Gideon's Corpse (37 page)

The captain shut the safe, locked it, and the beeping stopped. He brought the puck over to one of the stainless-steel tables. Blaine knew what he had to do next, and he held his breath in anticipation. It would be a delicate operation.

Laying the puck on the stage of a stereozoom microscope, the captain examined its surface for at least five minutes before making a small mark on it. Then he took a scalpel from the pouch of his biosuit and, with surgical care, cut a small tile of white plastic from the puck. Contained within that tiny piece of plastic, Blaine knew, was a tracking microchip.

The captain flicked the plastic piece to the floor and kicked it under the yellow biosafe with the side of his shoe.

Blaine shivered again. His fingers were already growing numb from the cold. The captain seemed immune.

“I’ll take that, if you don’t mind,” Blaine said, pointing at the puck.

The captain handed it to him. “Be very, very careful, sir. If you drop it, the world as we know it ends.”

A moment later they emerged from the vault, and were forced to wait once again for their visors to unfog. It took longer this time. Even so, everything was ticking along like clockwork.

They made their way back through the lab until they had reached the decontamination showers and air lock. The shower accommodated only one person at a time, and the captain entered first. The automatic door rumbled shut; Blaine could hear the hissing sound of the chemical decontaminants spraying down the captain. The sounds stopped; the outer door opened with a whoosh of the air lock. A moment later the inner door opened to admit him to the shower. He stepped inside and was momentarily engulfed in a blast of chemicals, while a metallic voice instructed him to raise his arms and turn around. Then the door opened and he stepped into the ready room—to find the barrel of a gun pressed immediately against his visor.

“Give me the smallpox,” said a voice Blaine recognized as that of Gideon Crew.

69

S
TONE FORDYCE HEARD
the chopper before he saw it: a UH-60 Black Hawk, coming in low and fast from the east. He had moved to the far end of the parking lot, near the gates to the motor pool, and he took refuge from the rotor wash behind a Humvee on blocks. The Black Hawk slowed and turned, touching down on the tarmac of the nearly empty lot. Fordyce waited for the craft to settle. As the rotors spun down, the cabin door opened and six SWAT team members hopped out, wearing full body armor and carrying M4 carbines. A moment later a civilian stepped down and Fordyce was startled, and encouraged, to see that Dart himself had come along. More proof that calling Dart had been the right choice.

He watched as they moved out of the backwash and gathered near the doors of the building.

Fordyce straightened up and came out from behind the car, showing himself. Dart saw him and gestured him over.

Fordyce jogged up to the group of soldiers, who fanned out in a semicircle as he arrived—a lieutenant, a warrant officer, and four specialists.

“Are they still inside?” Dart asked, stepping forward.

Fordyce nodded.

“And Crew? Where’s he?”

“Still down in Level Four, as far as I know. As you requested, I’ve initiated no contact.”

“Any sign of activity? Confrontation?”

“No.”

“Any other security involved? Alarms or alerts?”

“Nothing as far as I can tell. It’s been as quiet as a tomb here.”

“Good.” Dart checked his watch. “They’ve been inside for almost fourteen minutes, by my reckoning.” He frowned. “Listen, Agent Fordyce. You’ve done a fine piece of work. But your job is now done and I don’t want anything, and I mean
anything
, going wrong. We’re going to let the professionals handle it from this point on.” He extended his hand. “Your sidearm, please.”

Fordyce slipped it out of its holster, held it out to Dart butt-first. But even as he did so, he was surprised at the request. “Why do you want it?”

Dart took the weapon, examined it, racked a round into the chamber, then raised his arm and pointed the gun at Fordyce’s chest. “Because I’m going to shoot you with it.”

A noise, shockingly loud; a burst of white; and Fordyce was punched backward, the round striking him square in the breastbone and knocking him to the asphalt. He had never in his entire life been so surprised, and as he stared wide-eyed into an impossibly blue summer sky, he was unable to process what had happened to him even as the last of his life fluttered out, blue rushing to black.

70

W
ITH THE BARREL
of the Python on his visor, Blaine froze. Taking advantage of this, Gideon reached quickly down to the biopouch of the man’s bluesuit, unsnapped the flap, and slipped his hand inside. His fingers closed over the still-cold disk, which he removed and placed in his own pocket with care. Keeping the gun on Blaine, he unsealed the hood of his own bluesuit and pulled it off, allowing him to see and breathe better.

“Gideon,” was all Blaine managed to say, in a quavering whisper.

“Lie facedown on the floor next to the captain, arms extended over your head,” said Gideon, more loudly than he intended.

“Gideon, I want you to please listen—” Blaine began, his voice muffled by the hood.

Gideon pulled back the hammer of the Colt. “Do as I say.” He tried to control the shaking of his hands. The idea of killing Alida’s father was horrifying, but he knew the situation was far too critical for him to show any weakness.

He watched as the older man lay on the floor, arms extended. They were both still in their bluesuits, their weapons holstered underneath. Disarming them was going to be awkward, and the captain in particular had the look of a dangerous opponent. Keeping the revolver aimed at him, Gideon took out his cell phone with his other hand and called Fordyce.

After a few rings it switched over to voice mail.

He put the cell phone away. Fordyce was somewhere out of range—which would explain why he’d never gotten the agent’s call. He would have to deal with this himself.

“Captain,” he said, “remove your hood with one hand, keeping your other hand extended above your head and in sight at all times. If you try anything, I’ll shoot to kill.”

The captain complied.

“Now you, Blaine.”

As soon as Blaine got his hood off, he began to talk again. “Gideon, I want you to hear me out—”

“Shut up.” He felt sick, tried to master the shaking of his hands. He turned back to the captain. “I want you to stand up slowly. Then, with your left hand, remove your bluesuit, keeping your right arm extended from your body and in sight at all times. If you so much as twitch, either of you, I start firing and won’t stop until you’re both dead.”

The captain complied and—a credit to his intelligence—didn’t try anything. Gideon was absolutely serious about killing them both, and they must have sensed it.

When the bluesuit was off, Gideon had the captain lie back down on the floor, then searched him, recovering a 9mm sidearm and a knife. He tied the captain’s hands behind his back with some surgical tubing that was lying on the adjacent lab table.

He turned to Blaine. “Now you. Take off your suit just like the captain.”

“For Alida’s sake, listen—”

“One more word and I’ll kill you.” Gideon felt himself flush deeply. He had been trying to keep the whole awful question of Alida out of his head. And here her father was playing that card right up front—the bastard.

Blaine fell silent.

When the bluesuit was off, Gideon searched Blaine, snagging the man’s firearm—a beautiful old Colt .45 Peacemaker with staghorn grips—and tucking it into the waistband at the small of his back.

“Lie back down.”

Blaine complied. Gideon tied his hands with more surgical tubing.

What was he going to do now? He needed Fordyce. Having seen Blaine and the captain enter, Fordyce would surely be on his way down as backup—wouldn’t he? Why wasn’t he here? Had they already had a run-in with him on their way in? Impossible. They had arrived calm, fresh, unsuspecting. Had someone detained Fordyce?

It didn’t matter. He needed help. It was time to call Glinn.

He took out his cell phone. Just then, he heard sounds in the hallway beyond: the heavy running of boots. He took a step back as the doors burst open, soldiers in tactical uniforms rushing in, weapons at the ready.

“
Nobody move!
” cried the soldier on point. “
Drop your weapon!
”

Gideon suddenly found himself completely outnumbered; six automatic weapons were pointed at him.
Jesus, is this why Fordyce isn’t here?
he wondered.
They must have seen us on the monitors, sent in an interdiction squad.
He froze, unmoving, hands extended, keeping the Python and the captain’s 9mm in sight.

A second later Dart stepped in. He looked around, taking in the room.

Gideon stared at him. “
Dart?
What’s this?”

“It’s all right,” Dart said quietly to Gideon. “We’ll take care of things from now on.”

“Where’s Fordyce?”

“Waiting by the chopper. He called me without telling you, explained everything. Said you wanted to go it alone. And I see you’ve managed quite well. But now we’re here to take over.”

Gideon stared at him.

“Don’t be concerned, I know all about it—Blaine, the proposal for the novel, the plan, the smallpox. It’s over now, you’re in the clear.”

So Fordyce
had
made the call after all. And Dart had listened—to the point of coming himself. Amazing. Gideon felt his whole body relax. The long nightmare was finally over.

Dart glanced around. “Who has the smallpox?” he asked.

“I do,” said Gideon.

“May I have it, please?”

Gideon hesitated—why, he was not entirely certain.

Dart held out his hand. “May I have it, please?”

“When you secure those two and get them the hell out of here,” Gideon said. “And then I think the smallpox needs to go straight back into its vault.”

A long silence. Then Dart smiled. “Trust me, it’s going right back where it belongs.”

Still, Gideon hesitated. “I’ll put it back myself.”

Dart’s face lost some of its friendliness. “Why the difficulty, Gideon?”

Gideon couldn’t find an answer. There was something about this that didn’t feel quite right; some vague feeling that Dart was being a little too friendly, that he’d come around to Gideon’s viewpoint a little too easily.

“No difficulty,” said Gideon. “I’d just feel better seeing it go back in the vault.”

“I think we might arrange that. But if we’re going in the lab, you’ll have to disarm. You know—the metal detector.”

Gideon took a step back. “The captain here went in with his 9mm, no problem. There wasn’t any metal detector.” He felt his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. Was this bullshit? Were they lying to him?

Dart turned toward the soldiers. “Disarm this man now.”

The rifles came up again. Gideon stared. He made no move.

A lieutenant stepped forward, drew his sidearm, and placed it against the side of Gideon’s head. “You heard him. Count of five.
One, two, three
—”

Gideon handed over the Python, the 9mm, and the Peacemaker.

“Now the smallpox.”

Gideon looked from Dart to the men. The expression on their faces was more than unfriendly. They were looking at him as if he were the enemy. Could it be they still believed he was a terrorist? Impossible.

Nevertheless, something felt very wrong.

“Call the director of USAMRIID down here,” Gideon said. “He must be on the premises. I’ll give it to him.”

“You’ll give it to me,” said Dart.

Gideon looked from Dart to the soldiers. He was unarmed and really had no choice. “All right. Tell the lieutenant to back off. I’m not doing this with a gun pressed to my head.”

Dart made a motion and the lieutenant stepped back, keeping his pistol leveled.

Gideon slid his hand into his pocket, his fingers closing over the puck. He slipped it out.

“Easy now,” said Dart.

Gideon held it out. Dart stepped forward to take it, his hands closing over the puck.

“Kill him,” said Dart.

71

B
UT DART HAD
spoken too soon. Gideon clamped his fingers around the puck and turned abruptly, checking Dart hard with his shoulder, while at the same time extending his hand with the puck over his head.

“Don’t shoot!” Blaine cried, from the floor. “Wait!”

Gideon stared at Blaine. There was a sudden silence. The lieutenant didn’t fire. None of them did. Dart seemed paralyzed.

“Drop your weapons,” Gideon said. He cocked his arm as if to throw the puck and Dart jumped back, the soldiers following his cue, alarmed.

“Don’t throw it, for God’s sake!” This came from Blaine, still lying on the ground. He rose awkwardly to his feet. “Dart, you
really
screwed up,” he said angrily. “This isn’t the way to deal with this situation.”

Dart was sweating, his face white. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing this mess. Cut this off.” He held out his wrists.

Dart obeyed, using a scalpel to cut off the surgical tubing.

Blaine rubbed his hands together, fixing Gideon with his deep blue eyes but speaking to the captain. “Gurulé, you can get up now, too. We don’t need to keep up this pretense any longer.”

Full comprehension dawned in Gideon’s mind as the captain rose to his feet, his dark eyes flashing with triumph. He was staggered by the realization: Dart and Blaine were co-conspirators.

Blaine turned to the soldiers. “Lieutenant, you men, damn you, lower your weapons!”

A hesitation, and then Dart said: “Do it.”

The lieutenant obeyed and his men followed.

“Give me my sidearm,” rumbled Blaine, holding his hand out to Dart.

Dart handed him back the Peacemaker. Blaine hefted it, opened the gate, spun the cylinder to make sure it was still loaded, and tucked it into his belt. The 9mm was restored to the captain.