Pandora's Legion

glimpsed flashing lights as police and emergency vehicles sped to the south. Buster’s diversion, right on time. Lee knew that the police patrol schedule was upset by two large fires in the G6 area along Hakeem Road.

“Echo Team, go.”

On the west side of the building, Kenny Rix threw the switch activating the temporary circuit he had built around the alarm system. He punched in the test code, got a green light, and gave a thumbs-up to his partners. “Echo One here. We’re moving.”

Because the windows were barred, the team had little option but to enter through a door. The men moved to the nearest access, away from the avenue. The door was still illuminated by streetlights, but only indirectly.

Rix knelt at the door, adjusting a red-lensed Surefire on an elastic headband. He opened his kit, selected a likely probe, and inserted it in the lock-picking gun. Getliff and Skowen knelt six feet to either side of him, covering their respective zones with suppressed pistols. Each operator also carried a Taser for lesser threats.

Rix began mumbling to himself, a sign that Tom Skowen knew well. Apparently the lock picking was not going well. Kenny’s usually inside in thirty seconds. The sentry glanced at his friend and saw Rix remove the pick from the gun, replacing it with another. The motions were calm, methodical. Take your time in a hurry.

More seconds passed, each with its own beginning, middle, and end. Corry Getliff backpedalled a few steps, risking a spoken query. “Kenny, can I help?”

“Get back,” Rix snapped. He resented the solicitous gesture as much as he regretted the tone in his voice. Take it easy, he told himself. He lowered his hands and rocked back, resting on his heels. He flexed his fingers and popped his knuckles. Skowen heard the noise in the still night air. He was surprised at how loud it seemed.

Rix turned the adjustment wheel on the gun, selecting full engagement. Then he inserted the pick again and flexed the gun’s mechanical trigger. The probe elevated four centimeters, engaged the tumbler, returned to horizontal, and sought the next detent. The pressure told him he was there.

Rix pulled the door open and Skowen stepped inside. As Rix followed, he heard Lee’s voice in his ears. “Echo, contact! Two items headed yours. Twenty meters.” All three operators dived inside. As last in, Getliff twisted the lock and scurried away from the glass door.

Two uniformed men came around the corner, chatting idly. Getliff spoke no Urdu but judged from their tones that they may have been discussing soccer or women. Something innocuous.

One man idly pulled on the door, ensuring it was locked. Without breaking stride, the pair continued its rounds.

Rix exhaled. He realized that he had stopped breathing. He whispered, “That was close!”

Skowen croaked, “Who the hell are they?” The irritation was audible in his voice. “Damn if I know. They must be some kind of security firm. No guns so they’re not police.”

“Damn it, Hardesty never mentioned rent-a-cops!”

“He prob’ly didn’t know.”

“There’s always somebody doesn’t get the word,” Getliff said.

Rix spoke into his headset. “Control, Echo One. We’re in. Send the doc.”

“Roger that, Echo. You’re clear.”

* * *

Rix did an interior survey of the alarm system, looking for a secondary circuit. Finding none, he quickly unlocked the door leading to the lab area. He passed some empty cages, recalling Hardesty’s briefing: Dr. Sharif, aka Ali, did not board his patients.

Moments later Padgett-Smith entered with her embassy counterpart who would double as interpreter. Skowen led them to the rear. “The storerooms are back here, Doctor. That’s where you’d start, right?”

“Quite right. Thank you,” she replied. Wearing her bio suit minus the helmet, she strode to the lab.

CPS would have liked to turn on the interior lights but Lee had cautioned against it. Somebody might see a tiny glow from outside and become suspicious. Everyone used subdued illumination, moving slowly and cautiously in the semi-darkness.

Padgett-Smith opened the first cabinet, revealing several shelves of containers. Her newfound partner, a communicable disease specialist named Carter Fox, read the labels. He found most in English. “Allwormers, roundwormers, ectoparasiticides, you name it. Dog and cat treatments.”

“Ovine miticides and lousicides. Sheep stuff.”

Padgett-Smith’s violet eyes scanned the well-stocked room. “If he’s keeping any filovirus here, it’s likely in deep storage, not on the shelf. Let’s have a look at the refrigerators.”

There were three large units, labeled according to the family of serum they contained. Starting with the nearest, Fox noted that about one-third were labeled in Urdu. He read each one in turn, examining the contents for apparent consistency with the label. “Clostridium perfrigenes C and D. That’s antiserum, likely for goats.”

Padgett-Smith started on the next refrigerator, looking at the English labels.

After fifteen minutes neither doctor had found anything untoward. Rix called a progress report to Lee. “Control, Echo. Negative items so far.”

“Roger that. You’re still clear.”

Another half hour passed. Lee made two calls in that time, using the cell phone that Hardesty had provided. The distractions to the south had begun to wear off; most of the police cars had returned to their usual patrols and the fire trucks were preparing to leave. Lee knew that the two roving guards were bound to return but he had no way of learning when.

A Honda sedan with light bar on the top cruised by. Lee saw it coming a block away but wanted to keep transmissions to a minimum. He relaxed a bit when it turned north, parallel to the clinic.

Then Rix’s voice destroyed his composure. “Boss, we got something here.”

16

ISLAMABAD

“Okay Doctor. What did you find?” Lee was more relaxed after the entry team was en route to the safe house. But long habit told him it was too early to ease up. The unmarked van still could be stopped for any reason, legitimate or otherwise.

In the rear seat Padgett-Smith held up a biohazard box; she might have raised a trophy trout. “Mr. Fox found it, actually.” She pronounced it “efe-chually.” “He noticed the plastic container behind some specimen bottles in the second refrigerator. It seemed unusual so we decided to treat it as a possible hazard.”

“Why’s that?”

Padgett-Smith nodded to Carter Fox, a thirty-something lab tech who seemed to relish the clandestine arts. “Plastic is used for potentially dangerous samples because it won’t break like glass. And there was no label identifying the contents,” he said in his Boston accent. “The only notation is in Urdu and Arabic. Basically it says ‘handle with caution.’”

Lee shrugged while his driver negotiated the last turn to the sanctuary. “Well, I don’t know a bug from a germ, but ‘handle with care’ sounds pretty innocuous.”

CPS gave an exaggerated smile. “It certainly does.”

The American nodded briefly. “Oh. Gotcha.”

* * *

Buster Hardesty was waiting when the SSI team arrived at its destination. He had an official of the Pakistani Ministry of Health with another unmarked vehicle and a small security detail from the embassy. All the men wore civilian clothes, but Lee noted that most carried concealed weapons. “Imprinting” was the word in firearms circles — the telltale bulge or outline of a weapon beneath a shirt or coat. However, it was obvious that the guards were unconcerned about being detected.

“Well done, Major.” The attache shook hands with Lee and nodded his appreciation to the other operators. He motioned to Lee and Padgett-Smith; they walked several yards away to speak privately.