Wells sat back on the couch and fumbled with the briefcase. “Ghazi, will you uncuff me?” he said casually. “I can’t open it like this.”
Ghazi looked to Khadri. After a moment, Khadri nodded, and Ghazi unlocked his cuffs.
Wells lifted the lid of the case. Inside, nothing. He ran a hand along its inside walls, looking for a false bottom. But he couldn’t find anything. He had been a decoy after all.
He shook his head wearily. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Who’s the courier? Where’s the package?”
Khadri pointed at Wells. “You are.”
“But—” Wells coughed again. He looked at Khadri’s mask. And suddenly he understood.
“I’m infected.” The words came out as quietly as the final fading notes of a symphony that had gone on much too long.
Khadri’s smile was the only answer Wells needed. He considered the possibilities. Anthrax didn’t spread person to person. Smallpox had a longer incubation period.
“Plague, right?” He kept his voice steady, as if the question were of only theoretical interest.
“Very good, Jalal.”
For a moment, only a moment, Wells felt the deepest panic overwhelm him. He saw his lungs filling with blood, his skin burning from the inside out. Unthinkable agony. But he kept himself still and waited for the fear to pass, knowing that remaining calm was his only hope of beating Khadri now. The panic subsided, and when he spoke, his voice was steady.
“But why like this? Why not just have me bring the germs in?”
“What would I do with a vial of plague? I’m no scientist. And plague is fragile. At least outside the body. Or so Tarik tells me.”
“I thought Tarik was a neuropsychologist.”
“He’s a molecular biologist. A very good one. Though he has some problems of his own.” Wells couldn’t be sure, but behind the mask Khadri seemed to smile. “He said infecting you would be the best way to make sure the germs survived.”
Another cough ripped through Wells.
“It seems he was right,” Khadri said.
Wells looked around. “Seven men. Where will you send them?”
Khadri considered. “I suppose I can tell you now, Jalal. Four here, on the subways, mostly. Times Square, Grand Central. The other three to Washington, Los Angeles, Chicago. Lots of plane rides. Seven martyrs. Eight, including you. The sheikh will be pleased.”
Seven men coughing clouds of plague bacteria into packed subway cars. Boeing 767s and Airbus 320s. Department stores and office lobbies. How many people would they infect before they died? Thousands? Tens of thousands?
“Brilliant, Omar.” And despite himself Wells couldn’t help but be impressed with the plan’s boldness. Then he remembered. “But…isn’t plague treatable with antibiotics?”
“
“Another attack?”
Now Wells was sure he could see Khadri smile. He’s chatty, Wells thought. He’s talking to a dead man.
“Anthrax?” Wells wondered aloud. “Smallpox?”
“Jalal. You are not thinking clearly, I’m sorry to say. Would I use a biological attack to distract the Americans from a biological attack?”
“A bomb then. Like L.A.”
“Not exactly. This bomb is special.”
Wells’s fever seemed to rise. He mopped at the sweat that had suddenly beaded on his forehead. “A dirty bomb?” The agency had been right after all.
“I just think of it as the Yellow.”
“The Yellow?”
“You would have been very impressed with the Yellow, Jalal. I’m sorry you won’t be alive to see it.”
Wells wondered if he could get his knife, make it across the room, cut Khadri’s throat before he was tackled. Probably not. Seven men stood between them. In any case, killing Khadri would make no difference now. The other men surely knew where the dirty bomb was hidden. Wells couldn’t even slit his own throat and kill himself to stop the plague from spreading. He’d been coughing in this room for hours; he’d already infected the others.
“Will you tell me something, Jalal?” Khadri said from behind his mask. “Now that your martyrdom is certain. The truth. Are you one of us?”
Wells didn’t hesitate. “
“
With that, Khadri walked out.
EXLEY DRUMMED HER fingers against the wheel of the minivan, listening to the same stale news WCBS had been recycling all night. The Lincoln had been double-parked for fifteen minutes. She was desperate to go inside the tenement. But she held back. Wells would come out soon enough, she thought.
The door to the apartment building opened, and the man in the blazer walked out. Alone. He stepped into the Lincoln and drove slowly away. So much for her intuition. She turned off the radio and considered her options. She had told Wells she would call in the cavalry if he got in trouble. She had to assume he was in trouble now, that he was being held captive and the man in the blazer had been checking on him.
But she didn’t know which apartment he was in. If she called the agency, the JTTF would surround the building, start kicking down doors. The al Qaeda operatives would know they were caught and kill Wells immediately. No. She would go in, find the apartment for herself. Then she would decide what to do.
She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the.45 and the silencer that Wells had given her. She held the gun in both hands. This was insane. She didn’t even know how many men were with him. What would her kids do if she got herself killed? Walking into an apartment full of terrorists? Insane.
Yet she began to screw the silencer onto the barrel of the.45. Insane or not, she couldn’t let him die in there. She would find out where he was. And then? said the nasty little voice in her head, the one she hated. Then what?
She ignored the voice and finished attaching the silencer. She would leave a message on Shafer’s voice mail at work, explaining what had happened, where she was. He always checked that mailbox when he woke up. Worst-case, the JTTF would only lose three hours. Anyway, al Qaeda wouldn’t attack now, with the streets empty. Whatever they had planned wouldn’t happen before morning.
She tried to tuck the pistol into her pants. It wouldn’t fit. She unscrewed the silencer and tried again. Still too big. A sure sign that she belonged behind a desk, not out here. But the frustration only made her more determined to prove them all wrong. Duto. Khadri. Shafer. Even Wells. These men who thought their war was too important for her to fight.
She dumped out her purse, everything, the detritus of her life, lipstick, wallet, cellphone, Luna bar, makeup mirror, a wadded-up pack of Kleenex, all of it falling onto the seat and the Caravan’s dirty carpets. Luckily she’d brought an oversized bag, a black leather purse. She screwed the silencer back on. She racked the pistol’s slide. She dropped it and the keys to the van into her purse, sweeping everything else under the seat. If these guys captured her she’d be better off without any identification, especially her CIA badge. She called Shafer’s voice mail and left her message.
Then, before she could reconsider, before her better judgment could take over, she stepped out of the minivan and onto the empty black street.
WELLS COULD ALMOST feel the germs multiplying inside him. He was husbanding his strength, and he still believed he could survive if he got the right antibiotics. His fever was under control. He wasn’t coughing blood. But in a few hours he would pass the point of no return. If Exley or the police didn’t show up before then, he would go for his knife and kill as many of the men in this room as he could. In the commotion the neighbors would surely call
