“Killing me gets you nothing,” she shot back. “If I die, so does your bargaining power.”
“Exactly,” Krucevic replied evenly. “Which brings us to hypodermic number two. Otto?”
The audience in the VTC room had time to notice Sophie Payne's labored breathing, the increasing ruddiness of her cheeks. Fear? Or something more deadly?
And then a hooded figure appeared on camera, a fragile child in his arms.
“You have a son, Mrs. Payne,” said Krucevic's voice.
“You know I do. You probably know his shoe size.”
“You love him dearly, I believe?”
Sophie did not answer.
“I, too, have a son. This is my boy, my Jozsef.”
Bigelow scraped his chair closer to the screen, stared at it intently.
The boy lay limp in Otto's grasp, head thrown back, thin legs slack. Beads of sweat glittered on his forehead. His lips, Dare saw, were flecked with blood.
“Jozsef means everything to me,” Krucevic said. “But for my cause, like Abraham and his Isaac, I would sacrifice even my son. A half hour ago I injected Jozsef with Anthrax 3A. In two hours, his lungs will fill with fluid. In three hours, he will drown in his own blood. Do you believe me now, Mrs. Payne?”
“Jesus,” Bigelow hissed. “This guy's one taco short of a combo platter. Does he really have a son?”
“Yes.” Dare's eyes stayed on the screen.
“Whether it's that poor kid or not, who can say?”
“Sophie seems to think so,” Matthew Finch observed quietly. “She looks like hell.”
But the camera lens had shifted to the hooded figure. He laid the boy on the floor. Something flashed in his hand —
“Otto is holding the one thing that can save Sophie Payne's life,” Krucevic told them.
“An antibiotic developed in my own laboratory specifically to combat Anthrax 3A. This antibiotic will save my Jozsef. But whether it can save Mrs. Payne .. . that depends entirely upon you, Jack.”
The needle slipped into the boy's vein. The plunger went home.
“Dare,” Bigelow snarled over his shoulder.
“You got anybody out at the Agency who knows about this sort of shit?”
“Yes,” she said, “although we need that hypodermic to determine what he's really injected her with.”
Bigelow nodded. His eyes were still locked on the video.
“You know what we stand for,” Krucevic said reasonably. “A single Central Europe, rid at last of mongrel races and their degeneration. A Central Europe free to pursue the highest goals of mind and body without the interference of the United States, a Central Europe founded on a genetically pure population. You, Mr. President, and your democratic policies stand in the way of that dream. You foster miscegenation and export its ideals. It's a clever policy, of course — it allows you to divide and conquer. The United States as world policeman, isn't that the goal? First you create the conditions for civil war, then you fly in and establish martial rule. And it all begins so gently. With gestures of good faith, a McDonalds franchise in Red Square.”
Bigelow snorted.
“Over the course of the next five days, a series of events will occur throughout Central Europe that might normally trigger an aggressive response from the United States. However, in deference to Mrs. Payne, you, Jack, shall not lift a finger to intervene. You will refrain from mobilizing NATO forces. You will placate your allies. You will turn a deaf ear to any appeals for help. “If you do otherwise, Sophie Payne will die an unpleasant death. But if you behave, Jack, we will eventually release Mrs. Payne unharmed. Inform the U.S. embassy in Prague of your decision immediately. If you decide to abandon Mrs. Payne to the needle, raise the flag in the embassy garden only to half- mast. If you accede to our demands, raise the flag to the top of the mast. At that point, Mrs. Payne receives my antibiotic. Should you go back on your promise, however. There is always another needle.”
The camera lens crept closer to the Vice President's face. As the image focused, the watchers assembled in the White House VTC room saw Sophie Payne's lips form three words.
Twelve
Washington, 3:30 p.m.
Jack Bigelow crumpled the front page of the Washington Post and tossed it toward a wastepaper basket. The Oval Office was considerably cooler than the VTC room, but everyone looked uncomfortable. Except the President, From his expression, Matthew Finch thought, Bigelow might be facing a round of golf rather than an international threat.
In twenty-three years, Finch had won cases with Jack, faced bankruptcy with Jack, survived a vicious campaign for the presidency with Jack. The two men had fly-fished Montana, endured Finch's divorce, and attempted Everest together — their least successful undertaking to date. It was popular among the press to describe the President as a genial bear of a man; they played up his good of' boy manners the way they celebrated Julia Roberttss teeth. But Finch's long apprenticeship in the art of Jack gave him a privileged understanding, an ability to read volumes in the slightest sign. Most men betrayed their stress in their bodies. They fidgeted. They ran their fingers through their hair. They might even take a swing at somebody when the situation deteriorated. Jack Bigelow, on the contrary, became more contained. He throve on adrenaline. Everything Mian Krucevic had spit at the video camera had whetted Bigelow's appetite for battle. Sophie Payne was a proxy for both men; from this moment on, their argument was with each other.
“What the hell does he mean, a series of events in Central Europe?” Bigelow demanded.
“Since he went to the trouble to bomb Berlin and kidnap the Vice President of the United States,” Finch replied, “I imagine we can expect fairly serious episodes of terror. Krucevic wants to bring the U.S. to its knees. He specifically instructed us to restrain our allies. That means his moves in the next five days will be bold, destabilizing, and played for high stakes. Sophie's too significant a chip to waste on trivialities.”
Bigelow nodded.
“But where exactly will he land? And what can we do to spike the damage without sacrificing Sophie?”
“May I suggest, Mr. President, that I task the Agency's key country analysts to search for signs of instability in their accounts?” Since viewing the video, Dare Atwood looked older and grimmer, as though the skin of her face had turned from flesh to stamped metal. She was self-possessed as always; she sat in her chair awaiting the President's pleasure; but Matthew Finch felt the sparks of urgency crackling off her frame.
“I could establish a Central European Task Force. Staff it on a twenty-four-hour basis.”
“I s'pose it can't hurt. Dare. And get the NSA to process traffic for those countries on the highest-priority basis.”
Al Tomlinson cleared his throat and glanced uneasily around the room.
“What did he mean, calling Mrs. Payne an apostate Jew?”
No one replied.
“The Bureau did her security clearance,” Tomlinson persisted. “She was raised Lutheran, married Episcopalian.”
Bigelow shrugged.
“He's a neo-Nazi, Al. He sees what he hates everywhere he goes. And Sophie's parents were German.”
“But they emigrated well before the war.” Tomlinson sounded aggrieved, as though his Bureau's background checkers would be held responsible. “Mrs. Payne was born in the U.S. Jake Freeman knew Roosevelt. He wrote columns for the Washington Star”
“It's irrelevant what Sophie might be,” Finch said flatly. “The important thing is what Krucevic believes. He believes she's Jewish. That gives a fascist like him the right to treat her like dirt. He's telling us loud and clear that he has no reason to spare her life.”
“Think he's in Prague?” Bigelow asked abruptly.
“For at least as long as it takes to raise the flag in the embassy garden,” Dare Atwood replied. “Give it an hour. Then they're gone.”
