“Come on back to the pool house and watch my back,” Dean told the sergeant. “There’s two guys coming up from around the side of the house there.”
“How do you know?”
“God told me.”
As Lia stepped out into the hallway, she saw that the Syrian woman had her handbag over her shoulder.
“I’d like that back, please,” Lia said.
“We’ll bury it with you, Jew.”
“Now do I look Jewish?”
One of the two men poked her breast with the nose of his gun and leered. Lia stepped back but didn’t make a grab for the barrel; the others were too far for her to be certain of getting the gun and shooting them in time.
“You’ll tell us exactly who you’re working for before we kill you,” said the woman.
Lia took another step back, her right elbow now at the doorjamb of the computer room.
“You’re getting all this?” she said to Rockman.
“On your signal.”
Before she could give it, the door at the far end of the hall behind her opened.
“Lia!” said Dean.
“No,” said Lia.
The guard nearest her started to jerk his rifle toward Dean.
“Now!” screamed Lia, grabbing the gun and throwing herself sideways into the computer room. “Duck, Charlie Dean!” she yelled.
In that instant, the hallway exploded, the bomb in her purse ignited by the Art Room.
86
By the time Karr got himself situated in Bangkok, the Art Room had managed to track the detonator he’d found in Myanmar to a manufacturer in Singapore and from there to Taiwan. From there it had gone to Thailand, purchased by a Royal Thai Construction Company — owned by a holding company that also owned the Bangkok Star Imperial Hotel, the same hotel Karr had visited upon his arrival.
“Kinda symmetrical,” Karr told Telach.
“I know. On the other hand, as Johnny Bib himself pointed out, a handful of big companies own everything anyway, so there’d be connections somehow.”
“He didn’t tell you how many companies?”
“Actually he did. But the number is suspiciously prime.”
Karr laughed and checked his watch. It was going on six.
“Think I can catch Mr. Bai before cocktails?”
“He’s there. But once the ball starts rolling—”
“It’ll gather no moss.”
87
Dean flew backward against the wall, his head rebounding against the concrete. His right knee collapsed and he fell in a tumble to the carpet. Smoke and dust choked his lungs; he coughed, rolled over, grabbed for his gun.
Something snapped it down out of his hand.
“Christ, Charlie Dean, you are the original bad penny. Always showing up at the wrong place and the wrong time.”
Dean looked up into Lia’s face. “That’s how you thank me for coming to save your butt?”
“The day I need you to save my butt is the day I buy myself a fuzzy pink bathrobe and rabbit slippers,” she said, pulling him up. “Let’s get the hell out of here before the Israelis get here and blow the crap out of this place.”
88
Rubens avoided glancing at his watch as the discussion continued. It was now early morning in Moscow; they had just under four hours to strike.
And he had just over twenty minutes to give the order.
Technically. In reality, Rubens had foreseen the possibility that the discussion might continue past the optimum moment and so had instructed Telach to have the strike aircraft ready. To keep operational secrecy — and to prevent accusations that he had jumped the gun later on — he had also told her to use the crew from the Syrian mission, giving them information only on an as-needed basis. The final strike order would be given only if he approved it.
“I think Mr. Rubens is a warmonger,” said Sandra Marshall.
Even Rubens had to take notice of that. He looked up at her as she continued, telling the President that the national situation was well on its way to being under control. Attacking a hospital was uncalled for.
Her position was eminently reasonable, calmly presented, and in its way entirely logical.
She was quite good, Rubens realized. Quite good.
“Preemptive action may well be justified,” said Debra Jodelin. “But there is a lot of risk to innocent people there. Can’t you strike the bacteria while it’s being transported?”
“We have a much better chance here, much better,” said Hadash. “Hitting a moving object can be quite difficult, especially when you’re launching your weapons from sixty or seventy thousand feet. We would run the same risks of collateral damage, with a much higher chance of failure. Considerably higher.”
“What if the bacteria survives the attack?” asked Jodelin.
Before Rubens could open his mouth, the Secretary of Defense, Art Blanders, jumped in.
“The weapons they’re talking about using would obliterate the lab area,” said Blanders. “And I assume pile debris in such a way that it could not be easily accessed.”
“That’s correct,” said Rubens. He and the Defense secretary occasionally disagreed, but Blanders could be a very useful ally. “Without a support medium, the bacteria should die within twenty-four hours. All of their machinery will be wrecked and of course the electricity will be turned off. We’ll infiltrate the recovery teams, just to be sure.”
“If we strike them like this, there may be consequences,” said Secretary of State James Lincoln. “Severe consequences. We should explain our rationale.”
“They won’t know it’s us,” said Hadash. He seemed to be a firm supporter of the plan, albeit a reluctant one.
“The weapons are sterile,” explained Rubens. “Everything is arranged to make it appear as if it’s a terrorist attack. We’ll plant information so that the Russians have plenty of evidence.”
“Devious,” said Marshall. Her tone was closer to mocking than admiring. Rubens realized that the performance was mostly meant for him — she was showing him that she could be an enemy as easily as an ally.
Marcke, apparently mindful of the time line Rubens had laid out earlier, raised his hand to end the discussion.
“Do it,” said the President. “Let’s talk about what Dr. Lester should be saying on the talk shows, and then let’s all take a break.”
