Whistleblower

insurmountable.

She turned on the ignition.

'Hey!' yelled Ollie, grabbing at the door. 'You can't do this!'

Cathy screamed, 'Ollie, no!'

The gunman had already shifted his aim out the window.

'Let her go!' yelled Ollie. 'Let her—'

The gun went off.

Ollie staggered backward, his face a mask of astonishment.

Cathy lunged at the gunman. Pure animal rage, fueled by the instinct to survive, sent her clawing first for his eyes. At the last split second he flinched away. Her nails scraped down his cheek, drawing blood. Before he could shift his aim, she grabbed his wrist, wrenching desperately for control of the gun. He held fast. Not with all her strength couid she keep the gun at bay, keep the barrel from turning toward her.

It was the last image she registered: that black hole, slowly turning until it was pointed straight at her face.

Something lashed at her from the side. Pain exploded in her head, shattering the world into a thousand slivers of light.

They faded, one by one, into darkness.

Chapter 12

'Victor's here,' said Milo.

It seemed to take Ollie forever to register their presence. Victor fought the urge to shake him to consciousness, to drag the words out of his friend's throat. He was forced to wait, the silence broken only by the hiss of oxygen, the gurgle of the suction tube. At last Ollie stirred and squinted through pain-glazed eyes at the three men standing beside his bed. 'Gersh. I didn't—couldn't—' He stopped, exhausted by the effort just to talk.

'Easy, Ollie,' said Milo. 'Take it slow.'

'Tried to stop him. Had a gun...' Ollie paused, gathering the strength to continue.

Victor listened fearfully for the next terrible words to come out. He was still in a state of disbelief, still hoping that what Milo had told him was one giant mistake, that Cathy was, at this very moment, on a bus somewhere to safety. Only two hours ago he'd been ready to board a plane for New Haven. Then he'd been handed a message at the United gate. It was addressed to passenger Sam Polowski, the name on his ticket. It had consisted of only three words: Call Milo immediately.

Passenger 'Sam Polowski' never did board the plane.

Two hours, he thought in anguish. What have they done to her in those two long hours?

'This man—what did he look like?' asked Polowski.

'Didn't see him very well. Dark hair. Face sort of... thin.'

'Tall? Short?'

'Tall.'

'He drove off in your car?'

Ollie nodded.

'What about Cathy?' Victor blurted out, his control shattered. 'He—didn't hurt her? She's all right?'

There was a pause that, to Victor, seemed like an eternity in hell. Ollie's gaze settled mournfully on Victor. 'I don't know.'

It was the best Victor could hope for. I don't know. It left open the possibility that she was still alive.

Suddenly agitated, he began to pace the floor. 'I know what he wants,' he said. 'I know what I have to give him—'

'You can't be serious,' said Polowski. 'That's our evidence! You can't just hand it over—'

'That's exactly what I'm going to do.'

'You don't even know how to contact him!'

'He'll contact me.' He spun around and looked at Milo. 'He must've been watching your house all this time. Waiting for one of us to turn up. That's where he'll call.'

'If he calls,' said Polowski.

'He will.' Victor touched his jacket pocket, where the two vials from Viratek still rested. 'I have what he wants. He has what I want. I think we're both ready to make a trade.'

The sun, glaring and relentless, was shining in her eyes. She tried to escape it, tried to close her lids tighter, to stop those rays from piercing through to her brain, but the light followed her.

'Wake up. Wake up!'

Icy water slapped her face. Cathy gasped awake, coughing, rivulets of water trickling from her hair. She struggled to make out the face hovering above her. At first all she saw was a dark oval against the blinding circle of light. Then the man moved away and she saw eyes like black agate, a slash of a mouth. A scream formed in her throat, to be instantly frozen by the cold barrel of a gun against her cheek.

'Not a sound,' he said. 'Got that?'

In silent terror she nodded.

'Good.' The gun slid away from her cheek and was tucked under his jacket. 'Sit up.'

She obeyed. Instantly the room began to spin. She sat clutching her aching head, the fear temporarily overshadowed by waves of pain and nausea. The spell lasted for only a few moments. Then, as the nausea faded, she became aware of a second man in the room, a large, broad-shouldered man she'd never before seen. He sat off in a corner, saying nothing, but watching her every move. The room itself was small and windowless. She couldn't tell if it was day or night. The only furniture was a chair, a card table and the cot she was sitting on. The floor was a bare slab of concrete. We're in a basement, she thought. She heard no other sounds, either outside or in the building. Were they still in Palo Alto? Or were they a hundred miles away?

The man in the chair crossed his arms and smiled. Under different circumstances, she might have considered that smile a charming one. Now it struck her as frighteningly inhuman. 'She seems awake enough,' he said. 'Why don't you proceed, Mr. Savitch?'

The man called Savitch loomed over her. 'Where is he?'

'Who?' she said.

Her answer was met by a ringing slap to her cheek. She sprawled backwards on the cot.

'Try again,' he said, dragging her back up to a sitting position. 'Where is Victor Holland?'

'I don't know.'

'You were with him.'

'We—we split up.'

'Why?'

She touched her mouth. The sight of blood on her fingers shocked her temporarily into silence.

'Why?'

'He—' She bowed her head. Softly she said, 'He didn't want me around.'

Savitch let out a snort. 'Got tired of you pretty quick, did he?'

'Yes,' she whispered. 'I guess he did.'

'I don't know why.'