Dean followed Hercules down the hallway. His headache had actually started to recede. The foreigner seemed genuinely concerned for his health, though Dean wondered from some of his reactions if he thought he’d caught whatever disease this was from Kegan.
Obviously Keys had been working on something very bad.
Evil. That was the word.
Keys? Evil? The guy who’d gone to the jungles of Asia to save people? When Dean went to kill people?
Actually, they’d both gone to save people. Keys was just more obvious about it.
“We’re with you, Charlie Dean,” said Rubens, the words seeming to echo in his feverish head. “Just relax and go along. You’re going to drive into Vienna. We’ll be with you the whole time; just follow our directions. We have a team working on preparing something for you right now. The more information you can get from them, the easier it will be.”
Jesus, thought Charlie — we’re not talking about a milk shake, for cryin’ out loud.
His headache flashed back with the force of a freight train.
Lia stood poised by the door as they approached. It would take three seconds, no more — push the door open, step out behind them, blast Hercules in the head.
And then?
Grab Charlie and run down the hall, back to the room where he had just been. Out the window — no, go right out the door and wax the two guards, who were still in the back by the trailer.
Then over the fence, take out Beard Boy and Clean Face.
She could look in the trailers at her leisure.
Probably not. But it would be easier than sneaking into them.
Of course, whoever was behind this would know their operation was compromised.
So what? Would they move up their timetable, unleash some superbug on the world?
Maybe Charlie already had it. Maybe that was what Rubens was worried about.
The handheld computer showed they were three yards away.
Lia’s hand was on the doorknob. She had been in the Army — technically, she was still in the Army, just on semi-permanent loan to Desk Three. She was programmed to follow orders.
Sensible, legal orders.
Which these weren’t. Sensible, that is. They were legal.
It was that thought — the realization that she did feel for him — that kept her from saving him now. She knew it was possible that her emotions might be interfering with her instincts. She hesitated for that reason, and in the space of that hesitation, her chance was gone.
38
Dr. Kegan had an excellent stereo system, and while his CD collection favored sixties and seventies rock, there were seventy-three CDs devoted to jazz.
Seventy-three was an extremely interesting number. Not only it was it prime — which by definition meant it had power — but also in many Christian mystical systems it represented the union of Christ and the Trinity—“7” and “3.” Seven alone—“4” equals man, “3” equals God. So it was 433—another prime. This filled Johnny Bib with a certain amount of awe, which merely compounded his excitement when he discovered that the first CD in the collection was a Thelonious Monk compilation. The music of Monk, with its complicated references and atonal digressions, was to Bib’s mathematical mind an artistic precursor to the revelations of chaos theory. Or, more precisely, a statement of the underlying principles, which of course were anything but chaotic.
Johnny Bib slid the disk into the player and cranked it; the notes began to fill not only the library where he was working but the entire house, ported through an admirable remote arrangement. But just as Johnny began pondering the simple yet elusive rifts of “Ruby My Dear,” the phone rang.
“Bib,” he said, grabbing the line and answering as if he were in his own office.
“Hello. This is Dr. Chaucer. Mr. Rubens directed me to call.”
“Yes?”
Johnny listened as Chaucer explained that they had developed new information regarding the targeted bacteria. It seemed as if it would turn out to be a penicillin-resistant strain built from the bacteria that caused rat- bite fever. Did that ring any bells?
A curious turn of phrase, thought Johnny as Monk’s piano jangled in the back.
“Could the DNA itself be an encryption?” asked Johnny Bib.
“Well, we haven’t gotten the DNA sequence itself,” said the scientist uncertainly. “In any event, even with a bacteria, it would be exceedingly long.”
“Chaucer, right? Any relation?” Johnny Bib had always wondered why there were 24 tales, or even the 124 contemplated. These were not auspicious numbers.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re saying.”
Monk slapped into “Well You Needn’t.” That said it all for Johnny Bib.
“What was your question?” asked Johnny.
“I, uh — is there anything that you’ve come across that might have to do with treatment-resistant disease, specifically rat-bite fever?” said Chaucer. “And…”
Plants — it was the plants!
“… was there any evidence regarding something like penicillin, because there would have been—”
“Put on Mr. Rubens. I have important information for him,” said Johnny Bib.
“Uh—”
“We can discuss your questions later. Please. This is of vital importance.”
39
Lia slipped out the bathroom window onto the hard macadam and edged toward the comer. There were only two guards left at the facility. One had gone to the front of the building. The other had taken up a post at the rear, where he could watch the trailers. Less than ten yards separated her from this second man; she could pivot around the comer and empty her pistol into his chest before he had a chance to react. But that wasn’t the gig.
“Go with the voice,” Lia told the Art Room.
Thinking he was wanted, the man began walking nonchalantly toward where he thought his companion had called him from — the side of the building where Lia was crouched.
“Try it again,” she said, watching on the handheld.
The Art Room replayed the voice, this time adding a snippet that seemed to indicate the guard was inside one of the rooms. The man changed direction.
“Had you worried there, huh?” asked Rockman as Lia trotted toward the trailers, the coast finally clear.
“You’re lucky they didn’t use their walkie-talkies.”
“We’re jamming them.”
“And you don’t think that would make them suspicious, huh?”
“Relax. They obviously don’t think they’re doing anything important. They’ll be throwing back beers in a minute.”
Lia reached the rear of the first trailer. Rather than using the door, she went to the back and climbed on top, moving quickly to a vent panel. She fished into her knapsack and removed a power screwdriver, diddling with the
