number is closer to five in ten unable to breed, once the infection has run its course. This isn’t about preventing a few thousand passengers and crew from having children. It’s about stopping half the world.”
Gil collapsed into his chair. His mouth worked to form words but no sound came out. The past three minutes had been too much. The
He wasn’t going to lose any sleep over the sterilization of a couple thousand cruise ship passengers.
They’d be depressed, but life would go on, and, as a bonus, he bet a few orphanages would be emptied.
He should have seen it was going to go far beyond that. What was it Dr. Cooper had written in
“We have taken Dr. Cooper’s words and turned them into action,” Kovac said, giving voice to the horror echoing in the empty chasm that had once been Martell’s soul.
Martell thought he was safe behind his desk for the moment, but he hadn’t counted on the big man’s strength. As if the desk were no more than a cardboard box, Kovac shoved it into Gil, pinning him in his seat against the back wall. He opened his mouth to shout out to his secretary. Kovac wasn’t especially quick, and the Responsivist director managed a hoarse croak before his throat was closed with a jab to his Adam’s apple. His eyes bulged from their sockets as he fought for a breath he could not draw.
Kovac looked around the office. There was nothing he could see that would make this look like a suicide until he spied the pictures hanging on the wall. He scanned the faces quickly and knew which one he would use. Leaving Martell struggling to fill his lungs, Kovac crossed to a photograph of Donna Sky.
The actress was too skinny for his tastes, but it wasn’t much of a stretch to believe Martell would be in love with her. He snatched the picture off the wall and carefully slid the glossy from the frame. He smashed the glass on the edge of the desk.
Kovac pressed Martell into his seat with one massive hand, while, with the other, he selected the largest glass shard, a dagger at least five inches long. He released Martell’s head and grabbed one of his arms, making sure to keep his grip loose enough so he didn’t bruise the tanned skin.
The glass cut into his flesh with spongy resistance and dark blood welled up from the wound, pooling on the desk before drizzling to the floor. Gil Martell struggled, thrashing in his seat, but he was no match for the Serb. He could only manage a rough cawing sound that wouldn’t be heard beyond the office walls.
His movements became slower and more uncoordinated as his strength ebbed through the gash until he finally went limp.
Careful not to leave bloody footprints, Kovac slid the desk back to its proper position. He hefted Martell’s body from his seat and reversed the chair so he could set the corpse astride it. He lowered Gil’s head until the bruise on his throat was hard up against the chair’s wooden seat back. The coroner would attribute the bruising to his head tipping forward when he passed out from blood loss. The final detail was to arrange the photograph of Donna Sky so it seemed to be the last thing Gil Martell saw before his death.
As Kovac closed the office door behind him, Martell’s secretary entered the building through the main door. She was carrying a ceramic coffee cup and a large purse. She was in her late fifties with a bad dye job, and an extra fifty pounds hanging from her frame.
“Well, hello there, Mr. Kovac,” she said brightly.
He didn’t recall her name, so he said, “Mr. Martell is at his desk already. As you can guess, he’s very upset about what happened last night.”
“Terrible thing.”
“Yes, it was,” Kovac agreed with a somber nod. He felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. “He asked that he not be disturbed for any reason today.”
“Are you going to find out who attacked us and get that poor boy back into the fold?”
“That’s why Mr. Severance called me down here.” Patricia, he thought. Her name was Patricia Ogdenburg. He checked the screen on his phone. It was Thom Severance, requesting a secure phone call. Considering they had spoken earlier that morning, something critical must have happened. Kovac repocketed the cell.
Patricia looked him in the eye, tilting her head back to do so. “Pardon me for being blunt, but you must know that a lot of folks here are intimidated by you.” When he didn’t reply, she plowed on. “I think you are as tough as you look, but I also think you are a very caring and thoughtful person, too. You understand social responsibility, and I find your presence a comfort. There are so many ignorant people out there that don’t understand all the good we do. I’m glad that you’re here to protect us. Bless you, Zelimir Kovac.” She laughed. “You’re blushing. I think I embarrassed you.”
“You are very kind,” Kovac said, imagining the loneliness that had driven her, like him, to Responsivism.
“Well, if a compliment can make you blush then I know I’m right.”
CHAPTER 17
THE HOTEL WAS IN A HISTORIC SIX-STORY BUILDING not far from the Colosseum. The suite they had rented encompassed nearly a quarter of the top floor and had a wrought-iron balcony that wrapped around the outside walls.
Kyle was still in a chemically induced stupor when Max pushed his wheelchair into the sumptuous entrance, but he could tell by how his son muttered that he was no more than an hour or two of coming awake.
“Hello,” someone called from deeper in the suite.
“Hello,” Max replied. “Dr. Jenner?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Jenner stepped into the foyer from the living room. He wore a dark charcoal suit with a faint stripe and white silk pullover. Max noticed that he also wore thin leather gloves and that his hands were curled unnaturally.
Max couldn’t pin down the psychiatrist’s age. He had a full head of hair with only a few streaks of gray and a tanned face that looked like it could have had some cosmetic work. There were traces of wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, but they seemed to have been smoothed out surgically. For what Jenner charged for his deprogramming services, he could afford the best plastic surgeons in the world, but his face had that startled, deer-caught-in-the- headlights expression so common with inferior cosmetic work.
It was an incongruity of little importance, but Max was still surprised by it. He held out his hand. “Max Hanley.”
Jenner held up his own gloved hands. “You will forgive me if I don’t shake. My hands were burned in a car accident when I was younger.”
“Oh, certainly. No problem. This is Eddie Seng, from the company that rescued my son, and this is Kyle.”
“Pleased to meet you, Doctor,” Eddie said. “Sorry we couldn’t tell you the name of the hotel until you arrived in Rome. Operational security.”
“I quite understand.” Jenner led them into one of the suite’s three bedrooms. They settled Kyle, wearing a hospital johnny, into the king-sized four-poster and closed the heavy drapes. Max ran the back of his hand along his son’s jaw. His eyes were a sea of love, pain, hopelessness, and self-incrimination.
“We’ll bring him back,” Adam Jenner said, doubtlessly having seen Max’s expression on countless parents over the course of his career. Back in the living room, the French doors leading to the balcony were opened, so the sound of Rome’s notorious evening traffic was a background hum. Over the roof of the apartment building across the street, they could see the towering travertine walls and arches of the city’s most famous landmark. With seating for nearly fifty thousand, the Colosseum was as large as any modern sports arena.
“I trust things went smoothly,” Jenner said. He had a trace of an accent Max couldn’t place, almost as if he was raised by parents who didn’t speak English.
“Actually, they didn’t,” Max told him.
