think they’ll do?”
“My guess is drugs. Something a lot better than pentothal.”
The secretary turned to walk back to his limo. “You know, Mike, if this works out and we grab the couriers, probably nobody will ever know. On the other hand, if we don’t get them in time, and a lot of people die, the public will demand to know why we didn’t do more. But if…”
“If they die on us and word leaks about the interrogation, we’re the bastards who torture prisoners in other countries.”
Burridge stopped a few paces from his vehicle. “Hell of a business we’re in, shipmate.” He shook hands again. “I’ll call our people right away. What’s the time difference?”
Derringer thought. “Oh, nine, ten hours. Plays hell with coordination, doesn’t it?”
“Until we ID those two guys, I don’t think that time is going to matter very damn much.”
Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith opened her violet eyes. She had trouble focusing and did not recognize anything, but her nose told her more than her vision. The antiseptic aromas spoke clearly to her:
Padgett-Smith felt the clammy texture of her skin and cataloged the other symptoms: a rash, temperature, nausea and vomiting, plus the onset of diarrhea.
Without dissecting that knowledge, she placed her emotions in a separate mental file for the moment. A glance at the wall revealed no windows. That was useful intelligence. It led to another conclusion. If she had contracted Marburg, which seemed almost certain, then she was in no ordinary facility.
Something turned over behind her navel: a liquid urgency.
In less than one minute a nursing sister arrived. She wore a disposable outer garment and a mask with gloves. Her clothing did nothing to inspire confidence in the patient, but CPS was grateful for the attention. “I need the WC, now!”
The nurse — a short, confident angel named Sister Beatrice— flipped back the covers and, with deceptive strength, pulled Dr. Padgett-Smith to her feet. Supported by the good sister, CPS managed the seven steps to the water closet and slid onto the toilet.
When finished, Padgett-Smith examined her gown. Like all hospital attire, it was calculated entirely for function. It was tied only at the neck and mid back, with elbow-length arms. While steadying herself at the basin, the immunologist allowed herself to dwell upon small things.
Tucked up in bed again, she accepted some water and ordered her thoughts.
“Sister, how long have I been here? What do you know about my husband?”
Beatrice patted the doctor’s arm. Despite the latex between them, the human gesture was reassuring. “You’ve been here two days, my dear. You collapsed at home and your husband brought you here directly. He only left a few hours ago.”
“Oh, yes…” Some of the last forty-eight hours fell into place. There had been a row about staying at home. Charles had insisted that Carolyn enter a special care facility but she resisted, noting that no symptoms had yet emerged and the test results were pending. She felt the onset of potentially massive guilt. Charles was exposed to her nearly every hour of the day: he was at risk, but she had been so self-absorbed that she only wanted to remain in familiar surroundings.
“When can I see him?”
“I don’t know, love. But the charge nurse will ring him to let him know that you’re awake. After that, it’s up to the doctor.”
CPS rubbed her forehead, as if forcing memories to the front. “I can’t remember very much before… what? Day before yesterday?” She turned her focused stare back to Sister Beatrice. “I must have slept most of the time.”
“You were sedated for several hours. You had a bad dream or two, apparently.”
Padgett-Smith shook off the grim memories, knowing they would return. For the present, she had more urgent concerns. She asked, “Did we hear from Dr. Keene?”
The sister checked the chart. “I don’t see that name here. Is he a consultant?”
“She’s a leading researcher in homeopathic medicine. Margaret prepared some
“What is
33
“Admiral, Secretary Burridge on line two.”
“Thank you, Peggy.”
Derringer punched the button and picked up the receiver. “Go Navy.”
“Beat Army” the familiar voice crackled back. “Ready to copy?”
“Affirm. Uh; are we going discreet?”
“No need, Mike. I’m giving you a one-time pad — a password that’ll get you into one of our secure email sites. Each following message will contain the next password in case there’s updates. It’s open ended so you can check it as often as you like.”
Derringer tapped with his pencil. “Ready.”
“Okay. Our class year minus the hull number of your first ship, plus my varsity number, divided by
Michael Derringer chuckled aloud at the ingenious device. His first ship, USS
Derringer rang off and swiveled to his computer screen. In two minutes he was looking at the secure email with distilled information from the interrogation recently concluded eight thousand miles away. Apparently the Syrian knew relatively little, but at least the hunters now could look for two names: Miam Ahmed and Hazrat Sial. Unfortunately, there was not enough difference in their descriptions to be useful. Both were young and slightly built, Ahmed somewhat taller and Sial with a beard. The latter distinction undoubtedly would have changed by now.
For a moment Derringer pondered how to use the information. Certainly Immigration and Transportation Security would be informed, but the hard-won intel probably was outdated. It was unlikely that either Marburg courier was traveling under his own identity.
Derringer reached for his console and buzzed Wolf’s office. “Joe, we have some names. That’s the good news.”
The former FBI man knew the drill. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the bad news?”
“We don’t know if those names are on their passports — if they have passports. But at least we can coordinate with INS and TSA and the rest of the alphabet. What do you suggest beyond that?”
