omidi said, but then lost his train of thought as blood loss starved his mind. What

needed to be done? The parasite! He had to concentrate. To think clearly for just a little longer.

“The men outside are Farrokh’s soldiers. They’ve developed a biological weapon and we received

reports that they were going to test it on your city.”

The man went from looking terrified to looking as though he was going to pass out. “Here? But we’re just

a—”

“You’re perfect. Smal , isolated, and devout,” Omidi said, patting his case with a hand dripping blood. “I

have the antidote here—I brought it personal y the moment we learned of his target. I need syringes. Enough

for everyone. Do you have them?”

“Yes. Of course. Behind the counter.”

“You have to get them so I can begin inoculations.”

“But they’re al the way—”

“You would rather die slowly of a disease that eats you from the inside?”

The pharmacist considered the question for a moment and then dropped to his stomach, slithering

across the floor toward the back of the building.

Omidi watched him go, fal ing against the wal and fighting to remain conscious.

They had experimented extensively with the dose-response relationship and found it to be extremely

strong. He had enough in his case to give everyone in the building a parasitic load many times greater than

they would get from the normal mode of transmission. Based on the tables his scientists had developed, ful

symptoms would occur in less than two hours.

It was the only way. The fate of the parasite and the fate of Iran were now one and the same. He could not

al ow them to be destroyed or to fal into the hands of traitors. They had to survive.

85

Avass, Iran

December 5—1410 Hours GMT+3:30

ANOTHER STALEMATE,” PETER HOWELL said, easing around a building constructed of indigenous rock.

He was right. They’d come into Avass on foot and were now about five blocks from the city center,

wandering along a narrow, twisting al eyway. The sound of gunfire had slowed to a shot every thirty seconds

or so, and in this kind of closed-in urban terrain, that general y meant the two forces had dug in.

Farrokh was bringing up the rear, talking urgently on his phone as he navigated a patch of snow protected

from the sun by a broad awning.

“Omidi is trapped in a pharmacy with what we believe to be four armed men and as many as twenty

hostages,” he reported. “He has the briefcase and my people say he’s badly injured.”

“Can they get to him?” Smith said.

“The street in front of the pharmacy is impassable, and there are no rear or side entrances.”

“Do you have an ETA on the Iranian forces?”

“About an hour,” Farrokh said. “Two C-130s carrying Takavar paratroopers. Seven more to fol ow, but my

people haven’t been able to determine when.”

“Do you know how many are targeting Avass and how many are going to the lab?”

“No. But my men have sealed the facility and are in a good defensive position. They’l hold until the

parasite there dies out.”

Smith wasn’t so sure—nine planes could transport upward of six hundred men, and Takavar troops were

the best the Iranian military had to offer.

The gunshots were close now, and he fol owed Howel onto a muddy slope that terminated in a low wal .

From their elevated position, it was clear that the situation was an absolute worst-case scenario. There

were men everywhere—behind cars, on rooftops, peering around the edges of al eyways—but it was

impossible to sort out who was who. The remains of a pickup were stil burning in front of what looked like a

market building, causing smoke to further obscure the situation. The pharmacy that Farrokh’s people were

talking about had stone arches across the front that looked like they could stop a tank, and there was at

least one man stationed at each partial y barricaded window.

“Maybe if we could get to the truck in the middle of the—,” Howel started but then fel silent when a man

darted from cover and ran for an overturned cart that would give him a better angle on the pharmacy

windows. The silence was immediately broken by a barrage of gunfire, and he was cut down before he

made it five feet.

“Never mind,” Howel said.

Smith slid down with his back against the wal , swearing under his breath. The Takavar were going to be

raining down on them like the wrath of God in less than an hour. It wouldn’t take them long to wipe out

Farrokh’s forces and put Omidi on a plane to Tehran.

“Do your people have anything heavier than assault rifles?”

“One rocket-propel ed grenade.” Farrokh pointed at a rooftop to the north. “It’s up there.”

Smith dared a quick look, spotting a launcher hanging over the shoulder of a man holding a camera

phone around the edge of a chimney. The angle wasn’t great, but with a little luck it might be possible to

thread the archways and get the charge through a window.

“We have to use it,” Howel said. “No choice.”

“What?” the Iranian said. “No. There are hostages. Women and children.”

Smith peered over the wal again. “If Omidi’s injured and it’s bad enough, maybe we can offer him a deal.

He gives us the case and we let him walk.”

“No way,” Sarie said. “I know him better than anyone here. If you want that case, you’re going to have to

pry it out of his dead fingers.”

“I tend to agree,” Farrokh said. “Omidi is not a man of compromises.”

Smith sat silently for a moment, trying to focus on the tactical situation and not imagine the faces of the

frightened people inside that building.

“Then Peter’s right. Ask your man if he can make the shot.”

Farrokh stared angrily back at him. “I can’t help wondering if you would be so perfunctory if those were

American hostages and the weapon was a threat to Iran.”

Smith raised his head over the wal a few inches again and examined the pharmacy, trying to determine

the strength of the barricades and catch a glimpse of the men behind them. When he got to the last one, his

eye picked up movement. The shelving pushed up against the window began to rock violently, causing the

few products remaining on it to cascade to the floor.

“No…,” he muttered when the cop who had been manning the position came partial y through the window,

breaking free the last shards of glass. He twisted around, throwing wild punches at something just out of

sight as gunfire hammered the wal s around him. He was hit in the shoulder, but kept fighting until two more

rounds penetrated his back and left him hanging unnatural y on the sil . A moment later, the blood-streaked

face of a woman appeared. She fel on the lifeless man, tearing at him, her mouth working in silent rage as

bul et after bul et impacted her thin body.

“He’s infected them!” Smith shouted. “Blow it! Blow it now!”

Farrokh stil had his phone line open and began screaming into it. A moment later a contrail appeared

from the rooftop and the grenade glanced off one of the pharmacy’s archways, exploding in front of the

heavy doors with a lot of smoke and noise, but little damage.

Smith yanked his rifle over his head and shoved it into Sarie’s hands before pul ing his .45 from its

holster. “Kil everything that moves. Do you understand me? Kil everything.”

Omidi’s victims came out of the smoke, moving fast as Farrokh continued to shout orders into the phone.

Howel fired calmly, hitting everything he aimed at like he always did. Sarie, despite her exceptional skil ,

was finding shooting people very different from shooting animals and targets. The men on the rooftops and

in the streets hesitated, and by the time they understood what was happening, it was too late.

86

Central Iran

December 5—1439 Hours GMT+3:30

GENERAL ASADI DAEI STOOD in the C-130’s cockpit door looking through the windscreen as the plane

rose from the air force base and banked right. The most recent reports were that as many as fifty resistance

traitors were digging in at the lab and that another twenty-five or so were fighting in the streets of Avass.

Fortunately, the local police had managed to get Mehrak Omidi to a defensible building and he was there

awaiting the first wave of paratroopers to drop.

Daei was about to ask for an updated ETA now that they were in the air, but the pilot turned and tapped

his earphones, indicating that a communiqué was coming through.

The general grabbed a spare headset and leaned over the copilot to toggle the switch isolating the line.

“This is Daei.”

He straightened slightly when the static-ridden voice of Ayatol ah Khamenei came on. “Security has been

ful y breached, General.”

Despite having been wounded three separate times in the war with Iraq, Daei felt a trickle of fear.

“Breach” meant that the disease he’d been briefed on had escaped containment. “Ful breach” meant the

infected were loose in the streets.

“I understand, Excel ency.”

“God be with you.”

The channel went dead, and Daei opened a separate line to the commanders of the other transports.

“We are moving to plan Theta. I repeat. Plan Theta.”

After getting acknowledgments from the entire force, he hung the headset back on the wal and stood

motionless for a moment, feeling slightly dazed. In the other planes, envelopes would be opened and his

officers would be describing the nature of the expected resistance to their teams: people with the strength of

three men, drenched in blood and attacking everything that moved like a pack of rabid dogs. It seemed

impossible—a paranoid fantasy. But the intel igence had come directly from Omidi and he was not a man

prone to fits of hysteria.

Daei walked to the back of the plane, where a wel -equipped medical team was strapped into utilitarian

seats. “We have a ful breach.”

They immediately released their harnesses and began rushing around, opening crates fil ed with

protective clothing, digging through stacks of medical equipment, and talking in loud, frightened tones.

He would now be forced to concentrate the vast majority of his troops on Avass. His biohazard team

would unload at a nearby airstrip while paratroopers secured the streets. Their only mission now was to get

a live victim of the parasite back to the plane. When they were in the air, he would be told where the deadly

organism was to be taken.

Somewhere south of their current location, bombers with instructions to turn Avass into a burning hole in

the ground were waiting for the green light. Even the Takavar soldiers would not be al owed to survive—the

risk that they could spread the infection or relate details that didn’t support the official story was too great.

87

Langley, Virginia, USA

December 5—0619 Hours GMT–5

WHAT YOU’RE LOOKING AT was recorded about six hours ago,” Dave Col en said.

The DCI took a seat in front of a laptop displaying a series of satel ite images. They were hazy and the

resolution had been degraded by magnification, but there was stil no doubt about the ferocity of the fighting.

A military truck had exploded after slamming into what looked like a rock outcropping, and its burning parts

were strewn out among the bodies lying in the sand.

“An underground facility?” Drake said as the images were replaced with ones of a group of men flipping

a similar truck back onto its wheels and pushing it forward as moving cover.

Col en nodded. “We had no idea it was there, and as near as I can tel neither did any of the other

intel igence agencies. We’re going back over our satel ite data from the last few months and finding

evidence of increased activity, but whatever the Iranians are doing there, they’ve pul ed out al the stops to

hide it.”

“And we think this is related to the parasite?”

“No way to know for sure, but I’d bet good money on it. We have photos of a private jet landing on an

abandoned strip not far from there a week ago.”

“Omidi?”

“Again, there’s no way to be certain. But when you combine the jet with the fact that Smith and Howel saw

fit to try to get into Iran on foot and the noise we’re getting about biologists being pul ed off their jobs by the

secret police…” His voice faded for a moment. “I’m pretty confident that Omidi got his parasite and that he’s

weaponizing it in this facility. Maybe with the help of Sarie van Keuren.”

Drake leaned back and watched the battle unfold until it looped to the beginning. “I assume we’re not the

only ones with access to this data.”

“You assume right. Those images came from the National Reconnaissance Office.”

None of this was completely unexpected, but that didn’t make it any less dangerous. Smith and Howel

hadn’t gone into Iran to try to stop Khamenei’s forces on their own. No, they’d contacted the resistance and

despite their deaths at the hands of Sepehr Mouradipour, Farrokh had used the information he’d been

provided to track down Omidi’s facility. The question was, what should they do about it?

“There’s more,” Col en said. “We have reports of heavy fighting in the streets of a vil age a hundred miles

north of that facility, and the Iranians are airlifting special forces there as wel as scrambling a squadron of

bombers.”

“ETA?”

“By now, they could have soldiers on the ground. I don’t have current information on the bombers.”

“Is it possible that the parasite has escaped the facility?”

“We don’t have any assets in the area and the satel ite’s gone out of range. We won’t have another

overhead for six hours.”

Drake let out a frustrated sigh. “I have—”

The phone on his desk rang and he fel silent when he saw the incoming number. The Oval Office.

Castil a tended to be a predictable man wed to his schedules and formal briefings. Impromptu predawn

cal s were very much not part of his management style.

Col en took a step back and watched him pick up the receiver. “Hel o, Mr. President.”

“What the hel is going on in Iran, Larry? Have you looked at these satel ite images?”

“I’m just going through them now, sir. We’re stil gathering data at—”

“We’ve got a war going on between two unknown factions at a facility that we didn’t know anything about

and you’re gathering data?”

“We should know more soon. The—”

“I’m at Camp David, Larry, and you’re going to be in front of me in one hour with everything we’ve got on

this. I want to know what the hel the Iranians are doing with an underground bunker in the middle of nowhere

and I want to know who just crashed their party. Do you understand me?”

“Sir, that’s not going to be enough time. It’s a complicated—”

“Let me repeat myself, Larry. You are going to be standing in front of me in one hour.”

Drake swal owed hard, fighting back a wave of nausea as the sweat broke across his forehead. “Yes,

sir.”

The line went dead and he slowly replaced the receiver. “Get together everything we have on the parasite

and the Iranians.”

“Everything?” Col en said, obviously alarmed.

“We’re getting on a helicopter for Camp David. We’l strategize on the flight and sanitize what we have to.

I’m not going to let this fal apart now. Not when we’re this close.”

88

Avass, Iran

December 5—1505 Hours GMT+3:30

JON SMITH FORCED HIMSELF to slow, glancing over his shoulder at the people strung out behind him.

Sarie wasn’t having any trouble keeping up—her life in the African bush had combined with a healthy dose

of terror to keep her injured leg turning over. Farrokh was lagging a bit, struggling for breath as he shouted

for everyone to stay inside their homes and barricade the doors and windows. Howel was bringing up the

rear, running in an awkward sideways lope as he covered their flank.

Satisfied that everyone was al right, Smith faced forward again and leapt over a hastily abandoned

basket of vegetables. A burning pain suddenly flared in his head, and he went down on the jagged cobbles,

rol ing as the sound of the shot bounced off the stone buildings.

His balance was gone and his vision was spinning, making it pointless to attempt to get to his feet.

Instead, he stayed as flat as possible, trying to clear his mind. A familiar voice reached him and he crawled

toward it, stil confused when Sarie grabbed him and dragged him behind a parked car.

“Hold stil !” he heard her say as she tore off a piece of the jacket they’d found for her and pressed it to his

scalp. “Jon? Are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?”

He blinked hard and watched her hand come slowly into focus. “Uh…two?”

She helped him to his feet and then careful y let go, making sure he could stay upright on his own.

“I’m fine. It’s just…It’s just a graze.”

“It’s more than a graze, Jon. It looks pretty deep.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not my first.”

“You stil with us, mate?”

Howel had broken out the driver’s window of a vaguely Soviet-looking flatbed, and he and Farrokh were

pushing it into a position that blocked the street behind them.

“Not dead yet.”

“Wel , if we get pinned down here, you wil be soon.”

He was right. They didn’t know how many infected were headed in their direction or the positions and

strength of the Iranians fighting against them.

“Omidi gave it to them,” Sarie said, sounding a little dazed. “He infected a bunch of innocent people to

keep it alive.”

“We’l worry about that later,” Smith said. “If the guy who just shot me cal s in our position or can hop

enough rooftops to get above us again, we’re going to have serious problems. We need to keep moving.”

“How? He can—”

“Incoming!” Howel shouted, and they both spun to see a man sprinting around the corner. He let out

something between a scream and a choking growl when he saw them, the blood that had run into his mouth

spraying down the front of his shirt. Howel rested the butt of his pistol on the hood of the truck while Farrokh

fired wildly, managing to hit the man in the stomach and left thigh. Howel did better, catching him just below

the sternum and dropping him to the ground. The Brit stayed lined up on the man as he tried desperately to

get up, not lowering his weapon until he went completely stil .

“Keep our flank covered!” Smith said, pul ing Sarie to the wal and tapping the rifle hanging around her

neck. “I need you to do something for me.”

“What?” she said.

He pointed to the roofline. “I need you to shoot the guy up there.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because I can’t see straight, Farrokh can’t shoot straight, and we need Peter behind us.”

“It would be nice if we could get out of here,” Howel cal ed back. “Sooner would be better than later.”

“Working on it!” Smith responded and then turned his attention back to Sarie. “Listen to me. I’m going to

run out into the open again. When I do, lean around the corner and sight along the rooftop.”

“Are you crazy? He almost kil ed you last time and now he’l be ready.”

“Then you’re going to have to hit him.”

“I’m not a soldier, Jon. I—”

“You are today,” he said, backing away. When he had a good ten yards to get a running start, he took a

deep breath and charged forward, passing Sarie as she flattened herself against the building.

He heard a shot and saw the round impact a wal a few feet away. When the second sounded, he tensed,

certain it would be the one that got him. He remained upright, though, and a moment later he was safely

around the next corner.

A series of bright flashes threw shadows across the building next to him, and he eased back the way he

had come, listening to a strange crackling that was impossible to decipher.

A careful peek around the corner revealed the shooter. He’d fal en into a tangle of power lines and was

hanging upside down from them as sparks showered the ground.

Sarie, Howel , and Farrokh appeared a moment later, running hard in his direction. He ignored them,

instead focusing his attention on a growing drone from above. Two C-130s were coming overhead, flying

low enough that he could make out their open doors.

“I don’t suppose you have any antiaircraft capability you’ve been keeping from me?” he said as Farrokh

stopped next to him.

The Iranian just shook his head as the first parachutes opened against the deepening blue of the sky.

89

Over Frederick County, Maryland, USA

December 5—0701 Hours GMT–5

THEY’D LEFT THE GLARE of the DC suburbs behind, and Larry Drake looked down into the darkness

before turning his attention back to Dave Col en, who was sitting next to him in the back of the helicopter.

“Even with everything there is on the Iran-Uganda connection, it’s stil plausible that we thought it was too

soft to pursue,” Col en said through a headset isolated from the pilot.

“What are we going to say changed our minds and made us col ect al this data?”

“This is where Brandon’s death final y benefits us. We’l say he told us that he had unconfirmed reports of

Iranian operatives meeting with President Sembutu and that he was in the process of fol owing up when he

died. We’ve been trying to look into it but losing him caused us to go temporarily blind in Kampala.”

The best lies were the ones only a few degrees off the truth, and this very much qualified.

“Do we have anything at al that points to the fact that the attack on the facility is a resistance operation?”

“Nothing.”

“Can we fabricate something?”

“Farrokh keeps his organization locked down tight and the president knows we don’t have eyes there. It

would be risky.”

“Then we’l have to rely on the fact that it’s the only plausible guerril a force that could attack a fixed

position like that in Iran. The trick is going to be playing up the danger—that the parasite exists, that the

Iranians have it, and that the facility is in play. We have the possibility that the infection Castil a saw on that

video is loose in Iran, we have the possibility that the Iranian government has weaponized it and is planning

on using it against us, and we have the possibility that Farrokh wants to get his hands on it to strengthen his

position.”

“The last one is a stretch.”

“Is it? To date, we’ve considered the resistance to be a relatively peaceful, grassroots effort, and now we

see evidence of a hierarchical organization with paramilitary capability. We have enough to make Castil a

question everything he thinks he knows about Farrokh. If we’re careful and don’t miss anything, we stil have

a good chance of getting him to authorize a unilateral attack befo—”

A loud buzz drowned him out and suddenly the cabin was fil ed with the dul red pulse of a warning light.

Drake flipped the switch reconnecting him to the pilot’s headset just as the terrifying sound of the engine

cutting in and out began.

“What the hel ’s going on? What’s the problem?”

“I think it’s a blockage in the fuel line!” the pilot said as the chopper dropped sickeningly and then

struggled to regain altitude. “I’ve got to put it down. Now!”

Col en slammed himself back in his seat and tightened the harness around his shoulders, chest heaving

with rapid, staccato breaths.

“What the hel are you talking about? We’re over a forest!” Drake shouted into the microphone hovering in

front of his mouth.

“There!” the pilot responded. “There’s a clearing to the east.”

The nose dipped and they dove for it, engine sputtering and choking, threatening to go silent at any

moment.

Drake could feel the blood pounding in his temples and he slapped off his headset, fighting back the bile

coming up in his throat. A long, formless shout rose above the alarm buzzer, and it was only when the skids

slammed into the ground that he realized it was coming from him. The harness tightened painful y across his

chest and the screech of tearing metal fil ed his ears.

Then everything went silent. The pilot shut down power, kil ing the instrument lights and letting the

momentum of the blades die. Blood was flowing from the side of Drake’s head where it had hit the window,

but otherwise he was unharmed. He’d made it.

The pilot didn’t speak, instead kicking open his door and jumping out into the darkness. His footfal s

echoed through the clearing for a moment and then faded as he retreated into the early morning gloom.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

No answer.

He turned to Col en and grabbed his shoulder. “Dave. Are you al right?”

He was stil gasping for breath but managed to nod.

“The papers,” Drake said, pointing to the sheets of highly classified material strewn around the tiny

space. “Pick them up and get them back into your briefcase.”

He sat there long enough to confirm that Col en understood and then shoved his way through the

damaged door. His jaw tightened when he saw that the pilot, a decorated former Coast Guard man, had

completely disappeared.

Drake pul ed out his cel phone and looked down at it, swearing quietly when he saw that there was no

signal. Had they cal ed in a Mayday? He couldn’t remember. The president’s people would contact Langley

when he didn’t arrive, but how long would that take? He was wearing nothing but a suit jacket and it was

below freezing.

“Son of a bitch!” he shouted, fear and frustration final y breaking down the calm facade it had taken a

lifetime to build. He slammed the phone repeatedly into the side of the chopper, not stopping until parts of it

were strewn out in the dirt around him. This was al supposed to have gone so smoothly. But then Castil a

sent that damn black ops team and Gazenga decided to grow a spine. Now he was standing in the middle

of nowhere with the president of the United States waiting to rake him over the coals. One mistake—one

moment of confusion in the maze of lies he’d created—and it could al come crashing down on top of him.

He took a few deep, control ed breaths and watched the fog rol from his mouth in the dul light of dawn.

“Dave! What the hel are you—,” he started, but then fel silent. There was something at the edge of the

clearing, something with an outline distinct from the trees.

They weren’t alone.

90

Outside Avass, Iran

December 5—1540 Hours GMT+3:30

JON SMITH SHADED HIS eyes and watched as more canopies popped into existence above. Frightened

voices rose from the fifty or so Avass residents they’d fal en in with and the pace of the group increased

perceptibly, sweeping past the edge of town and into the open desert. Twenty yards ahead, Sarie’s blond

hair was visible as she and Farrokh pushed their way toward him.

“Seven injured people we could find,” she said when she got within earshot.

“Did you talk to them? Did they have contact with anyone infected?”

Farrokh nodded. “One fel down a set of stairs and another was wounded by a bul et. But the others were

attacked.”

“And al five of them have open wounds,” Sarie added. “I’m not sure how the higher parasitic loads are

going to affect things, but I think we have to be ready for a faster than normal reaction.”

“How long?”

“A guess would be seven hours before ful symptoms. Eight if we’re lucky.”

“Is there any way we can separate them from the group?”

“An American, a Brit, and a South African trying to get families to abandon their injured?” Farrokh said. “I

think not.”

“What about you? You’re Iranian and people know you.”

“My position is even weaker, Jon. This is a very conservative, poorly educated part of the country. If these

people knew who I was, they would probably kil me. And even if we keep my identity from them, they wil stil

see me as a liberal, urban outsider.”

Smith slowed and final y stopped, watching the haggard refugees flow past. Scared and unsure what was

happening, they would do the same thing they had for a thousand years—disappear into terrain that no

foreigner had any hope of navigating.

“What is it?” Howel said, making a subtle move for the pistol in his waistband. “What’s wrong?”

What was wrong was that Smith had no idea what they were doing or where they were going. Groups like

this, some probably with even more victims, were undoubtedly spreading out in every direction, surrounded

by friends and family who had no way of understanding or dealing with what was going to happen. He’d

completely lost control of the situation, and the idea that the Iranian military could regain that control might

just turn out to be the most deadly delusion in history.

“Farrokh,” Smith said. “Give me your phone.”

The Iranian took a hesitant step back. “To do what? Order your military to destroy my country? To insert

another dictator?”

“You want me to be honest?” Smith said, the anger obvious enough in his voice that people passing by

began giving them a wider berth. “I don’t know what Castil a wil do. But this is going to spread—first through

Iran, then through the region. At this point, a new dictator might be your best-case scenario.”

“No!” Farrokh said, but his voice quickly lost its force. “We can…”

“You can do what? Because as near as I can tel , we’re just wandering around in the desert. You want to

walk into that line of paratroopers? You want to go into those canyons with a bunch of infected people and

wait for it to get dark?”

“No. I—”

“Then what’s our next move, boss?”

A woman wearing a coat soaked with blood col apsed twenty feet away, unable to go any farther. The

people around her rushed to her aid, and Sarie immediately began shoving her way toward them. “Stop!

Don’t touch her!”

No one spoke English and al she managed was to garner a few startled looks before being completely

ignored.

Farrokh watched in silence for a moment, and then entered the PIN into his phone and held it out.

Smith dialed quickly, moving to the edge of the crowd with Howel scanning the faces around them for any

hint of threat.

“Hel o?”

There was definitely a sense of relief at the sound of Fred Klein’s voice, but not as much as he’d hoped.

“We have a few problems here.”

“Jon? Jesus! Are you al right? Where are you?”

“About a mile outside a town cal ed Avass.”

“Then it was you who attacked the underground facility south of there.”

“You know about that?”

“We have a few satel ite photos but that’s about al . We’ve been trying to get U-2s overhead but there’s a

lot of Iranian air force activity in the area already and more on the way. What’s your situation?”

“It’s bad, Fred. The parasite was loose in that facility and I’m not sure what the status is there. What I do

know is that there are infected people in Avass and people injured by them running for the canyons.”

“This isn’t a perfect connection, Jon, and there can’t be any miscommunications between us. Are you

tel ing me that there are infected, symptomatic people loose in Avass and that it’s spreading into the

countryside?”

“That’s correct. Can I assume you’ve planned for this?”

“We’ve spent the last week moving biowarfare equipment and teams to Iran’s borders with Iraq and

Afghanistan. Your friends at USAMRI D and the CDC aren’t confident it’s going to be enough, though.”

A wel -justified lack of confidence, as far as Smith was concerned. Containment plans general y assumed

that victims got sick, lost mobility, and sought help. Contagion vectors were wel understood, and some level

of treatment was available even for pathogens as devastating as smal pox. None of those things were true

in this case.

“We’ve been working more or less blind,” Klein continued. “And I don’t mind tel ing you that it’s causing

some panic. Right now the president is in with the Joint Chiefs and representatives from Europe, China,

and Russia. We have a submarine armed with nuclear warheads off the coast and the idea of using it hasn’t

been taken off the table. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Smith didn’t respond, instead watching Sarie and Farrokh trying to physical y pul people away from the

injured woman. He thought of the town and of the residents caring for victims of similar attacks. He thought

of the recently infected people who were already losing themselves in the canyons and of the ones who had

made it to vehicles that were now carrying them to friends and relatives in surrounding vil ages.

“Jon? Are you stil there?”

“Do it, Fred. Nuke everything. The entire area.”

There was a long silence over the phone. “Again, I want to make sure that I’m not misunderstanding you.

As an infectious disease specialist familiar with this particular il ness, you are recommending the use of

tactical nuclear weapons centered on your position.”

“That’s my recommendation.”

“Is there anyone else there with you? Van Keuren? Peter?”

Smith held the phone out to Howel . He looked a bit confused but accepted it. “Hel o? Yes, Brigadier. I

recognize your voice.”

Smith bent at the waist and concentrated on not throwing up. In al likelihood, he’d just doomed himself,

his friends, and thousands of innocent people to death.

“A grazing shot to the head,” he heard Howel say. “But he seems fine to me. Yes, unfortunately, I think that

seems reasonable given the situation on the ground.”

Smith felt a tap on his shoulder and Howel handed back the phone.

“Jon?” Klein said.

“I’m here.”

“Can you give us your current position? I can cal our people. There’s a possibility that we could get a

helicopter through and—”

“We both know that’s not going to happen, Fred. Just do it, okay?”

Another long pause. “I’m going to pass along your recommendation to the president with my support.

Thank you for everything you’ve done, Jon. And good luck to you.”

The line went dead and he slid the phone weakly into his pocket.

“You al right, mate?” Howel said, putting a hand under his arm and helping him upright.

“Not my best day, Peter.”

“I suppose things could have turned out better,” he said, extending his hand. “But even so, I want you to

know that it’s been a privilege.”

91

Frederick County, Maryland, USA

December 5—0722 Hours GMT–5

HELLO?”

Lawrence Drake took a hesitant step forward, the sound of frozen leaves beneath his feet shockingly loud

in the silence of the clearing. “Is someone out there?”

“Larry, who are—,” Dave Col en said from inside the helicopter, but Drake cut him off.

“Shut up and secure those papers!”

The dense clouds to the east glowed dul y with dawn, transforming the vague shapes into the outline of an

SUV and a large panel van. Four human figures—three men and a woman—stood motionless in front of the

vehicles.

The cold morning air caught in Drake’s chest and he stopped, looking around him at the black wal of

trees surrounding the clearing.

It was obvious now that the helicopter’s mechanical failure had been staged—that the pilot had been paid

to put down there. But by whom? Terrorists? Foreign agents? Were they here to kil him?

A few years ago, this would have been impossible. But the Muslims didn’t play by the rules that had been

set out during the cold war. No one was off-limits. Death was something to be courted, not avoided.

“What do you want?” he said through a bone-dry mouth.

Dawn’s glow continued to intensify, adding detail to the scene in front of him. The woman was tal and

athletic, with blond hair that gleamed in the semidarkness. Despite the fact that her face was stil in shadow,

there was something familiar about her, about the strength and grace that projected even when she was

motionless.

He began to back away but then stopped short at the sound of her voice.

“Where do you think you’re going, Larry?”

“Russel ?” he responded. “Randi Russel ? What the hel is this? What are you doing here?”

“I found the team you sent after Jon and Peter.”

He tried to keep the shock and fear from his face but in the end could only hope that the gloom hid it.

“What are you talking about?”

“It was al fake,” she said. “Everything you saw about them crossing into Iran came directly from me and

Chuck Mayfield: their plane’s flight path from Diego Garcia, the satel ite photos of the car taking them into

the mountains. Everything. They were a hundred miles away the whole time.”

For a moment, Drake found it hard to draw air into his lungs, but then he forced himself to relax. There

was a way out of this. He just had to think.

If what she said was true and he had been working with disinformation, Smith was almost certainly stil

alive and involved with what was happening in Avass. That meant the cal from Sepehr Mouradipour had

been a setup and undoubtedly recorded.

He didn’t dare a look back at Col en, but the papers he was col ecting consumed his mind. It was al there

—everything they’d done, everything they’d kept from Castil a.

Calm down!

If Russel got her hands on those documents, it would be extremely complicated, but perhaps not the

ruinous disaster it seemed on the surface. Politics could be a very messy business.

“I want to talk to the president.”

Russel shook her head slowly. “I don’t think he wants to talk to you.”

Drake grunted in pain as a blow to the back of his legs drove him to the ground. His arms were wrenched

behind his back and he heard the metal ic clack of handcuffs over the shouts of Dave Col en being dragged

from the damaged helicopter.

When Drake was pul ed to his feet again, Russel was walking across the clearing toward him.

“What are you going to do, Randi? Prosecute me? Do you know how much of this country’s dirty laundry I

have locked up in my head? The black ops, the renditions, the backroom deals? And what about you and

Smith? Who exactly is it you work for? Could it be that the president has put together a group that exists

outside the law? Because that could turn out to be very uncomfortable for him if it goes public.”

She stopped a few feet away, her head tilted slightly as she examined him. “The docs told me that if the

shooter you sent to my house had aimed an inch more to the left, the body armor wouldn’t have saved me.

At best I’d be paralyzed.”

“You’re a hel of an operator, Randi. I’l give you that. But you’re out of your depth now.”

“And you’re a man who swore to protect this country and the people who live in it!” she shouted. “You owe

them your loyalty, and you sure as hel owe your loyalty to the operatives out there risking their lives for you

every day.”

“Do you have any idea how naïve you sound, Randi? Now, get these damn handcuffs off me. And tel

Castil a I’l be wil ing to offer my resignation for personal reasons. But that offer isn’t going to last forever.”

“Then off to a lucrative private-sector job, huh, Larry? No need to get bogged down in al this nonsense

about you covering up a bioweapon that could kil mil ions of Americans. And what about al those innocent

people in Uganda? Or the ones dying right now in Iran? What about Jon and Peter, who won’t ever be

coming home? We’l just forget al that too, right?”

Her reputation, combined with the very real fury in her voice, was admittedly enough to make him sweat.

But it was al bluster. Randi Russel was just another soldier—an expendable cog in a machine that she

didn’t even have the capacity to ful y understand.

“You can rant al you want, Randi, but Castil a isn’t going to put me on the stand with what I know. And

after the Lazarus fiasco, the CIA can’t afford another black eye.”

She laughed and started back toward the vehicles parked at the edge of the clearing. “Who sounds naïve

now, Larry?”

Drake felt a gun against the back of his head and he was forced to fol ow. Col en came alongside,

similarly motivated by a man carrying the briefcase containing their papers.

Ahead, the back of the panel van was open and Russel ’s men were pul ing out three large sacks.

Confused, Drake watched as they began dragging them toward the helicopter. It was only when they

passed that he was able to identify what was inside the black plastic.

Corpses.

“Wait!” he said, stopping short. “What—”

The man behind Drake pushed him forward hard enough that he barely managed to keep from pitching

onto the icy ground. Randi grabbed him by the back of the neck, pul ing him upright, and shoved him into the

back of the van. “Like you said, Larry, the CIA can’t afford another black eye.”

“No!” he shouted as Col en was thrown in after him.

The door slid down, leaving them in blackness as the engine came to life and the vehicle began lurching

forward. A moment later, he heard a sound that he’d been dreading—the explosion that would incinerate the

helicopter and the three bodies inside.

The entire world would believe he died in the crash.

There would be a state funeral, a eulogy praising his selflessness and service to the country. His wife

would accept the flag from a coffin containing the body of a stranger, never knowing that her husband was

lying in an unmarked grave carved from the country he’d betrayed.

92

Near Avass, Iran

December 5—1839 Hours GMT+3:30

ARFA! DO YOU COPY? Respond!”

General Asadi Daei watched angrily as his men brought an armored SUV down the C-130’s ramp with

almost comic slowness. The biomedical team was already suited up and had been standing by the side of

the dark road for almost five minutes.

The condition of their primary landing site had been far worse than the deskbound academics at Omidi’s

intel igence ministry reported, forcing them to fly over the road to Avass and search for a place wide and

smooth enough to set down. It was an unforgivable error that had put them twenty minutes behind schedule

and farther from the vil age than planned.

“Arfa! Respond!”

The radio sputtered to life and the barely intel igible voice of the man in charge of the containment troops

became audible through the static. Daei stalked up the road, putting distance between him and the nervous

scientists double- and triple-checking their equipment.

“General? Do you read me?”

“Barely. What’s your situation? Have you secured the town center?”

A burst of gunfire came over the radio fol owed by indecipherable shouts from Arfa.

“Major! Are you there?”

“I’m here, sir. No, we haven’t been able to ful y secure the area. It’s difficult to tel the police from

resistance, particularly now that we’ve lost the light. And there are civilians—”

“I don’t care who’s who!” Daei shouted. “You’re to eliminate anyone who isn’t actively helping you. Was

that not clear?”

“It was, sir, but—”

“There are no excuses, Major! Fol ow your orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

His commander’s reticence was understandable under the circumstances. What he didn’t know, though,

was that heavy bombers were on their way and that, upon Daei’s orders, Avass would be obliterated with

Arfa and his forces stil in it. The remaining paratroopers would create a wide perimeter, cutting off any

fleeing residents, and, in the end, forfeiting their lives, too. The area would be completely sterilized.

“Have you captured a parasite victim yet, Major?”

“We’ve made two attempts, but they’re much faster and stronger than we anticipated. One was kil ed in a

fal and we were forced to shoot the other.”

Daei slammed a fist angrily against the C-130’s fuselage as he continued up the road. The sound of

approaching air cover became audible behind him, but he didn’t bother to look back.

“I want to be perfectly clear, Major. If I arrive in Avass and you haven’t secured a specimen, not only you

but your family wil pay the price. Am I being clear?”

Arfa responded, but between the static and the approaching jets, his words were impossible to

understand. Daei spun angrily, looking into the sky at a tight formation of fighters barely visible in the

moonlight. What in the name of Al ah were they doing?

“Repeat your last transmission, Major. I—”

He fel silent when one of the fighters broke formation and began to climb, displaying an unmistakable

profile against the black sky.

Daei dropped his radio and ran for the open desert. “Get away from the plane!” he shouted at the startled

scientists watching him sprint across the loose sand. “Find cover!”

* * *

THE BLOW SEEMED to come out of nowhere, lifting Smith off his feet and knocking the gun he’d been so

careful y aiming from his hand. He tried to twist himself out from beneath the man who had jumped him but

realized there wasn’t time and instead braced for the impact with the rocky ground.

He ignored the soft crunch of at least one of his ribs and threw a hand out for the loose weapon. It was

pointless, though. The man on top of him had both superior position and a fifty-pound weight advantage. He

was going to get to it first.

“Peter! The g—”

There was a brief flash of blond hair in the darkness and suddenly the weight was gone. Smith rol ed and

grabbed the pistol, ignoring the excruciating pain in his side as Sarie began losing her wrestling match with

the man she’d tackled. The scales swung back in her direction, though, when Smith pressed the gun against

the back of the man’s head.

He pul ed her away, examining the moonlit faces around them over the sights of the pistol. The group of

refugees they’d joined during their escape from Avass had dwindled to about twenty-five individuals, four of

whom were definitely infected. Three were stil in the confusion stage, but the other had just turned on two

boys helping him walk.

Farrokh had immediately waded in, shouting in Persian and waving his machine gun, but the scene

quickly turned to chaos. Some people fled, pushing and tripping over each other, while others tried to

control the screaming, bleeding man and protect the boys from what Smith assumed was their father.

Howel had taken over the attempt to put the man down but was facing the same problem of a shifting

crowd and dim light that Smith had been contending with. Final y, the infected man escaped the person

trying to hold him and presented his chest for a split second before he could turn again on his fal en sons.

It was a stunning shot—barely missing no fewer than four people before impacting center of mass. The

man went down on his back, thrashing wildly and howling like a wounded animal.

By the time he went stil , al eyes were on Howel and the gun stil smoking in his hand. None of the people

ful y understood what was happening or why there were three Westerners with them, but they’d tolerated

their presence. Now, though, a British stranger had just shot an unarmed man they’d known al their lives.

Farrokh tried to take advantage of the ominous silence to offer an explanation, but no one seemed to be

listening. He hadn’t been lying about his credibility in this part of Iran—it wasn’t much better than theirs.

The boy whose life Howel had saved jumped to his feet and shouted at them, his accusations fal ing on

what appeared to be sympathetic ears.

“I think we’ve worn out our welcome here,” Smith said. “Time to go.”

Farrokh ignored him, continuing his pointless explanation and barely managing to sidestep a much older

man’s lunge. More and more people approached, hurling epithets and insults that even Smith’s nearly

nonexistent Persian could decipher.

Final y, Farrokh faced reality and squeezed off a quick burst over the crowd’s head before joining their

retreat. They kept their weapons trained on the mob, dodging hurled rocks and not stopping until they’d put

a good five hundred yards between them.

“The other three are going to go ful y symptomatic in less than an hour,” Sarie said. “We can’t just leave

those people. We’re the only ones who’re armed.”

“The guns don’t matter,” Smith said. “They’ve turned against us. There’s nothing more we can do.”

“Nothing more we can do?” she responded, the fear and despair twisting her voice into something very

different than what he remembered from their first meeting. “The Iranians aren’t going to be able to control

this. These people have no idea what they’re facing.”

“She’s right,” Farrokh said. “You said the Americans were going to help us, Jon. Where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? You spoke with them.”

“Yeah. I did.”

“And?”

He looked at Howel , but there was no help there.

“I told them to wipe out the entire area.”

“What do you mean ‘wipe out’?” Sarie said.

“We have a nuclear submarine off the coast. I told them to use it.”

There was a brief silence before Farrokh spoke. “I don’t understand. By nuclear submarine, you mean a

nuclear-powered submarine armed with conventional weapons—”

“I mean a submarine armed with nuclear missiles.”

Smith saw it coming but didn’t bother to defend himself, instead taking a rifle butt to the center of the

chest and fal ing painful y to the ground. Howel ’s hand hovered over the gun in his waistband, but beyond

that he didn’t seem to want to get involved. Sarie just stood in dumbfounded silence.

“You told your people to attack my country with nuclear weapons?” Farrokh shouted, aiming his rifle at

Smith’s head. “I trusted you. My men died for you!”

“Farrokh…,” he started. It was hard to get the words out with his cracked ribs and the weight of what he

had done trying to suffocate him. “What choice did I have? I couldn’t risk—”

An explosion flashed to the west, fol owed a moment later by a deep rumble that shook the ground. They

al turned and saw a wal of flame at least a hundred feet high spring up from the main road about fifteen

miles south of Avass.

The planes over it broke formation and began spreading out, their outlines gaining detail in the glow of

the fire until Smith could positively ID them. American F-16s.

It took him longer than it should have to process what was happening. The prospect of certain death had

dul ed his sense of the here and now, bogging him down in past regrets.

“Castil a’s not going to do it,” he said final y. “He’s not going to use the nukes! Farrokh, give me your

phone again. If I can cal in our position, there’s a chance I can get us the hel out of here.”

Epilogue

Central Iran

December 9—1618 Hours GMT+3:30

SMITH STEADIED HIMSELF ON A bracket supporting the Humvee’s computer system as Randi Russel

launched the vehicle across a washed-out section of road. They’d run into each other the day before at a

UN-staffed mobile hospital where he was giving a briefing on the effects of the infection. She was part of a

CIA team charged with preventing grassroots insurgencies from popping up and interfering with efforts to

head off a pandemic.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going, Randi? Al I see out here is rocks and sand.”

“Farrokh’s a man who likes his solitude and anonymity,” she shouted over the roar of the engine. “But now

that we know who he is, you can count on the fact that we’l be keeping close track of him.”

Sarie leaned up between the seats. “Is he al right?”

“Oh, he’s fine. I think he’s just milking a last little bit of peace and quiet before he has to jump into the

middle of the chaos he’s created.”

Farrokh’s people had uploaded hours of raw video depicting what had happened at the lab facility and

Avass, effectively turning the entire world against Iran. The Russians and Chinese had final y seen the light

and committed to heavy sanctions, Al Jazeera had turned into a twenty-four-hour-a-day anti-Iranian rant, and

the United States was being publicly criticized by the Arab League for not just flattening the entire country.

“Is our position stil that we’re not going to jump in after him?” Peter Howel asked from the back.

“That’s the agreement the politicians made,” Randi replied. “Though it feels more like a Mexican standoff

at this point.”

She slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop, pointing to what looked like a goat trail winding its

way up a boulder-strewn slope. “That’s where you’l find him.”

“It looks real y steep,” Sarie said apprehensively. “And it’s dead in the sun.”

Her leg was mildly infected, and between the antibiotics, the fever, and the twenty-hour workdays, she

was a little less spry than normal. Despite that, though, she let Howel help her to the ground and then came

alongside the open driver’s window. “It was good meeting you, Randi.”

“Likewise. Now, are you sure you want to walk al the way up there? I’d be happy to drop you with a patrol

on my way out.”

“No, I want to say good-bye.”

“Your cal . I’l have someone here in two hours to pick you al up.”

Sarie smiled and tapped the windowsil before limping off after Howel , who had already made it to the

trail’s first switchback.

“Don’t want to join us?” Smith said.

She shook her head. “I think I’d rather keep a little anonymity where Farrokh is concerned. He’s the

West’s darling today, but things have a way of changing. And when they do, a lot of times I’m the one who

gets the cal .”

“Stil the insufferable cynic.”

Her lips curled into an enigmatic grin. “Be nice, Jon. You owe me.”

“What—for the ride? It was only a few miles, and, as near as I can tel , you stole the Hummer.”

She gazed thoughtful y into the desert. “Ever hear of Sepehr Mouradipour?”

“Iranian mercenary, right? Last I heard, he was operating in the Balkans or something.”

“Your information is out of date. He was operating in Iran on Larry Drake’s dime. If it hadn’t been for me,

you’d have walked right into his ambush.”

Smith’s expression went blank. He’d been given a sketchy briefing on Drake’s betrayal and the

suspiciously timed helicopter crash that he’d died in, but it was made clear that no questions on the subject

would be entertained. This was a Covert-One operation—how the hel would Randi have learned about it, let

alone gotten personal y involved?

She seemed to be enjoying his distress and let the silence drag on for a while before speaking again.

“Fred Klein says ‘Hi,’ by the way.”

Smith let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, surprised at the intensity of the relief he

felt. “I’m glad you’re final y in, Randi. It’s been hard keeping this from you.”

She scowled. “Keeping what from me? I mean, you’re just a simple country doctor, right?”

He opened his mouth to speak but she held up a hand. “You’l have plenty of time to grovel when you get

back to the States and take me out to an incredibly expensive dinner.”

“Can we split the wine bil ?”

“Absolutely not,” she said sternly and then pointed through the windshield at Sarie lurching up the steep

slope. “Looks like your little girlfriend could use some help.”

It was clearly a dismissal and Smith threw the door open. Before he slid out, though, he grabbed Randi’s

hand and gave it an exaggerated kiss. “You’re a goddess among women. A pil ar of virtue and beauty—”

“Good start,” she said, shoving him through the door and leaving him laughing to himself in a cloud of dust

and gravel. Dinner would probably run the better part of a paycheck, but it would be worth it. She was the

best in the business, and with both her and Peter Howel watching his back, he might just live long enough to

see his next birthday.

It took him longer than he expected to overtake Sarie, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, more

because he liked being close to her than because of any il usion he could help. In truth, he wasn’t in much

better shape than she was. Army doctors had taken an embarrassingly wide swath from his hair, and white

gauze covered the thirty-five stitches it had taken to close the bul et graze on his scalp. Much worse, though,

were the three cracked ribs that wouldn’t al ow him to take in more than a half breath before the pain

became overwhelming.

Sarie pointed at Howel , who was picking his way nimbly through the boulders above them. “Why is it that

we both look like we were run over by a truck and he looks like he just got back from golf ?”

Smith smiled through a split lip. “Believe me, you’re not the first person to ask that question. How are you

feeling? Are you okay?”

“I’l live. But I don’t think I’d want to do this kind of thing every day.”

They finished the climb in silence and found Farrokh sitting cross-legged on the edge of a tal cliff. Howel

was a few feet away, gazing into the val ey at its base.

“I have to hand it to you,” the Brit remarked as Smith came up behind him. “It’s a hel of an operation.”

Another example of Howel ’s gift for understatement. What it was, was nothing less than a miracle.

Below, the sun reflected off the greatest concentration of military and medical technology ever

assembled: three mobile level-four labs, a temporary airstrip that had been built in less than seven hours,

and a constant flow of transport planes dropping off supplies and equipment. Overhead, attack choppers

from no fewer than twelve countries patrol ed the desert floor. Farther up, spy satel ites and surveil ance

planes from Russia, Europe, and the United States were using heat imagery to track every warm-blooded

animal within a two-hundred-mile radius.

To the east was a massive city of tents emblazoned with red crosses and surrounded by temporary

fencing—a holding area for anyone who’d been in contact with victims of the parasite but hadn’t yet been

cleared.

Machine-gun placements and razor wire had been set up at every known entrance to the canyons, along

with thousands of buried mines. Every surrounding town and vil age had a contingent of coalition forces and

their coordinates were locked into the navigational computers of redundant missile batteries. If an outbreak

was reported and ground troops couldn’t quickly gain control, even the most remote population centers

could be completely incinerated in a matter of minutes.

“I normal y object to politicians overriding the recommendations of men in the field,” Howel continued.

“But in this case…”

Smith frowned perceptibly. He agreed that any day aboveground was a good day, but it had been a

reckless decision on Castil a’s part. The consequences of guessing wrong would have been almost too

devastating to imagine.

But it appeared that the president hadn’t guessed wrong. The last contact with a parasite victim had been

forty-eight hours ago when an infected man charged a Belgian special forces team clearing a cave system

to the north. Fortunately, he’d had a broken femur and the injury slowed him down enough to al ow the

soldiers to take him out before he got within fifty feet.

“I suppose you think I should thank the American people for not irradiating a third of my country,” Farrokh

said.

“Don’t be too hard on Jon,” Sarie replied. “If I’d been the one on the phone to the Americans, I might have

told them the same thing.”

The Iranian continued to look down at the coalition forces occupying his land. “And what is he tel ing them

now? Why is it that we haven’t received even the level of assistance given to the Libyans?”

Smith considered lying but knew that Farrokh would see right through it.

The video his people had posted to the Internet hadn’t just shocked the outside world; it had created a

massive backlash in Iran—al owing the formation of an unlikely al iance among secular liberals, moderates,

and even conservative fol owers of a few imams who had pronounced bioweapons un-Islamic. The size and

dynamism of the demonstrations erupting across Iran were so far beyond what had come before, the

government was forced to immediately enlist the military in a last-ditch effort to cling to power.

“It was a complicated situation, Farrokh. We—”

“Can I assume those complications are the reason that over three thousand of my people have died at the

hands of the Iranian army in the last forty-eight hours?”

Smith sighed quietly. “Nobody wanted this. But you have to understand what we’re dealing with here:

more foreign militaries and UN forces than even I can keep track of, press, international observers, and

organizations like WHO and the CDC. Khamenei has access to modern missiles, and if even one or two

made it through our defenses, the whole operation might have fal en apart. Then you could have seen this

infection in Riyadh, or Cairo, or Damascus. There was no way we could take that chance.”

“So you made a bargain with the devil.”

“We told Khamenei that if he left us alone, we’d do the same. But we also made it clear that if so much as

a firecracker goes off within a hundred miles of one of our people, we’l take out his entire military and

impose a no-fly zone until we get color eight-by-tens of him dangling from a rope.”

“So we’re on our own,” Farrokh said.

“You never miss an opportunity to tel me that you want the West to stay out of your business. Wel , we

have a saying in America: Be careful what you wish for.”

“And the parasite?”

“Not my sphere of influence anymore,” Smith said. “President Castil a’s put a certain South African you

know in charge of that part of the operation.”

Farrokh twisted around and looked up at Sarie. “Is this true?”

“One hundred percent,” she said, jabbing Smith in the shoulder. “From now on, the colonel here wil be

cal ing me ma’am.”

Smith grinned and considered a salute, but he wasn’t sure he could lift his arm that far.

“Have you been able to cure the people who have contracted it?” Farrokh asked.

She shook her head sadly. “Most of the victims we’ve tried to treat were already ful y symptomatic. At that

point, the brain damage is irreversible and there isn’t real y anything we can do for them. I think that if we

can catch the infection within an hour or so of transmission, a cocktail of existing antiparasitics might work.

But so far we haven’t been able to find the right combination.”

“It’s stil spreading, then?”

“I’m cautiously optimistic that it’s not,” Sarie said. “We don’t understand exactly how the parasite affects

different animals, though, so we’re stil running tests. The good news is that it’s too arid out here to have

much wildlife, and the livestock is fairly easy to keep track of. I think we’re going to be okay.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

She put a hand on the Iranian’s shoulder. “Maybe you should try focusing on the bright side for a change.

At least you’re not an ashy outline on some wal .”

Author’s Note

It al started for me when I was one year old.

My father came in and announced that he’d quit his job and joined the FBI—something my mother didn’t

even know he was interested in. We were shipped off to her parents while he trained in Quantico and then

quickly found ourselves in Salt Lake City, one of our many homes over the years.

As it turns out, this wasn’t as impulsive as it first seemed. My father grew up in a smal cotton-farming

town in southeast Missouri, and on a visit to his family when I was a teenager, my grandmother told me the

story of his first encounter with the Bureau. It was 1953 and there had been a bank robbery in the area,

prompting an FBI agent to interview the owner of the local general store. My father, then twelve years old,

wandered in for supplies and hid behind a shelf to listen. When he got home, he told his mother about the

experience—that the man had been “dressed real fine and talked real good.” And that one day he, too,

would be a G-man. She just smiled.

Growing up in a Bureau family is about as interesting as it gets, but also a bit chal enging. Of course,

there are the constant moves that can be tough on a kid trying to fit in. Even stranger, though, is the sense of

secrecy. It may be that my early training as a novelist came from fil ing in imaginary details to circumspect

conversations I overheard. The need-to-know attitude is oddly pervasive, as anyone who has watched my

father and me move a ladder wil attest. It’s always teetering upright with him yel ing “Left! Right! Not that far

right, for Christ’s sake!” Now that he’s retired, I aspire to get him to just tel me the ladder’s final destination

before we pick it up. I’m not hopeful, though.

Whatever the negatives, it was al worth it. How many kids get to have dinner with a man who, by law,

cannot be photographed? Or drink a beer with the SAS? Or discuss Northern Ireland with the head of the

Royal Ulster Constabulary? And then there was the time I came home from my summer job and was told

that we were having dinner with an insurance salesman who needed help with the FBI-related sections of

his third novel. He was nice enough to bring us a copy of his first effort. It had been published by the Naval

Institute Press under the title The Hunt for Red October.

And how many people get to read about their col ege graduation dinner in history books? It was 1988 and

my family was at a restaurant in London where my father was the legal attaché. About halfway through the

hors d’oeuvres, someone from the embassy came in and told us that a Pan Am flight had gone down in a

little town cal ed Lockerbie. That was the last I saw of my father for months.

With al this cloak and dagger, it was hard not to be a huge fan of thril er novels. The first I can remember

reading was Shogun, stil vivid in my mind because I was supposed to do my seventh-grade book report on

it and was a little shocked to find out there was a second volume. I wasn’t only a fan, though, I was also a

critic. Authors who made factual errors or failed to faithful y capture the operatives they wrote about drove

me crazy. And that led me to focus on the masters of the genre—people like Jack Higgins, John le Carré,

and Robert Ludlum.

So it’s a great honor for my eleventh novel to be part of the Covert-One series. Hopeful y, you enjoyed

reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Kyle Mil s

May 12, 2011

About the Authors

ROBERT LUDLUM was the author of twenty-six international best-sel ing novels, published in thirty-two

languages and forty countries. He is perhaps best known as the creator and author of three novels featuring

Jason Bourne: The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, and The Bourne Ultimatum. Ludlum passed

away in March 2001.

KYLE MILLS is a New York Times best-sel ing author of more than ten novels, including Rising Phoenix and

Lords of Corruption. He lives with his wife in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where they spend their off-hours

skiing, rock climbing, and mountain biking.

SNEAK PREVIEW!

Original y introduced in Robert Ludlum’s smash hit The Janson Directive, Paul Janson is a former

operative from the U.S. agency Consular Operations whose devastating last mission was a heroic rescue

gone terribly awry.

Now he is back in the launch of a new international thril er series.

Please turn the page for an early look at

THE

JANSON

COMMAND

A new novel written by Paul Garrison

Available winter 2012 wherever books are sold.

Prologue

The Rescue

Three Years Ago

41°13Ń, 111°57´ W

Ogden, Utah

Ogden’s a great town if you like hiking and mountain biking and skiing.” Doug Case gripped the broken

armrests of his secondhand wheelchair and pretended they were ski poles. “That’s what I’m doing here,

since you ask. How’d you happen to track me down? I wiped my names from the VA computers.”

Paul Janson said, “When it al goes to hel , people go home.”

“The place where they have to take you in? Not me. I’m not asking any favors.”

“I don’t see you getting any either.”

Case’s home was the mouth of an abandoned railroad tunnel with a view of a garbage-littered empty lot,

a burned-out Kentucky Fried Chicken, and the snowy Wasatch Mountains. He hunched in his chair with a

frayed backpack on his lap, stringy hair down to his shoulders, and a week of beard on his face. His dul

gaze flickered occasional y toward four muscular teenage gangbangers who were eyeing them from a

Honda parked beside the KFC.

Paul Janson sat on an upended grocery cart. He wore lightweight assault boots and wool trousers, a

sweater, and a loose black ski shel .

“Kil me and get it over with,” Case told him. “I don’t feel like playing games.”

“I’m not here to kil you.”

“Just do it! Don’t worry, I won’t defend myself.” He shifted the pack on his lap.

Janson said, “You are assuming that I stil work for Consular Operations.”

“Nobody quits Cons Ops.”

“We have an arrangement. I went private. Corporate security consulting. Cons Ops cal s me now and

then. Now and then I cal back.”

“You never were one to burn bridges,” Case conceded. “You work alone?”

“I have someone to bring along if I need a sniper.”

“Good?”

“As good as I’ve ever seen.”

“Where from?” Case asked, wondering who of that caliber Janson had recruited.

“Top of the talent pool,” was al Janson would reveal.

“Why’d you quit Cons Ops?”

“I woke up one morning remembering al the people I kil ed for the wrong reasons.”

Case laughed. “For Christ’s sake, Paul! The State Department can’t have covert operators deciding who

to kil . When you have to kil somebody to do the job, you kil him. That’s why they’re cal ed sanctioned in-

field kil ings.”

“Sanctioned serial kil ings was more like the truth. I lay in bed counting them up. Those I should have.

Those I shouldn’t have.”

“How many in total? Shoulds and shouldn’ts.”

“Forty-six.”

“I’l be damned. I edged you out.”

“Forty-six confirmed,” Janson shot back.

Case smiled. “I see your testosterone hasn’t passed its sel -by date.”

He looked Janson up and down. The son of a bitch hadn’t aged. Paul Janson stil looked thirty-something,

forty-something, fifty. Who knew with his close-cropped hair a neutral iron-gray color? And he stil looked

like somebody you wouldn’t look at twice. Unless you were another professional and then if you were real y,

real y good, you’d look twice and see the shoulders under the jacket and the watchful eyes and by then it

might be too late.

Janson said, “We have company.”

The gangbangers were strutting toward them.

“I’ve got ’em,” said Case. “You got lunch.” The empty Sonic burger bags were neatly folded under one of

his wheels. Doug Case let them get within ten meters before he said, “Gentlemen, I’m offering one free

lesson in survival. A survivor never gets in the wrong fight. Turn around and go away.”

Three of them puffed up. But their leader, the smal est, shot an appraising glance at Case and another at

Janson, and said, “We’re outta here.”

“The guy’s in a fuckin’ wheelchair.”

The leader punched the dissenter hard in the ear and herded them away. “Hey, kid!” Case shouted after

him. “You got what it takes. Join the army. They’l teach you what to do with it.” He grinned at Janson. “Don’t

you love raw talent?”

“I do,” said Janson and cal ed in a voice accustomed to obedience, “Come here!” The kid came, light on

his feet, wary as a stray. Janson gave him a business card. “Join the army. Cal me when you make buck

sergeant.”

“What’s that?”

“A rung up the ladder that says you’re going places.”

Janson waited until the Honda squealed away on smoking tires. “I remembered something else. I

remembered every idea I used to believe that I turned my back on.”

“You could use a dose of amnesia.”

“There’s none available.”

Case laughed again. “Remember when that happened to an operator? Forgot everything. Woke up

beating the crap out of people. Couldn’t remember how he learned close combat. What the hel was his

name?…I can’t remember. Neither could he. Unlike you; you remember everything. Okay Paul, if you’re not

here to kil me, what are you doing in fucking Ogden?”

“Tel ing the truth about what I did is pointless if I don’t atone.”

“Atone? What? Like an AA drunk apologizing to people he was mean to?”

“I can’t change what I did, but I can pay back the next guy.”

“Why not just buy a pardon from the pope?”

The sarcasm button didn’t work. Janson was deaf to it. He said, “You take the skil s of observation we

learned and turn them into yourself, it’s not a pretty sight.”

“Saul on the road to Damascus discovers his moral compass and changes his name to Paul? But you

already are Paul. What are you going to change? The world?”

“I am going to do my best to save every covert government operator whose life was wrecked by his covert

service. Guys like you and me.”

“Leave me out of this.”

“Can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re my first project.”

“A mil ion people hold top secret clearances. If one in a hundred work undercover that’s ten thousand

covert agents you could save. Why me?”

“Some people say you were the worst.”

Case returned a bitter smile. “Some said I was the best.”

“Fact is, we were the worst.”

“I don’t need saving.”

“You’re living outdoors. Winter is coming. You’re hooked on Percocet and the docs have cut you off.

When this month’s prescription runs out you’l be scrambling to find it on the street.”

“Paul Janson’s famously accurate research?”

“You’l be dead by Valentine’s Day.”

“Janson’s renowned discerning analytic tradecraft?”

“You need saving.”

“I don’t want saving. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“I’ve got a van with a ramp.”

Doug Case’s pale, grizzled cheeks flamed angry red. “You got a van with a ramp? You got a van with a

ramp? You got shooters in the van going to help you wrestle me up your fucking ramp?”

An awkward smile tightened Janson’s face. For the first time since appearing at the mouth of Doug

Case’s railroad tunnel, he looked unsure. The man they cal ed “The Machine” was suddenly vulnerable, and

Doug Case pressed his attack.

“You’re fal ing down on the planning end, fel a. No assaulters in the van. No rehearsal. No quick-reaction

force backup. No contingency. You’re kind of, sort of, fumbling on impulse. Should have gone about this the

way you’d plan a Cons Ops job. Tortured soul muddles toward atonement? And you’re going to get me

straightened out?”

“More than straightened out. We’re going to put you back together with a life.”

“With a life? So first you’l get me off the Perc? Then you’l have shrinks fix my head? And when the docs

get through you’l find me a career that wil employ my considerable talents? Go to hel .”

“You wil be made whole.”

“Maybe even find me a girl?”

“If you want one, you’l be whole enough to find one on your own.”

“Jesus, Paul, you’re as wired and freaked out as I am. Who in your mental wilderness do you imagine

would pay for this fantasy?”

Janson said, “On my last job someone deposited a ton of money in my overseas accounts to make it

seem I turned traitor. That someone no longer exists. Money wil not be an issue.”

“If you ever do rope some poor fool into your pipe dream, you’l need more than money. You’l need help.

Lots of it. You’l need a staff. Hel , you’l need an entire company.”

Again Janson looked unsure. “I don’t know about that. I’ve had it with companies. I’ve had it with

institutions. I’ve stopped trusting any more than two people in one room.”

“Poor, tormented Paul. Trying to make everything right by saving the worst guy you know, singlehanded?

What are you going to cal this outfit? The Paul Janson Institute for Raising Fucked-up Former Field Agents

Out of Deep Shit? No, keep it simple: the Phoenix Foundation.”

Janson stood up. “Let’s go, my friend.”

“This guy ain’t going anywhere. And I’m not your friend.”

“Maybe not,” Janson agreed. “But we’ve worked together and I could be sitting where you are, so we are

brothers.”

“Brothers? Is your halo pinching?” Doug Case shook his head, scratched an armpit, and covered his face

with his dirty hands. After a while, he lowered his left hand and spoke through the fingers of his right. “They

cal ed you ‘The Machine.’ Remember? Some operators they cal an animal. Some a machine. A machine

usual y beats an animal. But not always.”

In a blur of coordinated movement dril ed ten thousand times, Case’s left hand flashed from his knapsack

pinching the barrel of a Glock 34 9mm automatic between thumb and forefinger. His right hand closed

around the butt, forefinger curling into the trigger guard and his left pul ed back the slide, loading a round

into the chamber and cocking the pistol with the speed of liquid flame.

Janson kicked it from his hand.

“Fuck! ”

Doug Case rubbed his wrist where Janson’s boot had connected. Should have remembered that Cons

Ops combat instructors, the best in the world, had a saying: Lightning-fast; nano-fast; Janson-fast.

Janson scooped up the gun. He was suddenly grinning ear to ear, optimistic, ful of hope, and absolutely

convinced he could fix what was broken. “I see you’re not completely screwed up.”

“What gives you that idea?”

Janson tapped the Glock. “You replaced the crappy factory sights with ghost rings.”

He removed the magazine and pocketed it, removed the round from the chamber, snapped the knapsack

off Case’s lap, removed two spare magazines from a side pocket, pul ed a third from the waistband of his

sweatpants, and handed the empty gun back to Doug Case.

“When do I get the rest of it?”

“Graduation day.”

Part One

The Mother of All Reserves

One

Now

1°19Ń, 7°43É

Gulf of Guinea, 260 Miles South of Nigeria, 180 Miles West of Gabon

Vegas Rules,” said Janet Hatfield, captain of the Amber Dawn. Her three-thousand-ton offshore service

vessel was running up the Gulf of Guinea on a black night, pitching and rol ing in fol owing seas. Her voice

rang with quiet authority in the near silence of the darkened pilothouse. “What you saw on Amber Dawn

stays on Amber Dawn.”

“You already swore me to Vegas Rules when we sailed from Nigeria.”

“I’m not kidding, Terry. If the company finds out I snuck you aboard, they’l fire my ass.”

“And a lovely ass it is,” said Terrence Flannigan, MD, nomadic corporate physician, globetrotting

womanizer, world-class snake. He raised his right hand and gave Janet Hatfield a sleepy-eyed grin. “Okay. I

swear, again, to keep my mouth shut about Amber Dawn, about oil in general and deep-water petroleum

exploration in particular, cross my heart and hope to die.”

The captain, a solidly built blonde of thirty-five, turned her back on the snake and ran an uneasy eye over

her radar. For the past several minutes the screen had been throwing out a ghost target. The mystery

pinprick of light fading and reappearing was too dul to be another ship, yet bright enough to make her

wonder what the heck was out there. The radar was a reliable unit, a late-model Furuno. But she had the

lives of twelve people in her care: five Filipino crew, six American petroleum scientists, and one stowaway.

Thirteen, if she counted herself, which she tended not to.

Was the hot spot only sea clutter? Or an empty oil drum bobbing in the heavy seas, topping crests, hiding

in troughs? Or was it something bigger, like an unreported, half-sunken hulk that she did not want to run into

at fifteen knots?

It glowed again, closer, as if it were not merely drifting, but moving toward her. She fiddled with the radar,

adjusting range and resolution. Otherwise, the sea looked empty, except for some large oil tankers a safe

twenty miles to the west. A single land target at the top of the screen marked the summit of Pico Clarence,

the six-thousand-foot volcanic mountain at the center of Isle de Foree, tonight’s destination. “Foree rhymes

with moray,” she told visiting company brass new to the Gulf of Guinea oil patch. “Like the eel with the teeth.”

She glanced at her other instruments. Compass, autopilot, and a wide panel of gauges monitoring the

diesel generators that powered the twin three-thousand-horsepower electric Z-drive thrusters al gave her

standard readings. She stared intently at the night-blackened bridge windows. She grabbed her night-vision

monocular, shouldered open a heavy, watertight door, and stepped out onto the stubby bridge wing into

equatorial heat, humidity she could slice with a knife, and the brain-numbing roar of the generators.

The southwest monsoon was blowing from behind, swirling diesel smoke around the house. The fol owing

seas had gathered ponderous momentum rol ing three thousand miles up the African coast from Cape

Town. They lifted the ship’s stern and plunged its bow nearly to the foredeck. The heat and humidity had the

captain sweating in seconds.

Her night-vision device was an eighteen-hundred-dol ar birthday splurge to herself to help spot navigation

buoys and smal craft. It did not magnify, but it pierced the dark dramatical y. She glassed the sea ahead.

The 2G image intensifier displayed everything green. Nothing but whitecaps swirling like lime chiffon.

Probably just a barrel. She retreated back into the cool quiet of the air-conditioning. The red glow of the

instruments reflected in Flannigan’s come-here smile.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned him.

“I am merely offering to express my gratitude.”

“In four hours you can express your gratitude to the ladies of Porto Clarence’s massage parlors.”

Low-rent Eastern European and Chinese cruise ships had discovered the capital city. A mix of poverty,

an embattled dictator desperate for cash, and the legendary beauty of Isle de Foreens’ West African and

Portuguese bloodlines had sex tourism booming in the old colonial deepwater port.

Terry paced the pilothouse. “I’ve been company physician on enough oil jobs to know to keep my trap

shut. But this voyage is the most secret I’ve ever seen.”

“Stop saying that.”

“You spent the week towing hydrophone streamers and air guns. When was the last time your OSV was

Rube Goldberg–ed into a seismic vessel?”

“Last month.” Janet Hatfield kicked herself the instant she admitted it.

Terry laughed. “The ‘captain’s curse.’ You love your boat too much to keep a secret. This isn’t the first

time? Are you kidding? She’s an offshore service vessel, not an oil hunter. What is going on?”

“Forget I said that. I shouldn’t have— So it’s weird. So what? When the company makes me vice

president of marine services, I’l ask why. Til then, I’l drive the boat. Now shut up about it. Jesus, I should

have left you in Nigeria.”

“I’d be dead.”

“Roger that,” Janet Hatfield agreed. It was easier than ever to die in the oil-soaked Niger Delta. Militants

kidnapped petroleum workers right off their rigs, drunken soldiers strafed their own checkpoints, and

fanatics rampaged in the name of Jesus and Muhammad. But catnip-to-women Dr. Terry Flannigan had

come close to getting kil ed the old-fashioned way: a jealous husband with a machete; a rich chief, no less,

with the political connections to get away with hacking up the wife-poacher.

“Janet, where did we go wrong?” Terry asked with another soulful smile.

“Our relationship col apsed under its own lack of weight.”

He made a better friend than lover. As a boyfriend he was treacherous, head over heels in love with

himself. But as a friend-friend, there was something steady deep inside Terry that said he would take a

bul et for you. Which was why Janet Hatfield had not hesitated to bundle him aboard before the angry

husband kil ed him. For ten days she had hidden him from the crew in her cabin, “airing” him when it was her

watch.

The bridge and her attached cabin stood in splendid isolation atop a four-story deckhouse near the front

of the ship. Under it were crew cabins, mess and gal ey, and the lounge that the petrologists had taken over

as their computer and radio room. The scientists had declared it off-limits to the crew. They even told her

that the captain had to ask permission to enter. Janet had informed them that she had no plan to enter

unless it caught fire, in which case she would not knock first.

“You know what the petrologists are doing now?”

Terry was staring out the back windows, which looked down on the hundred-foot-long, low and flat cargo

deck, empty tonight but for the OSV’s towing windlass, deck crane, and capstans.

“Get away from the window before they see you.”

“They’re throwing stuff overboard.”

“What they’re doing is their business.”

“One of them is crawling around with a flashlight— Oh, he dropped something.”

“What are they throwing?” she asked in spite of herself.

“Computers.”

* * *

Belowdecks, jubilant petrologists peeled off their sweat-soaked shirts and did a victory dance in the now

empty computer room. They had worked twenty-four hours a day for ten days, trapped on a boat where

possession of booze or drugs or even a bottle of beer would get you banned from the oil business for life.

Now they were headed for a wel -earned party in the brothels of Porto Clarence, having successful y

uploaded multiple terabytes of the hottest 3-D seismic data on the planet.

The data acquisition was done, the client’s seismic model refined, the success of what oilmen cal ed an

elephant hunt confirmed beyond any doubt. The client had acknowledged receipt of the densely encrypted

satel ite transmissions and ordered them to throw the computers into the sea. Every laptop, desktop, even

the fifty-thousand-dol ar subsurface-modeling workstation that took two men to lift over the side of the ship.

The monitors went, too, so no one would see them and ask what they were for, as did the hydrophones and

air guns and their mil-spec satel ite transmitter.

In a few more hours the petrologists would celebrate the discovery of the “mother of al reserves”—bil ions

and bil ions of barrels of oil and tril ions upon tril ions of cubic feet of natural gas that would transform Isle de

Foree from a remote plantation island trickling oil through a neglected infrastructure into a West African

Saudi Arabia.

* * *

“Hey, Janet. How many dinosaurs died to make the oil patch?”

“Algae. Not dinosaurs.”

Terry Flannigan stared at the dark ahead of the boat. The big secret could only be about oil. The water

was miles deep here, but if you took the long view in eons, eras and epochs, the seabed was actual y an

extension of the shal ow African coast. For more years than there were stars in the sky, the Niger River had

been dumping sediment into the Atlantic Ocean. This slurry of mud, sand, and dead plants and animals had

fil ed the troughs, rifts, and clefts of the Atlantic, and had kept spil ing across the continental slope into the

deep and continued seaward, drifting, fil ing. A lady petrologist once told him that the compacted fil was

eight miles deep.

“What did dinosaurs make? Coal?”

“Trees made coal,” Janet answered distractedly, her eyes locking on the radar. She switched on the

powerful docking lamps. They lit a bril iant hundred-yard circle around the OSV. “Oh, shit!”

“What?”

An eighteen-foot rigid inflatable boat driven by enormous Mercury outboards swooped out of the dark

bristling with assault rifles and rocket launchers. Janet Hatfield reacted quickly, grabbing the helm to

override the autopilot. The RIB was struggling in the heavy seas. Maybe she could outrun them. She turned

Amber Dawn’s heels to it, locked the new course, rammed her throttles ful ahead, and yanked her radio

microphone down from the ceiling.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is Amber Dawn, Amber Dawn, Amber Dawn. One degree, nineteen

minutes north. Seven degrees, forty-three minutes east.

“One degree, nineteen minutes north. Seven, forty-three east. One degree, nineteen minutes north,” she

said, repeating her position. “Seven degrees, forty-three minutes east.” They couldn’t help if they couldn’t

find her.

“Pirates boarding Amber Dawn. Pirates boarding Amber Dawn. One degree, nineteen minutes north.

Seven degrees, forty-three minutes east.”

There was never a guarantee that anyone was listening. But the 406 MHz satel ite EPIRB, which was out

on the bridge wing in its float-free bracket, would broadcast her position continuously in case of sinking.

She pushed through the door again to switch it on manual y.

The inflatable was so close she could see eight soldiers dressed in camouflage. Jungle camouflage on

a boat?

They had to be from Isle de Foree, she thought, the only land within the inflatable’s range. But they couldn’t

be government troops in that little commando boat. Free Foree Movement rebels? Pirates or rebels, what

did they want? The only thing valuable on an offshore service vessel was the crew. To hold hostage or for

ransom. So they wouldn’t kil her people. At least not yet.

Muzzle flashes lit the inflatable like a Christmas tree and al the windows in Amber Dawn’s bridge

shattered at once. Janet Hatfield felt something tug hard in her bel y. Her legs skidded out from under her.

She pitched backward into Terry’s arms and she almost laughed and said, “You never stop trying, do you?”

except she couldn’t speak and was suddenly afraid.

* * *

A cargo net edged with grappling hooks cleared the low side of Amber Dawn’s main deck, clanged onto

steel fittings, and held fast. Seven FFM insurgents scrambled aboard with their assault rifles, leaving their

rocket launchers with one man in their boat. They were lean, fit, hard-faced fighters with the distinctive café-

au-lait coloring of Isle de Foreens. But they took their orders from a broad-shouldered South African

mercenary named Hadrian Van Pelt.

Van Pelt carried a copy of Amber Dawn’s crew list.

He sent two men to the engine room. Bursts of automatic fire echoed up from below and the generators

fel silent, but for one powering the lights. The men stayed below opening sea cocks. Seawater poured in.

Two others kicked open the door to the improvised computer room. Van Pelt fol owed with the crew list.

“Over there! Against the wal .”

The petrologists, shirtless and terrified, backed against the wal , exchanging looks of disbelief.

Van Pelt counted heads. “Five!” he shouted. “Who’s missing?”

Eyes flickered toward a closet. Van Pelt nodded at one of his men who triggered a short burst, shredding

the door. The ship rol ed and the body of the scientist hiding there tumbled out. Van Pelt nodded again and

his men executed the rest.

A burst of gunfire from the quarters on the levels above spoke the end of Amber Dawn’s Filipino crew.

Eleven down. Only the captain to go. Van Pelt drew his pistol and climbed the stairs to the bridge. The door

was locked and made of steel. He signaled a soldier, who duct-taped a chunk of C-4 onto it. They sheltered

halfway down the steps and covered their ears. The plastic explosive blew the door open with a loud bang

and Van Pelt vaulted through it.

To the mercenary’s surprise, the captain was not alone. She was sprawled on the deck, a pretty blonde in

blood-soaked slacks and blouse. A man was kneeling over her, working with the sure-handed economy of a

battlefield medic.

Van Pelt raised his pistol. “Are you a doctor?”

Terry Flannigan was holding death in his hands, and when he looked up from Janet’s riddled chest to the

gunman standing in the door, he was staring death in the face.

“What kind of doctor?” the gunman demanded.

“Trauma surgeon, you asshole. What does it look like?”

“Come with me.”

“I can’t leave her. She’s dying.”

Van Pelt stepped closer and shot Janet Hatfield in the head. “Not anymore. Get in the boat.”

The Covert-One Novels

The Hades Factor (with Gayle Lynds)

The Cassandra Compact (with Philip Shelby)

The Paris Option (with Gayle Lynds)

The Altman Code (with Gayle Lynds)

The Lazarus Vendetta (with Patrick Larkin)

The Moscow Vector (with Patrick Larkin)

The Arctic Event (with James Cobb)

The Jason Bourne Novels

The Bourne Identity

The Bourne Supremacy

The Bourne Ultimatum

The Bourne Legacy

(by Eric Van Lustbader)

The Bourne Betrayal

(by Eric Van Lustbader)

The Bourne Sanction

(by Eric Van Lustbader)

The Bourne Deception

(by Eric Van Lustbader)

The Bourne Objective

(by Eric Van Lustbader)

The Bourne Dominion

(by Eric Van Lustbader)

Also by Robert Ludlum

The Scarlatti Inheritance

The Matlock Paper

Trevayne

The Cry of the Halidon

The Rhinemann Exchange

The Road to Gandolfo

The Gemini Contenders

The Chancellor Manuscript

The Holcroft Covenant

The Matarese Circle

The Parsifal Mosaic

The Aquitaine Progression

The Icarus Agenda

The Osterman Weekend

The Road to Omaha

The Scorpio Illusion

The Apocalypse Watch

The Matarese Countdown

The Prometheus Deception

The Sigma Protocol

The Janson Directive

The Tristan Betrayal

The Ambler Warning

The Bancroft Strategy

Also by Kyle Mills

Rising Phoenix

Storming Heaven

Free Fall

Burn Factor

Sphere of Influence

Smoke Screen

Fade

The Second Horseman

Darkness Falls

Lords of Corruption

Contents

Title Page

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

73

74

75

76

77

78

79

80

81

82

83

84

85

86

87

88

89

90

91

92

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Authors

A Preview of The Janson Command

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is

coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Myn Pyn, LLC

Excerpt from Robert Ludlum’s™ The Janson Command copyright © 2011 by Myn Pyn, LLC

Al rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication

may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or

retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Grand Central Publishing

Hachette Book Group

237 Park Avenue

New York, NY 10017

www.HachetteBookGroup.com

www.twitter.com/grandcentralpub

First eBook Edition: October 2011

Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Grand Central Publishing name

and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

ISBN: 978-0-446-54415-3

Table of Contents

Title Page

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

73

74

75

76

77

78

79

80

81

82

83

84

85

86

87

88

89

90

91

92

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Authors

A Preview of The Janson Command

Copyright