Michael Derringer took the call from Quetta. His first comment was a heartfelt “Oh, my god.” For three minutes he jotted notes as Leopole explained the situation. Then he signed off.
Ten minutes later Derringer convened a meeting in the boardroom.
“Okay, here’s the hot wash from Frank. We’ll have details later.” He inhaled, cleared his throat, and began. “Our team was spotted closing in on the house. The Marburg cell was better organized and equipped than we anticipated, and maybe that’s my fault. We should have treated them with more caution.
“Anyway, there was a brief firelight before our guys kicked in the doors. Four al Qaeda operatives were killed; three captured. No serious casualties on our side. Somehow — it’s still uncertain — Ali or Sharif was able to hide a syringe. Maybe because he was seriously wounded. He convinced our people that he was friendly and asked for Carolyn by name. When she arrived, he jabbed her with a needle.”
“Oh, no.” Sandy Carmichael’s voice was hushed, fervent.
“Unfortunately, Carolyn reacted in self-defense and shot him dead. At that moment he posed no further threat, and we should have been able to interrogate him. As it was, I don’t suppose we can blame her very much. She believes she’s likely to die, and she knows what that means.”
Joe Wolf leaned forward. “Mike, do we know what’s actually in the needle?”
“Not yet, but it stands to reason. Carolyn is analyzing the contents while waiting for a ride home.” Derringer folded his hands on the tabletop. “I’ll tell Phil Catterly and I suppose he should call Charles Padgett-Smith.”
Sandy asked, “How soon can she get to England?”
“Oh, Frank’s arranging that. Probably the quickest way is commercial air. She seems to have an attachment to Jeff Malten and he’ll travel with her. I told Frank to make it first class.”
Wolf returned to business. “Okay, but what do we know about the bio threat? Is it over or not?”
Derringer consulted his notes. “Omar conducted a field interrogation on each of Ali’s men. None of them admitted knowing about the lab or the virus carriers. They may be telling the truth. One of them indicated that Ali’s deputy is still at large, and the Pakis are following that angle.”
“That’s not much to go on, Mike.”
“Yeah, I know, Joe. But it’s what we have for the moment. Frank said that his Pakistani liaison officer will take up where Omar left off. Ah, I suggested that no SSI personnel be present, if you know what I mean.”
Major Rustam Khan gestured to Leopole and Mohammed. The three ducked into an unoccupied office in the hangar and Khan closed the door.
“There are two others.”
“Two what?” Leopole shook his head, perplexed.
“Oh, no…” Omar Mohammed considered the options and defaulted to the worst.
“Yes, I fear so,” Khan said. “Our, ah, interrogation of the prisoners confirmed it. Two young men left Sharif yesterday or the day before.” He shrugged. “The information is somewhat contradictory…” Mohammed could well imagine the reason for the informants’ lack of unanimity, given the likely methods of interrogation.
Leopole’s frustration was audible as he blew the air from his lungs. He sagged against a desk. “Just when I was starting to think we’d wrap things up and head home.” He looked at the Pakistani. “What do we know about these two?”
Khan unbuttoned his chest pocket and produced a paper. Leopole noticed that the meticulous officer rebuttoned the flap. “We have names, or partial names, but they are likely false. Remember that for months we only knew Sharif as Ali. Descriptions are similar enough to be accurate but they are also generic. Mid to late twenties, slight build, one short beard and one longer. ‘Regular features,’ whatever that may be.”
Mohammed’s mind was racing, trying to play catch-up. “Very well, Major. We have two suspects, presumably infected with the virus. They have one or two days’ lead on us. Perhaps both reports are correct: Sharif may have dispatched them on consecutive days to different destinations.”
Leopole was upright again. “Did the prisoners see them together or separately?”
“I shall have to consult the transcript. But I thought that you should know this much immediately.”
Leopole looked at Mohammed. “Omar, we won’t get to bed anytime soon. Major Khan and I’ll get on the horn to Buster Hardesty while…”
The Ph.D. was on his way out the door, checking his watch. “I’ll call headquarters. The admiral should be in the office about now.”
Dr. Phillip Catterly arose early, he had not slept much after receiving the call from Derringer. Finally he threw off the covers, eased himself out of bed, and slid into his slippers. It would be dawn in barely an hour, and he wanted to reach Charles Padgett-Smith before Britons left for work.
Catterly descended the stairs to his office and closed the door. He took his time dialing the international number, and fidgeted while the phone rang.
At length a British voice answered. “Hallo?”
Catterly inhaled, then exhaled. “Charles? Hello! This is Phillip Catterly”
“Who?”
“Dr. Catterly in Virginia. I’m a colleague of…”
Recognition dawned. “Oh yes! Phillip. Carolyn has mentioned you. Terribly sorry — I’m not at my best before breakfast.” While Catterly formed the words in his mind, he could almost sense Charles Padgett-Smith putting two and two together. “Phillip, Carolyn is not here. But I expect you know that.” The voice remained level, controlled. But there was an urgency. “Is there…”
“She’s coming home, Charles. I want to give you the flight information.”
“Oh. Awfully good of you. I have pen and paper.”
The American carefully enunciated the flight number and arrival time. Padgett-Smith repeated it and began to ring off.
“Charles, there’s something else. Ah, something you need to know.”
“Yes?”
Catterly inhaled again. Then he began to speak.
Carolyn Padgett-Smith had barely hugged her husband before she made a phone call to a homeopathic researcher. Meanwhile, Malten offered to collect the luggage. Charles waited until his wife was on the phone, then caught the American. “Mr. Malten, please…”
“Mr. Malten’s my father, sir. Call me Jeff.”
An appreciative nod. “Done. If you call me Charles. I’m not been knighted, you know.”
Malten unzipped a smile. “Sure thing.”
Padgett-Smith’s face turned immediately sober. “How is she? I mean, emotionally.”
“She didn’t talk much during the flight.” The commando shrugged. “She took a couple pills and slept most of the time.”
“But you must have some idea…”
Malten’s gaze went to the polished floor. He was seeing events days and weeks old, things that Charles Padgett-Smith would never glimpse. “Well, your wife is one hell of a lady. She’s humped a ruck with us when it was uphill in both directions. She shot it out with bad guys in the mountains and she helped find the specimen that put us on the terrorists’ trail. She never complained, got along with a bunch of male chauvinists, and far as I know, she did everything asked of her. But after the needle, she sort of collapsed.” Malten paused, frowning in concentration. Then he said, “No, that’s not right. More like deflated. The spirit just went out of her. She’s got to be worried sick but she won’t say so. At least, not to me.”
The financier touched the operator’s arm. “Thank you, Jeff. It’s about what I expected.”
Malten was anxious to be away from the awkward situation. He remembered a good excuse. “I’ll check on the luggage, then I’ll get something to eat.”
“But surely they fed you on the airplane?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, they served dinner but I couldn’t eat very much.”
“Why not?”
“Well, she held my right hand most of the flight.”
