“It’s all right. The old lady’s penicillin cured me. That cured the guerrillas, right? Or some of them, anyway. That’s what screwed up your plan — they got better.”
“I didn’t mean for anyone else to get hurt. I took precautions. The disease wasn’t that easy to spread.”
Karr pulled out his handheld computer. “Would you mind telling me exactly what you did?”
Slowly, the doctor began to tell his story.
Thirty years before, as a young medical volunteer, Kegan had met the love of his life while a volunteer with the World Health Organization. She was killed by one of the rebel groups; he’d told the story many times to Dean.
Over the years, as the fortunes of the group had varied, Kegan had kept track. He’d gone to Thailand several times in fact, to gather more information and to consider how to take revenge. Once he’d even hired a Burmese gangster to make a hit, but by then the leader of the guerrilla group had once more fallen from grace and was in the hills.
The work on germ warfare, though he’d stopped working in the field, suggested the possibility, and his early experience with the disease had made him familiar with the organism. Still, he had worked on it off and on for many years before discovering precisely how to do it.
And then he had hesitated. Not until the cancer did he decide. He had needed help, however, to get the disease to the guerrilla camp. He was fortunate that many of those who had known him when he was a young man owed their lives or their loved ones’ lives to him. Mr. Bai had been one.
Kegan had not told Bai or anyone else what precisely he was doing. Yet somehow the Pole found out. When he contacted Kegan, he panicked and alerted the FBI and CDC.
“He had someone with the people Bai sent to the camp before you arrived,” explained Karr. “He simply watched what was going on. He could tell from some of the items you ordered through Bai the nature of things. I mean, what’s a hotel need petri dishes for, right?”
Kegan nodded and continued. He came to Thailand himself; posing as a sympathetic member of Amnesty International, he visited the guerrillas and poisoned them, lacing their food and drinking water. He was gone before the disease took hold.
He had to make sure it had worked, and so he sent his assistant there to check on rumors of disease.
“It worked, but you didn’t get everyone because of the cure. So you had to go back. But your money was spent; you needed connections. So you talked to the Pole,” suggested Karr.
Kegan nodded.
“I had already begun to negotiate when the guerrilla arrived to kill me,” said Kegan. “Fortunately, he stood out rather starkly in Athens, New York.”
“The man who came to your house—”
“They found my assistant here and probably tortured him. I’m not sure what’s happened to him, but I’m sure he must have been the link, not Bai.”
“Wait — you were negotiating?” asked Karr. “You were talking to the Pole, the guy with the company UKD, right?”
Kegan nodded. “I had no other way of getting money. I had already put two mortgages on my house.”
“You sold him the bacteria in exchange for his help.”
“I gave him one of the strands that had failed. I promised the medicine as well,” said Kegan. “The Pole can’t kill anyone. The strains are useless. They cause slight stomach discomfort. They show up in subjects, but they’re not fatal. I’m not a fool, Mr. Karr. I don’t hate the human race. I just hated the people who killed Krista.”
92
Now what the Syrian had told Lia earlier made sense — Marie Telach jumped to the panel, punching the line to the piloting area.
“Malachi. Malachi. Abort! Abort!”
She could see on the screen that the timer had drained to five seconds.
“Marie?”
“Abort,” she repeated.
“Once I’m authorized I’m only supposed to abort on Mr. Rubens’ orders. You already confirmed the order.”
“Stop now, Malachi,” she said, her voice calm and cold. “Stop. My authority.”
“If I abort, I still have to destruct. No second chance.”
There was a pause. The timer had hit 0.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Inside the piloting pod, Malachi and Whacker didn’t speak until they were ready to start the destruct.
“Counting down,” said Whacker.
“Roger that.”
“I need your voice,” said Whacker, meaning that Malachi had to give the verbal authorization or the F-47s would not blow themselves up.
“Just a second,” said Malachi. He nudged Bird 2 so that it was lined up to hit the water as it destroyed itself. “Barry Manilow sucks fish.”
“That’s it?”
“You have to repeat word for word.”
“Barry Manilow sucks fish.”
The screen flashed red.
“Confirmed,” Malachi told the computer. “Destruct one. Destruct two.”
The aircraft blew up. The feed reverted to a feed from a Space Command visual satellite that Malachi had selected earlier as a default.
“Barry Manilow sucks?” asked Whacker.
“See? I knew you were a fan.”
93
“How do I know you’re telling the truth about the bacteria?” Karr asked Kegan.
“Why would I lie?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“I’m not.”
“So prove it,” said Karr.
“Test the bacteria strains. Buy some from the Pole and test it. I’m sure he’ll sell it. He sells everything.” Kegan shrugged. “He was useful.”
“He wasn’t a friend?”
“I don’t have many friends.”
“I know one. Charlie Dean.”
Kegan smiled weakly. “You know Charlie?”
“Yeah. I work with him.”
Kegan looked surprised. “Charlie?”
“He found the dead man in your house. He’d come up to see you.”
“Charlie? Is he — oh. God.”
“He’s all right. Turns out he hates cats.”
