Plague Ship

“She was breathing supplemental oxygen,” Eric reminded him.

“Even with cannulas in her nostrils, she was still inhaling air pumped through the ship’s ventilation system.”

“Wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t airborne. It could have been in the water or food. Maybe she didn’t eat or drink.”

“Come on, Eric, you’re smarter than that. They had to hit everyone at the same time or someone would have radioed for help. You can’t control when someone takes a sip of water or eats, for that matter, which negates your earlier idea about food poisoning.” Stone looked chagrinned. “Sorry. You’re right. Too much Red Bull and not enough sleep.”

“What if the attack on the Golden Dawn was an aberration and not part of their pattern of escalation?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a thought. They had achieved nearly one hundred percent on that ship two months ago.”

“The Destiny.”

“Right. The Destiny. There wasn’t any reason to hit another ship. They knew they had their system.”

“So the people on the Dawn were wiped out to keep them quiet?” Juan stood up as Donatella finished tying off the lines. “I don’t know,” Juan repeated. “Listen, we’ve got a charter jet waiting to take us to Manila. I’ll call Langston and pass this along. If he won’t go after Severance, at least he can get a warning out to the cruise lines about a potential terrorist threat.” Overholt would pass on Cabrillo’s information, he was certain, but he doubted much would be done. In the years since 9/11, nonspecific threats came in all the time, and, like the boy who cried wolf, they were mostly ignored.

“Donatella?”

“Oui, Capitaine. ”

“Would you mind returning my young friend here back to my ship. Charge it to the account I set up with your boss.”

“Of course, sir. It would be my pleasure.”

“His, too, I’m sure.” Juan turned back to Eric. “Keep on it and call me with anything new.”

“You got it, boss man.”

Linc and Cabrillo stepped off the boat and onto the dock, lugging their bags. “What was that she gave you?” Juan asked.

Linc pulled a business card from the pocket of his lightweight leather jacket. “What, this? Her home and cell number.”

“With everything going on, you can think about sex?”

“Chairman, I’ve learned that life is all about reproduction and evolution, and pretty soon she’s going to be missing Linc.”

“Reproduction and evolution, huh?” Juan just shook his head. “You’re as bad as Murph and Stoney.”

“Big difference, Juan, is I get dates, while those homeboys only fantasize about ’em.”

CHAPTER 21

MAX HANLEY AWOKE IN A SEA OF AGONY.

Pain radiated from his thigh and from his head. It came in alternating currents that crashed against the top of his skull like a hurricane storm surge. His first instinct was to rub his temples and determine why his leg was throbbing, but even in his barely conscious state he knew he had to remain motionless until more of his faculties returned. He wasn’t sure why, only that it was important. Time passed. It might have been five minutes, it could have been ten. He had no way to judge other than the rhythmic pounding in his head and the ache in his leg that grew and subsided in time with his heartbeat.

As he became more aware, he realized he was lying on a bed. There were no sheets or pillows, and the mattress was rough under his shoulders. Pretending he was still asleep, he shifted slightly. At least they had left him the dignity of his boxer shorts, although he could feel the cold caress of steel around his ankles and wrists.

It came back to him in a rush. Zelimir Kovac, Eddie’s escape, and the sickly sweet smell of the rag being clamped over his nose and mouth. The headache was a result of being drugged. And then the other horror hit him like a slap to the face, and he involuntarily gasped.

He was back in a van, driving away from their hotel. Kovac had given him only enough narcotic to make him compliant, like a drunk who needs to be led away from a party. In the van Max was laid out in the back. He was dimly aware of other figures. Kyle? Adam Jenner? He couldn’t tell.

Kovac had run a wand over his body, like an airport metal detector, and when it chimed over Max’s leg Kovac sliced open his pants with a boot knife. It took him only a second to find the scar, and he unceremoniously rammed the blade into Max’s flesh. Even under mild anesthesia, the pain had been a molten wire driven into his body. He screamed into the gag tied around his mouth, and tried to thrash away from the agony, but someone had pressed his shoulders to the van’s floor.

Kovac twisted the knife, opening the wound so when he withdrew the blade he could stick his fingers into Max’s flesh. Blood gushed from the cut. Max strained against the pain, fighting it as though he stood a chance. Kovac continued to probe the wound, uncaring that he wasn’t wearing gloves and that blood had soaked his shirtsleeve.

“Ah,” he said at last, and withdrew his hand.

The transdermal transponder was roughly the size and shape of a digital watch. Kovac held it up so that Max, staring goggle-eyed, could see it. The Serb then dropped it to the floor and smashed it repeatedly with the butt of his pistol until nothing remained but bits of plastic and ruined electronics.

He then slid a hypodermic needle into Max’s arm, whispering, “I could have waited for this drug to take effect, but where is the fun in that?”

It was the last thing Max remembered until just now, coming awake.

He had no idea where he was or how long he’d been held captive. He wanted to move, to massage his temples and check his leg, but he was sure he was being watched, and he doubted there would be that much play in his manacles. There wasn’t anyone in the room. He’d been awake long enough to hear or sense them, even with his eyes closed. That didn’t mean cameras weren’t mounted on walls and microphones planted nearby. He wanted to wait for as long as possible before alerting his captors to his consciousness and use that time to let more of the narcotics work their way out of his system. If he was going to withstand what he knew was coming, he needed to be as fresh as possible.

An hour passed—or it might have been ten minutes—Max wasn’t sure. He had lost all concept of time.

He knew that time deprivation, the inability to set the body’s internal clock, was an essential tool in the interrogator’s arsenal, so he purposefully forced himself to lose all conscious awarness of its passage. A prisoner could be driven over the edge trying to determine if it was night or day, noon or midnight, and by willing away that natural need Max took away his captor’s ability to torture him with it.

That had never been a problem in Vietnam. The cages and boxes they kept him and his fellow prisoners in were rickety enough to always allow at least a sliver of light to enter. But Max kept apprised of interrogation techniques as part of his job, and he knew time deprivation was effective only if the captors let it remain a factor in their thinking.

As for whatever else they had in store, he would just have to wait and see.

A heavy lock was opened nearby. Max hadn’t heard anyone approach, so he knew the door had to be thick. The room, then, was most likely designed as a jail cell and not something temporary that had been converted to hold him. That the Responsivists had such a cell, ready and waiting, did not bode well.

The door creaked open with a screech of rusted metal. Either the hinges weren’t often used or the cell was located in a humid climate or possibly underground. He didn’t move a muscle, as he listened to the sound of two separate and distinct pairs of feet approaching the bed. One had a heavier tread than the other, but the latter was definitely male. Kovac and an accomplice?

“He should have come around by now,” Zelimir Kovac said.