country would be teaching at top universities. The amenities included a tennis court, swimming pool, and around- the-clock guards.
Dean smiled and nodded, nodded and smiled. After a few minutes he interrupted the woman, taking out a small inhaler.
“Asthma,” he said apologetically. “This climate is supposed to be good for it.”
The secretary smiled sympathetically and went on with her spiel. Finally, she called over Ahmed, a graduate of the school originally from Egypt. Dean knew that to be false — the man was a low-ranking Syrian intelligence officer — but nonetheless played up the concerned parent angle as they moved through the building. Athletics appeared to be the school’s Achilles’ heel; the soccer team had finished no higher than third in the national association contests over the past decade, a fact that made the guide hang his head in shame.
As Dean continued his tour, the sniffers in his coat were sending data back to the Art Room. Every so often he stopped and slipped a small black dot from his pocket onto the wall. The dot, of course, was a fly, sending audio back to the Art Room.
“You want to look at that music room more carefully,” said Rockman. “It accesses the east wing. We need you to get inside.”
Dean followed as his guide took him upstairs past a series of classrooms where the students were learning math. The east wing was perhaps 200 yards away.
“Is the music teacher available?” he asked as they walked down the hall toward the auditorium. “My oldest — my wife’s oldest really — is very interested in music. He plays the violin and piano.”
“I’m afraid the teachers are on holiday.” Ahmed smiled at him. “As I explained earlier. Our semester doesn’t begin for two weeks.”
“Oh yeah, sorry. Can we look at the music labs again, at least? I’ll check out the piano, that sort of thing.”
Ahmed smirked at him but then nodded. They continued to the end of the hall, then back down the stairs. Dean started for the room on the right.
“No, it’s this way,” said Ahmed, gesturing to the left.
“Oh, I thought it was right.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Dean,” said the guide, pulling a pistol from his pocket.
79
Lia got up from the cafe table, sliding the coins for the tip under the saucer. She opened her pocketbook and took out her makeup case, examining her lips — and her Syrian tail — before leaving the small restaurant.
“He’s with me.”
“We can see him,” said Rockman, who had a video feed via a small fly attached to her bag.
Lia disliked pocketbooks, especially monsters like the one she had slung over her shoulder. She grumbled to herself as she made her way outside and then down the street, still waiting for the incompetent Syrian intelligence agents to get their act together and approach her. Finally, a young woman approached from the crowd of tourists at a small shop on Lia’s left.
“Ms. Ki?” she said.
“Finally,” said Lia. She saw the car approaching from the left and started toward the curb.
The woman shook her head.
“
“Or Arabic.”
“My English is better than my Arabic. Come on.”
“I am to check you for weapons first.”
Lia scowled at the girl but took the Beretta out from under her knit shirt.
“And your bag.”
“Fine,” she said.
“You have a small gun on your leg.”
“That stays with me,” said Lia.
The young woman pursed her lips. A pair of white Renaults had just stopped at the curb, holding up traffic; four men got out of the second car.
“I really must insist,” said the Syrian.
“No.”
The Syrian agents nearby were all clutching their jackets, as if experiencing a group heart attack.
“Lia,” hissed Rockman in her ear.
“Oh, all right.” Lia undid her trousers and reached down to the gun, strapped at the top of her left thigh. “I’d better get this one back. I paid a fortune for it.”
The young woman took the weapon, nodding to the security people in the street. Lia got into the back of the lead car.
“Your English is very good,” said the young woman, sliding in next to her.
“I practice a lot when I’m pissed off,” Lia told her.
80
Rubens leaned back against the wooden chair, an ornate French piece that had allegedly been brought to Washington by Jefferson, though that provenance seemed highly unlikely. It was, however, very old, and Rubens felt it creaking and shifted his weight forward.
Marcke got up and began pacing back and forth. One of the President’s assistants appeared at the door to tell him that the others were waiting outside; Marcke waved him away, wordlessly telling him to keep them waiting.
Hadash, meanwhile, remained in his seat, his legs spread and his arms hanging down between them. He alternately cupped and uncupped his hands.
“Billy, you’re recommending blowing up a hospital,” said the President. “And potentially starting a world war with Russia.”
“With respect, sir,” said Rubens, “the plan won’t destroy the hospital, just the lab. We’d use F-47Cs. We’ve penetrated Russian airspace before without detection. If we want to eliminate the bacteria, this is the time and place to do it.”
“If we have a cure, the bacteria is useless,” said Marcke.
“If it works,” said Hadash. “There’s no guarantee yet that it does.”
“I think it does work,” said Rubens. “But we don’t know how much we can make, or how fast. As a natural substance, it’s pretty rare. We’re not sure we can get enough to take care of even the confirmed cases in upstate New York. And that’s if the disease proceeds in the manner Dr. Lester projects. In any event, having a cure does not eliminate the potency of the disease, or the threat. We can fight anthrax, after all. That doesn’t make it any less dangerous.”
“I agree that with or without a cure, the bacterial agent is a big problem,” said Marcke. “But not a reason to go to war.”
“If you had a chance to eliminate weaponized anthrax from the planet, wouldn’t you take it?” asked Rubens. He glanced at Hadash. “Wouldn’t the risk of collateral damage be worth it?”
Neither man said anything.
“This isn’t an act of war,” said Rubens. “It would be a preemptive strike against a threat not just to us but the entire world.”
“On the contrary. I would consider a Russian attack on a hospital in Washington or anywhere else an act of
