Patient Zero (15 page)

Baltimore, Maryland / Tuesday, June 30; 3:25 P.M.

THE FOUR OF them stared at me. Half an hour ago we were strangers and I was beating the crap out of them; now I was supposed to lead them on an urban infiltration mission against unknown odds and, very likely, plague-carrying walking corpses. How could I open a dialogue with these men with all of that hanging in the air?

Okay,
I thought,
if you’re going to do this, Buddy boy, then you’d better get it right the first time.

“Attennnn-
hun
!”

They shot to their feet and snapped to attention with all the speed and precision of career military. I walked up to stand in front of them and gave them all a hard, steady look. “I don’t make threats and I don’t like speeches, so this one will be short. If you’re here then you know what’s going on. Maybe some of you know more about this than I do. Whatever. You four are supposed to be the best of a good lot, all active military. Until this afternoon I was a Baltimore police detective. Church says that I’m a captain, but I haven’t seen any bars on my collar or a paycheck with ‘Captain’ Ledger on it, so it might still sound hypothetical to some of you. But from this point on I’m in charge of Echo Team. Anyone who doesn’t like it, or doesn’t think they can work with me can leave right now without prejudice. Otherwise hold your line. You have one second to decide.”

Nobody moved a muscle.

“That’s settled then. Stand at ease.” I gave them a quick rundown of my military and law enforcement career, and then told them about my martial arts background. I wrapped it up by saying, “I don’t do martial arts for trophies or for fun. I’m a fighter, and I train to win any fight I’m in. I don’t believe in rules and I don’t believe in fair fights. You want a fair fight, join a boxing club. I also don’t believe in dying for my country. I have a kind of General Patton take on that: I think the other guy should die for his. Any of you have problems with that?”

“Hooah,” murmured Sergeant Rock, which was more or less Ranger slang for “fucking-A.”

“We may actually be doing a field op as early as tomorrow. We don’t have time for male bonding and long nights around a campfire telling tales and listening to a harmonica. They brought us on board to be field ops. First-liners and shooters. We’re going to try a quiet infiltration, but if we get a kill order then scared or not we’re going to put hair on the walls. When we lock and load, gentlemen, then those living dead motherfuckers had better start being scared of us because, by God, sooner or later we are going to wipe them out. Not hurt ’em, not slow ’em down      we are going to kill them all. End of speech.”

I shifted to stand in front of Sergeant Rock. His dark brown skin was crisscrossed with scars, old and new. “Name and rank.”

“First Sergeant Bradley Sims, U.S. Army Rangers, sir.”

Sir.
That would take some getting used to. “Okay, Top, why are you here?”

“To serve my country, sir.” He had that noncom knack of looking straight through an officer without actually making real eye contact.

“Don’t kiss my ass. Why are you here?”

Now he looked at me, right into me, and there were all kinds of fires burning in his dark brown eyes. “Few years ago I stepped back from active duty to take a training post at Camp Merrill. While I was there my son Henry was killed in Iraq on the third day of the war. Six days before his nineteenth birthday.” He paused. “My daughter Monique lost both her legs in Baghdad last Christmas when a mine blew up under her Bradley. I got no more kids to throw at this thing. I need to tear off a piece of this myself.”

“For revenge?”

“I got a nephew in junior year of high school. He wants to join the army. His choice if he enlists or not, but maybe I can do something about the number of threats he might have to face.”

I nodded and stepped to the next man. Scarface. “Name and rank.”

“Second Lieutenant Oliver Brown, Army, sir.”

“Duty?”

“Two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan.”

“Action?”

“I was at Debecka Pass.”

That was one of the most significant battles of the second Iraq War. I’d heard a general on CNN call it a “hero maker,” and yet the mainstream news barely mentioned it. “Special Forces?”

He nodded. He did it the right way, just an acknowledgment without puffing up with pride. I liked that. “That where you picked up the scar?”

“No, sir, my daddy gave me that when I was sixteen.” That was the only time he didn’t meet my eyes.

I moved on. Joker. “Read it out,” I said.

“CPO Samuel Tyler. U.S. Navy. Friends call me Skip, sir.”

“Why?”

He blinked. “Nickname from when I was a kid, sir.”

“Let me guess. Your dad was a captain and they called you ‘Little Skipper.’ ”

He flushed bright red. Hole in one.

“SEALS?”

“No, sir. I washed out during Hell Week.”

“Why?”

“They said I was too tall and heavy to be a SEAL.”

“You are.” Then I threw him a bone. “But I don’t think we’re going to be doing much long-distance swimming. I need sonsabitches that can hit hard, hit fast, and hit
last.
Can you do that?”

“You damn right,” he said, and then added, “Sir.”

I looked at the last guy. Jolly Green Giant. He towered several inches over me and had to go two-sixty, all chest and shoulders, tiny waist. Yet for all the mass he looked quick rather than bulky. Not like Apeman. One side of his face was still red and swollen from where I’d hit him.

“Give it to me.”

“Bunny Rabbit, Force Recon, sir.”

I shot him a look. “You think you’re fucking funny?”

“No, sir. My last name is Rabbit. Everyone calls me Bunny.”

He paused.

“It gets worse, sir. My first name’s Harvey.”

The other guys tried to hold it together, I have to give them that—but they all cracked up.

“Son,” said Top Sims, “did your parents
hate
you?”

“Yeah, Top, I think they did.”

And then I lost it, too.

Sebastian Gault / The Hotel Ishtar, Baghdad / Four days ago

SO MANY PARTS of Gault’s plan were in motion now, and it was all going beautifully. Gault and Toys, together and separately, had been on-site to oversee the most critical phases, and it had been like taking a stroll in a summer garden. No one they knew could move around the Middle East with the freedom Gault enjoyed; certainly no one in the military. Even ambassadors had five times the restrictions that were imposed on him. He, however, was unique. Sebastian Gault was the single biggest contributor—in terms of financial aid and materials—to the Red Cross, the World Health Organization, and half a dozen other humanitarian organizations. He had poured tens of millions into each organization, and he could say, with no fear of contradiction or qualification, that he had helped to ease more suffering and save more lives than any other single person in this hemisphere. Without benefit of a government behind him, with no armies, no overt political agendas, Gault, through Gen2000 and his other companies, had helped eradicate eighteen disease pathogens, including a new form of river blindness, a mutated strain of cholera, and two separate strains of TB. His comment at the World Health Summit in Oslo had first been a beauty of a sound byte and had later more or less become the credo of independent health organizations worldwide: “Humanity comes first. Always. Politics and religion, valuable as they are, are always of second importance. If we do not work together to preserve life, to treasure it and keep it safe, then nothing we fight for is worth having.”

In truth, the wisest statement Gault had ever heard—and he heard it from his own father—was that “everyone has a price.” Good ol’ dad had added two bits of his personal wisdom as codicils to that. The first was: “If someone tells you that they can’t be bought it’s a matter of you having not offered the right amount.” And the second was, “If you can’t find their price, then find their vice      and own that.”

Sebastian Gault loved his father. Damn shame the man had smoked like a furnace, otherwise he might be here to share in the billions rather than lying dead in a Bishops Gate cemetery. Cancer had taken him in less than sixteen months. Gault had been eighteen the day before the funeral, and had stepped right in as owner-manager of the chain. He sold it immediately, finished college, and invested every dime in pharmaceutical industry stock, taking some risks, acting as his own broker so that he saved his fees for reinvestment, buying smart, and constantly looking toward the horizon for the next trend. Unlike his peers he never bothered looking for the Golden Fleece pharma stock—the elusive wonder drug that will actually cure something. Instead he focused on new treatment areas for diseases that might never be cured. It wasn’t until well after he made his first billion that he even paid attention to cures; and even then it was cures for diseases that nobody cared about, things that affected tribes in third-world shit holes. If it hadn’t been for Internet news he might never have even gone in that direction, but then he had a revelation. A major one. Cure something in the third world, take a visible financial loss on the effort to do so, and then let the Internet news junkies turn you into a saint.

He tried it, and it worked. It was easier than he expected. Most of the third world diseases were easy to cure; they exist largely because no major pharmaceutical company gives a tinker’s damn about starving people in some African nation whose name changes every other week. When Gault’s first company, PharmaSolutions, found a cure for swamp blight, a rare disease in Somalia, he borrowed money to mass-produce and distribute the drug through the World Health Organization. The WHO—the most well-intentioned and earnest people in the world, but easily duped because of their desperate need for support—told everyone in the world press about how this fledging company nearly bankrupted itself to cure a tragic disease. The story hit the Internet on a Tuesday morning; by Wednesday evening it was on CNN and by Thursday midday it was picked up by wire services everywhere. By close of business on Friday PharmaSolutions stock had doubled; by the close of business the following week the stock price had gone vertical. That was the first time Gault, then twenty-two years old, made it onto the cover of
Newsweek.

By the time Gault was twenty-six he was a billionaire several times over. He openly pumped millions into research and scored one cure after another. When he launched Gen2000 he stepped into the global pharmaceutical arena for real, but by then he owned billions in stock in other pharma companies. The fact that at least half of the diseases for which he ultimately found a cure were pathogens cooked up in his lab never made it into the press. It wasn’t even a rumor in the wind. Enough money saw to that; and so far his father—bless his soul—had been right. Everyone had a price or a vice.

Toys was reading the London
Times.
“Mmm,” he murmured, “there’s speculation—again—about your being given a knighthood; and another rumor about a Nobel Prize.” He folded down the paper and looked at Gault. “Which would you prefer?”

Gault shrugged, not terribly interested. The papers dredged that much up every few weeks. “The Nobel win would drive up the stock prices.”

“Sure, but the knighthood would get you laid a lot more often.”

“I get laid quite enough, thank you.”

Toys sniffed. “I’ve seen some of the cows you bring home.”

Gault sipped his drink. “So how would a knighthood change that?”

“Well,” Toys drawled, “ ‘Sir Sebastian’ would at very least get some well-bred ass. As it is now you seem to rate your playmates by cup size.”

“Better than the half-starved creatures you find so thrilling.”

“You can never be too thin or too rich,” Toys said, quoting sagely.

They were interrupted by the chirp of Toys’s cell phone. Toys looked at it and handed it over without answering. “The Yank.”

Gault flipped it open and heard the American’s familiar Texas drawl. “Line?”

“Clear. Good to hear from you.” As usual Toys bent close to listen in.

“Yeah, well, the shit’s hit the fan round here and we’ve all been scrambling. I’ve been in continuous meetings for the last couple of days. There’s the matter of a tape from Afghanistan. An attack on a village. You follow me?”

“Of course.”

“You should warn me about shit like that, dammit. That’s set a lot of brushfires and Big G has been trying to take over the whole show. There’s been a lot of pressure to crowd the new team out.”

“The DMS?”

He could almost hear the American flinch at the use of an uncoded word. “Yeah. The President wants them in, and everyone else wants them out, and I mean out: closed down.”

“Any chance of that?”

“None, far as I can see. For whatever reason the President seems to be defending this group against all comers. I actually witnessed him read the riot act to the National Security advisor in front of a couple of generals. It’s getting ugly in D.C.

“I’m working on planting one of my guys in this group.”

“How sure are you that you can?”

The American paused. “Pretty sure.”

Toys raised his eyebrows and mimed applause. Gault said, “Keep me posted.”

He closed the phone and set it aside. Toys walked back to his chair and settled into it and the two of them considered the implications of the call.

Toys said, “Perhaps I’ve been underestimating that bloke.”