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Debussey’s face wobbled up and down like a bobblehead doll’s. “That was unfortunate. They were on a humanitarian service trip. He was an unexpected intrusion to the test, and was taken away before I could examine him.”
“Who took him?” Stevenson asked.
“The other aides. They’re working in a Doctors Without Borders program.”
Stevenson bit his lower lip slightly. “How serious is his exposure? What’s his prognosis?”
“Well, given that he’s already most likely been given a range of standard inoculations prior to coming here, I would imagine he’d fall into our Category Two.” Debussey paused and licked his lips. “I can go to the hospital and give him—”
“Don’t give him shit,” Stevenson said. “No contact with him, understand? I don’t want anybody to know you’re there.”
Debussey’s eyebrows rose in twin arches over his glasses, his image freezing just as Quarry’s had moments before. When he came back on, Debussey was already speaking, unaware that the first part of his wording had been unintelligible. “—to review the effectiveness of the adjusted virus’s prescribed life span. Of course, if the antidote is administered with a dosage of greater than 250 milligrams—”
“Hold on, for Christ’s sake,” Stevenson said. “Half of what you say isn’t coming through. Just put Quarry back on.”
Debussey’s mouth drew into a pout but he nodded and stood. He began turning and then turned back, sticking his face close to the camera lens.
“Do you want me to accelerate the administration of the antidote to the villagers at this time?” he asked.
“I’ll advise,” Stevenson said. “Now put Quarry back on. Alone.”
Debussey disappeared from the screen momentarily and then could be seen walking to exit the tent. Quarry’s big face and shoulders appeared again.
“Is that pussy gone?” Stevenson asked.
Quarry nodded. “I told him to wait outside.”
“What are the chances that infected aide can be taken care of quietly?” Stevenson asked. “Over there.”
Quarry shook his head. “Right now it’d be pretty hard. The capital was already crawling with journalists covering the Doctors Without Borders inoculation program. Word is they’re regrouping to check on the outbreak shortly, once he arrives at the hospital.”
“Shit,” Stevenson swore. “How the hell are we going to contain this now?”
“We’d better go into damage control mode right away,” Nelson said.
“Damn straight,” Stevenson confirmed. He looked back at the screen. “Who’s this infected aide? What’s his name?”
“Frank Clayton,” Quarry said.
Stevenson brought his hands to his face and massaged his temples. “Okay, let’s get a handle on this. First, we need to find out where this guy Clayton is and how to deal with him. We also need to wrap things up before word gets out. This thing has to be contained immediately.”
“Yes, sir. Dr. Debussey’s preparing a load of antiviral shots to curtail things in the village.”
“Forget that,” Stevenson said. “Go with the quick-action plan we discussed.”
Quarry’s face twitched. “You sure, sir?”
“Yes, I am,” Stevenson said in a clipped tone. “And don’t ever question me again.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Stevenson glared at the image on the screen, hoping his anger would be effectively conveyed by the camera. “Make it look like the work of frightened locals.”
“Understood, sir.”
“And then get Debussey on a plane back here ASAP,” Stevenson said. “The sooner, the better.”
Quarry nodded. “He won’t be happy. Like I said, he’s been preparing the antivirals to give to the entire village.”
“That goddamn idiot. Tell him you’re leaving a team behind to do that. Just get him out of there, and then take care of business as planned. Got it?”
Quarry’s face showed no emotion. “Yes, sir.”
Stevenson snapped his fingers and Nelson handed him the remote.
“Get back here as soon as you’re done,” Stevenson directed, and pressed the button to end the transmission. He held the remote in his hand for a moment then turned and hurled it against the wall. It broke apart, spilling batteries and plastic backings.
Nelson chuckled. “Well, at least Elvis spared the TV this time.”
Stevenson eyed him sharply and then smirked. “Good old Rod... Always able to make me laugh, even in the darkest of times.”
“What’s there to be mad about?” Nelson flashed a wide grin. “From the sound of it, Debussey’s modifications to the CEZ-A2 were a complete success, and Quarry and his boys will eliminate the tribe and burn the place to the ground. He matches the local skin color, so it’ll just look like another case of vigilante action in the face of indigenous hysteria.”
“Indigenous hysteria,” Stevenson said. “I like that. Has a nice spin to it. We’ll have to use that phrase somewhere down the line.” Stevenson paused and took a breath, a look of ecstasy in his eyes. “We made a good choice for our field test. It’s a damn good thing that life’s so cheap and those bastards are so stupid.”
Nelson’s grin widened. “Now is that any way for the man who’s going to be controlling the President of the United States to talk?”
Stevenson grinned back, basking in the ingenuity of his master plan. Yet he knew he had a ways to go before he could bring it to fruition.
“How long before the Talon checks in?”
Nelson glanced at his watch again. “Eight or nine hours. Remember, it’s still nighttime over there now.”
Stevenson nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I know. This country wasn’t built in a day.”
“But pretty soon you’ll own it, so you can change that,” Nelson said.
2 (#u495e8884-c4bc-527a-aa1e-1e878681eec3)
USS Fuller
Off the coast of Italy
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, let the rivulets of hot water wash over his face and chest. He turned, letting the flow go down his back. Nothing felt better than a hot shower after a mission in the field.
Well, a few things did, he thought with a grin.
He shut off the water, stepped out of the stall and began to towel dry his dark hair.
Jack Grimaldi looked at his watch. “You know how long you were in there?”
Bolan ignored the question.
“We’re on a U.S. Navy ship,” Grimaldi said. “You never heard of a three-minute shower being in the regulations?”
“Yeah, but I was in the Army,” Bolan said, continuing to dry himself.
“I hate to tell you, but you missed a whole line of camo paint by your ear.”
Bolan wiped behind his ear, but figured his partner was just razzing him.
“In that case,” he said, “I guess I’ll have to take another shower.”
Grimaldi laughed. “Not so fast. I’ll go see if I can find some cute sailor to clean it off for you.”
“No, thanks,” Bolan said.
“What?” Grimaldi turned and grinned. “I was gonna make sure it was a female sailor. They have a lot of women on these ships nowadays. Not like the old days.”
Bolan glanced in the mirror and rubbed off the traces of the camo paint.
“Or better yet,” Grimaldi continued, “I’ll commandeer us a helicopter and we’ll go take some shore leave at the nearest port. I know this great little cantina on Naples, with the prettiest women this side of Rome. That job in Libya was brutal. We can use a couple days of downtime.”
“Let me check on the status of our pickup first. Then I have to call Hal.”
Grimaldi frowned but nodded. “It’s probably the middle of the night stateside, but what the hell.”
Bolan looped the towel over his shoulder and walked to his bunk. He pulled open his duffel bag and took out clean underwear, socks, a black T-shirt and a pair of black cargo pants. He put them on and sat to lace up his boots.
“Damn,” Grimaldi said. “You look ready for the next mission.”
“Hal probably will have something to say about that.” He grabbed the sat phone and hit the button to call Hal Brognola.
The big Fed answered with a sleep-laden voice.
“Good morning,” Bolan said. He switched the phone to speaker.
Brognola blew out a deep breath.
“You sound pretty good for—” the Executioner looked at his watch and did the calculation “—two-thirty in the morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“You know damn well you did, but that’s okay. I received a previous update through State that it was ‘mission successful,’ but I’ve been waiting to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“It was,” Bolan said. “We recovered the two IGRDs, and took out a bunch of bad guys.”
“Did you expect anything less?” Grimaldi yelled.
“What?” Brognola said. “Is that Jack?”
“Yeah. He’s still wired on too much coffee and adrenaline.”
“Probably jealous because he was up in the air instead of getting down and dirty on the ground with you to take out those Industrial Gamma Radiographer Devices,” Brognola said. “You know how those flyboys are.”
Grimaldi blew out a loud guffaw.
“He says—” Bolan said.
“I heard him.”
Bolan could hear Brognola’s yawn through the phone. “Sounds like you need to get back to bed.”
“Bed? What’s that?” Brognola asked. “You know I always stay in the office when you guys are on a mission, till I hear from you.”
“Well, you’ve heard from us,” Bolan said. “Jack is chomping at the bit to go on another op. Got anything pending?”
Grimaldi’s eyes popped and his face twisted into an exaggerated grimace.
“Not at the moment,” Brognola said. “It’s actually been pretty quiet around these parts. The Hill’s been doing some bullshit investigation of some drug company CEO supposedly inflating the prices of some new cancer drug, but other than that, everybody’s been quieter than the President’s turkey the day before Thanksgiving.”
“Okay, Hal,” Bolan said. “Since we’ve got everything tidied up on this end, we’re going to sign off and get some shut-eye. I’ll check back when we get to port.”
The Chevalier Institute
Outside Luxembourg, Belgium
AUGUSTINE FRANÇOIS, ALSO known informally in certain circles in Europe as the Talon, adjusted his wig and checked his lipstick before getting out of his car. That the car, a Citroën, had been stolen only hours ago didn’t concern him. The police would not have been notified as of yet, because the owner was quite dead and in the vehicle’s trunk. Stepping out and smoothing the skirt over his thin but powerful legs, the Talon made his way toward the entrance to the building.
The Chevalier Institute, he thought in English. Since he would be traveling to the United States shortly after he finished here, the Talon knew it would be apropos to start thinking in that language.
He was fluent in at least five, and had a working knowledge of half a dozen more. In his business, being able to listen to the conversations going on around him was imperative. It could easily mean the difference between escape and apprehension, life and death. Ultimately his goals were prosperity and survival. This protracted new assignment was so complex, so far-reaching, that he had the feeling it would be his last. The amount of money he was being paid would afford him a nice retirement somewhere, watching the sunsets and appreciating the scenery.
The building itself was a modern-looking brown, brick-and-mortar structure, three stories high and artfully laid out with large windows winding along each wall. A small pond was in front, a statue of a boy on a dolphin releasing fountain spray into the water. The grounds, lushly verdant with meticulously trimmed bushes and a manicured lawn, gave the place a pseudo-palatial appearance. A winding, pebbled walkway led from the parking lot to the front entry.
He reached the main entrance and stood in front of the solid glass door with its ornate golden handle.
Rather garish, he thought, using a tissue to keep from leaving any fingerprints on the elongated handle.
He stepped into a large foyer. Inside, the walls were a pale cream color and a skylight let the burgeoning morning sunlight filter down onto the highly polished floor. The opaque, plastic half-moon bubble of a pan, tilt and zoom camera was mounted to the ceiling behind the desk near the stairway and elevators. He wondered how many pairs of eyes were watching and made a mental note to not forget to deal with any surveillance disks that might be recording his entry.
Just inside the entrance a man in a blue suit sat behind an artfully shaped desk. The Talon knew immediately that he was security. His dark hair was slicked back and his cheeks had a sagging, pouty look. Obviously not the athletic type.
The curved, metallic desk obviously afforded the man access to phones and alarms, and perhaps even a modicum of ballistic cover. But since this was Belgium, he doubted the guard would be armed, even in view of the upgraded concerns over possible terrorist attacks. Still, the Talon decided, caution should outweigh any assumptions. This front-desk lackey might not be the only security person working. He knew he could not discount the possibility that one of the others, if they did exist, might have access to a weapon.
Behind the security guard, a series of seven-foot rectangular portals lined the entranceway to the rest of the building. Metal detectors, no doubt. The company had taken some precautions. But no matter. Each obstacle, now that it was known, would be dealt with in kind.
The Talon smiled in his most fetching manner, held out the little finger on his left hand—the one with the exaggeratedly long, false, bright red fingernail—and spoke in a husky yet feminine-sounding voice. “Pardon me, but do you speak English?”
The man in the suit smiled and shook his head.
