backtrack and move down the row to the right.
“The petri dishes at the far end of the room,” said Telach. “On the right. Your sniffer’s got a good hit. This is it.”
Dean reached the bench, where what looked like a strange knickknack cabinet held about fifty small, round dishes used to grow bacteria or other organisms. The cabinet had climate controls and a set of locks.
“Charlie, drill through the glass. We’ve compromised the alarms and the explosives,” said Telach.
“Explosives?”
“We’ll explain later. Just go.”
Dean took his pocketknife out and held it against the glass. When he pressed the Swiss insignia on the side, a diamond-tipped drill began to revolve at high speed. It whined; the glass cracked before the drill made it all the way through.
“Now what?” asked Dean.
“You’re okay. Tape the crack, then put the gas in. Go,” said Telach.
Dean pulled off his sport coat and stripped the cartridge from beneath the armpit, pulling the long bladder of poison gas out with it. He had trouble getting the stopper set right around the cartridge opening and finally jammed it in.
“Get away from there now, Charles,” warned Telach. One by one the fans on the petri holder began revving at high speed, their instructions commandeered from the Art Room. “On the other side of the room.”
Dean got behind the counter. The chlorine gas would kill any bacteria on the outside of the dishes. While he was waiting, Dean stripped out the containment bags from the lining of his coat, along with a set of gloves.
“Go. Don’t breathe too deeply,” said Telach. “You can break the glass. Be expeditious.”
Yes, thought Dean,
When Charlie had the dishes in the bag, Rockman directed him to put them in a small carrier at the far end of the room. The unit looked like a small musical instrument case; it was lined with insulation.
“Good. You have exactly three minutes before the Mossad people arrive,” said Rockman.
“That much? I can hear the helicopter already.”
“The second door on your left is an emergency staircase to the rear of the building. Take it. The car’s waiting on the other side of the wall.”
82
Lia was led to a library inside the low-slung building that sat in a compound owned by Umar Ibn Umar, a cousin once removed from the Syrian President. Umar was seated on a leather club chair, pretending to be absorbed in a book. He dawdled over a page for several minutes, nodded to himself, then finally rose, rolling a thick cigar in his fingers.
“I’m glad you could come,” Umar told her.
If there was one thing that Lia hated — hated — it was cigars. Especially when they were smoked by slick- haired fat boys who wore pinkie rings and thought they were James Bond.
“I had nothing better to do,” said Lia. “Apparently the beach isn’t very close to my hotel.”
“Beach?”
“False advertising.”
He gave her a faint, token smile. “Would you like a cigar?”
“Only to break it in half.”
“Very good cigars. From Cuba.”
“I’m sure Fidel rolled it himself.”
“So what precisely is it that you’d like to buy?” asked the Syrian.
“Disease,” said Lia. She saw no point in playing this with any degree of finesse, despite the advice Rubens and Telach had given her last night.
The Syrian laughed. “You can pick that up in any slum.”
“I’m looking for a very specific type,” she said. “The kind that comes from rats.”
“Interestingly enough, we are in the market for that ourselves,” said the Syrian. He went to a sideboard and took the top off a crystal bottle filled with what looked like whiskey. “A drink?”
“Does that come from Cuba, too?”
“America, actually. Jack Daniel’s. The Americans know how to make bourbon particularly well.”
“They have to get something right.”
He filled the glass nearly halfway, then took a very tiny sip.
“I understand you’ve dealt with my Austrian friends,” said Lia.
“You keep calling them Austrian. I don’t know anyone from Austria.”
“Radoslaw Dlugsko. UKD,” whispered Rockman. “He’s Polish; the company is allegedly based in the Ukraine. Austria was just a convenient stop.”
Lia wanted to reach up through the satellite and slap the runner.
“I know them from Austria,” Lia told the Syrian. “Actually, the principal I met with was Greek.”
Umar Ibn Umar took a long, thoughtful pull on his cigar. “Why aren’t you dealing with them?”
“The Austrian police put them out of business two days ago. Very inconveniently, since I have a buyer lined up. An important buyer. I feel an obligation to carry through with my arrangement.”
“Austria is not familiar to me,” Umar Ibn Umar said, waving his hand as if dismissing the existence of UFOs or unicorns.
“And UKD?”
He shook his head.
“Oh, well,” she said, calling his bluff. “I’ll be off.”
She got to the hallway before he called her back.
“Perhaps we can deal with your client directly,” said the Syrian.
“Not possible.”
He frowned. Before he could say anything else, the phone rang. The Syrian picked it up, but there was no one on the other end.
“Sorry about that,” whispered Rockman. “We got to it a second too late.”
“We’re moving to get more backup,” added Rockman. “You’ll be all right.”
The Syrian gave the phone a quizzical look, then hung up. “As I was saying, perhaps we can deal with them ourselves.”
“The people I’m dealing with aren’t as free to move around as you and I,” said Lia. “It’ll be much easier for all concerned if you simply sell the bacteria to me. You’ve probably grown twenty pounds of it already.”
“Hardly.” He considered his cigar ash. “What do you know about the disease?”
“It’s a type of rat-bite fever that has no cure,” said Lia. “It’s the perfect assassination weapon.”
Umar Ibn Umar smiled. “Perfect for many things. But there is a cure. We’ve been promised it.”
“What? Penicillin?”
“No, it’s supposedly resistant. However, we have questions about the potency of the bacteria. It doesn’t seem to actually work.”
“Doesn’t work?”
“No.” A second phone began to ring — it was a cell phone.
“Jam it,” said Lia, talking to the Art Room.
Umar Ibn Umar gave her an odd look as he took the phone from his pocket and put it to his ear.
“Interesting,” he said. “Why would my phones stop working?”
“Why doesn’t the disease work?” asked Lia.
“Your Israeli masters haven’t told you?” Umar Ibn Umar took a pensive puff. “I would have thought you were high-ranking enough to be in on their secret.”
