River of Desire: A Romantic Action Adventure/Thriller (18 page)

Xikxu grasped Dylan’s arm, shoved it painfully behind his back and began to haul him off, but Dylan fought to pull himself free to reach an arm toward Von Schotten. “Wait. If I’m going to die anyway, please share your secret with me. This may be your last chance to tell another scientist about your breakthrough. What can it hurt? I’ll never be able to share the knowledge with anyone else.”

Von Schotten’s head bobbed rhythmically in what looked like thought. After a pregnant pause, he signaled Xikxu, who stopped, but held Dylan’s good arm behind his back and kept his weapon ready.

“
That interests me,
Herr
Hart. I have not had opportunity to discuss vork vith scientific colleague. I admit it to be tempting proposition.” The doctor stood erect with his chest out, his chin high. Dylan had obviously hit upon his one weakness besides paranoia. Pride. “
I
am first scientist to successfully combine Ebola virus vith Handovers microbes.”

Dylan sensed the gravity of the doctor’s words. “How?”

Von Schotten’s thin lips twisted into a malicious grin. “
I
spliced strand of RNA from Ebola virus onto RNA of Handovers. Vithin three generations, hybrid mutated into unique agent. The microbe is highly lethal and impossible to treat”-his untamed eyes shone-“except
I,
too, make vaccine, taken from antibodies of infected tribe, that blocks action of virus vithin cell so it cannot replicate as it normally vould. True power lies not in virus, but in antibody. He who controls antibody, controls vorld.”

“
Why you?” Dylan wondered aloud, “when so many others are working on this?”

“
Others are veaklings! I alone use people to harvest virus.” Von Schotten’s eyes shone. “No one else has strength or stomach. Hybrid vill not to grow in another specie.”

The force of Von Schotten’s words hit Dylan hard. This unethical man held the power of life or death in his hands and would be willing to use it entirely for his own ends.

“Now,
Herr
Hart, although I enjoy our little chat, it must end.” Von Schotten turned toward his guard and gave an order in a dialect Dylan did not know. “Xikxu must remove you.”

As the guard dragged him across the room, Dylan strained to free himself. At the door, he was able to dig his heels in long enough to say, “Dr. Von Schotten, I beg you to consider the life of your colleague’s granddaughter. You said you didn’t approve of indiscriminate murder, but you are about to wantonly condemn a young woman to her death.”

Von Schotten held the pistol steady. “No more arguments,
Herr
Hart. Xikxu, take him away.”

Xikxu grasped Dylan’s arm in an iron-clad hold and dragged him from the house, the gun sealed to his skull. Dylan resisted the powerful guard as much as he could in his weakened condition, but was propelled relentlessly forward. He stumbled along, partly on his own, partly hauled by the guard.

At a great enough distance from the house that he wouldn’t be heard or seen, Dylan hooked a foot in a vine and dropped to his hands and knees. He swiftly slipped the jungle knife from his sock into his palm before Xikxu yanked him upright and pushed him forward.

In a clearing. Xikxu’s tug on Dylan’s arm demanded he stop. The time had come to kill or be killed. Before the guard had time to react, Dylan flipped the knife out of its sheath and thrust it into the other man’s gut. The guard’s eyes popped wide with surprise. He silently clutched his stomach and fell to his knees. A moment later, he pitched forward and lay still. Dylan took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. After cleaning the knife on a leaf, he placed it back in his sock. He had promised himself he would never kill another human being again after Somalia, but saving Leah’s life was all that mattered to him now.

He grasped Xikxu under the arms and, despite his throbbing, almost useless left arm and shoulder, adrenaline gave him the strength to move the portly guard behind thick growth. With one last sideways glance to insure his safety, Dylan darted back around the house and sidled up to the study’s window to see if Von Schotten was still in the room.

Inside, Von Schotten sat by his desk rifling through a file. When he glanced up, Dylan ducked out of the doctor’s field of vision and made his way around the side of the house, staying close to the exterior wall. He scanned each room in passing for possible new dangers. In one room Sawa was making a bed. A wiry, indigenous man swiped a mop over the floor, but appeared more interested in talking to her.

Dylan bent beneath the sill and continued his reconnaissance, the hum of a generator cloaking his footsteps. At the next window, he saw a lab table in the center of the room. He had found his target. He climbed through the open window into the empty laboratory and went directly to the lab’s pint-sized refrigerator. It contained an array of beakers the doctor had labeled in German. Most of the technical names had no meaning for him, but the last beaker he picked up read,
Variola major
, a name he recognized from the letter he had carried.

To the best of his knowledge, this had to be smallpox vaccine.

He rummaged through drawers until he found a rack of empty test tubes and a box of matching corks. He searched for a surgical mask and lab coat and found both draped across the desk chair. Plucking rubber gloves off a wire rack, he pulled them over his large hands

He removed the beaker gingerly from the refrigerator and placed it on the lab table. With extreme care, he uncorked it and carefully filled a test tube with the
Variola
. After he sealed the tube, he placed it in his breast pocket. On second thought, he prepared another test tube, tore the label off the beaker and wrapped it around the second tube before placing it in his other pocket.

With the tubes safely stored, he scanned the other beakers. One read,
Ebola/Hanta,
and had a skull and crossbones on the label. This could be either the live infectious virus or the vaccine Von Schotten had developed. The potential danger of exposing himself to the “Hot” Virus was so great, he decided not to tamper with it, merely report its development to the authorities when he returned to Iquitos. Now he had to get the vaccine back to Leah.

A scraping sound in the doorway almost caused him to knock over the beaker. He spun around and faced Von Schotten.

Chapter Thirteen

Leah leaned back on the garden bench and took a deep breath. The air, thick with moisture, lay heavy in her lungs. She stretched her legs, grateful to be allowed outside what had become cell-like house walls. Kruger no longer needed to worry about her escaping-her life depended on remaining with him. The idea of meeting in the garden had actually been his.

She watched while he tended to his garden full of exotic orchids and bromeliads. Every so often he would stop to study a particular plant, carefully stroking a vine or pinching dead leaves. As he did, he spoke to the plant, either encouraging or flattering it. The task evidently placed strain on his back and legs, for he bent over more than normal when upright, showing a decided limp. She marveled how he took meticulous care of his plants, even while neglecting his own condition. The attention he paid to his garden made it difficult to believe anyone as nurturing as this shriveled up old man had caused the suffering of so many.

She envied Kruger’s absorption. If only she could find an activity that would take her mind off of Dylan. Two days had passed since his departure and every day her worries multiplied. She could hardly think of anything else. Was Dylan safe? Had he found his destination? What if he ran into trouble and never returned? If he did return, would he have the vaccine?

Terror grew in spite of her efforts to keep it sequestered in the shadowy corners of her mind, and with it came thoughts she’d rather not entertain. Would Dylan abandon her like her father; point his boat back toward civilization and leave her to her fate? She didn’t want to think this of him, but she couldn’t help herself. She had trusted men before, only to be disappointed. Why would she expect a paid guide to do what her father wouldn’t? With this niggling doubt came a sense of dread, which almost made her interview with the doctor a welcome way to take her mind off her worries.

Kruger limped over to her and handed her a green orchid with the air of one offering an emerald. “These are my children,
mein kinder
. A lovely flower for lovely young lady.”

“
It’s gorgeous.” She was touched, but wary. She had to consider the source of the sentiment.

“
Flowers are only creatures on earth to rejoice in my presence, Leah. Look here-” He gently lifted a large, lavender bloom. “This
Cattleya Skinneri
, national flower of Costa Rica.”

“
And this,” he caressed a deep cinnamon-brown flower with a rose lip and heavy red venation, “
Laelia Tenebrosa
.”

Nearby a hummingbird landed on a long stem with pink leaves. “What’s that lovely flower called?”

“Heliconia. Sometimes called ‘lobster-claws’. Hummingbirds pollinate it. Beautiful is it not?”

She had the urge to tell him that all lives were equally beautiful. “Spectacular.”

“And good.” He plucked a dead leaf off a nearby vine. “Plants are more than pleasing to eye. They nourish environment. Vhat vould planet be vithout them?”

“
Dull, I imagine.”

“
More like dead. Air ve breathe, earth beneath our feet, animal life around us all to depend on our fine flowering friends.”

Kruger was such an paradox. One day he was telling her about his Nazi past and the next he was extolling the importance of plant life to the planet. She wouldn’t be surprised if he launched into a spiel about saving the rain forest. Categorizing him seemed out of the question. “How did you learn to love plants so much?”

Pinching another dead leaf took priority over her question. “This might be hard to understand for you, but it vas in camp. Behind my quarters I grew small garden vhere I planted roses and lilies. They gave me peace and helped me to believe in beauty of life.” He disentangled a creeper strangling a Bird-of-Paradise. “Since then I have garden always.”

She imagined the concentration camp in the black and white of newsreel footage. Emaciated people in striped uniforms shuffling past bright scarlet and coral colored roses. In her vision, the beauty of the flowers contrasted with the surrounding deprivation and intensified the horror. “Tell me more of your life in Berlin.”

“My father vas bureaucrat and my mother at home stayed with four children. There vas never money enough for frivolous things.” He paused to pick a weed. “Ve always had roof over heads and food in bellies, but ve had to make due with hand me-down-clothes and second hand books like many in Germany at time.”

She jotted down notes, listening for anything that might explain this man’s behavior.

“My parents vere proud. If they struggled, they vould never let us know. Ve vere made to believe always everything vould be fine. Only time it upset me vas at school. Because of our grades, my sister and I vere as charity students, accepted at prestigious private academy. We vere laughed at, or scorned, but our heads ve held high and dismissed insults. Ve vere taught to be proud.”

She fingered the delicate orchid he had given her. “If you were the underdog growing up, why were you not more sympathetic to the suffering of others?”

He solemnly nodded. “I am,
mein kinder
. I am.”

“
It’s hard to believe that, after what you’ve told me.”

He picked up clippers and pointed them at her. “You judge me, but only those vith clear conscience to judge others have right.”

How had he found her out? How could he possibly know she hadn’t always acted in an upstanding way herself? Like the time she took advantage of Gary Jacobs’ illness and wormed her way into his genome assignment. And the late lunches she’d take from the Times to attend a Nordstrom’s sale. But while she wrestled with the implication of his argument, she knew her indiscretions hardly equaled his. “None of us are perfect, but it sounds like you might have outdone yourself in that department.”

He turned back to his pruning. “Things are not always vhat they appear.”

Putting down her pen, she stared at his stooped back. “So what are you saying?”

He trimmed a long, leafless stem. “Choices ve make are rarely clear cut, black or vhite. Often there are...vhat vould you to call it...extenuating circumstances.” He turned again and looked at her. “Vhat if I turn out different than you believe? How vould you to handle that?

The thought grated against her like sandpaper against skin. What if he was right and she allowed herself to know him in a different way? How would that affect everything she held dear? Her every perception? Her every conviction? She had held onto her beliefs too long, especially those regarding the moral rightness of certain behavior. They defined who she was. She could not simply abandon or dismiss them now.

She glanced down at her pad. The word
Nazi
jumped out at her. “I really don’t know.”

* * *

Von Schotten pointed the gun directly at Dylan’s head. “Vhat a surprise,
Herr
Hart. I never expected to see you again. And in laboratory, no less. I vill have to have vord vith Xikxu.”

Dylan patted the test tubes in his pocket. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” he said, backing away, “but I must take the vaccine to Kruger’s granddaughter.”

Von Schotten frowned. “Too late for that. Since Xikxu did not eliminate you, I vill have to in my own vay.”

At his words, a vice tightly gripped Dylan’s chest. He could hardly breathe thinking of the diabolical significance behind Von Schotten’s words. “How do you plan to do that?”

Von Schotten made a jittery flick of the gun sideways. “Sit! And you vill soon see.”

Dylan eyed the raised firearm, aware that this may be his last chance to escape. “Okay. Okay!”

He began to turn toward the chair to throw Von Schotten off-base, then twirled back around and lunged for the gun. Knocked off balance, Von Schotten stumbled backwards, accidentally flinging the gun over his shoulder. It came to a resounding halt at the feet of the guard Dylan had seen through the bedroom window. The guard picked up the gun and leveled it at Dylan. Dylan raised his arms and opened his empty hands for the guard to see. “Okay...I quit...don’t shoot.”

For an elderly man, Von Schotten recovered quickly. He brushed off his jacket and straightened his shirt collar. “Sit!” he demanded again.

Dylan had no choice but do what the doctor ordered.

Von Schotten barked a command to the guard, who handed the gun over to him. He held it pointed at Dylan while the guard left the room and returned with a piece of rope that he used to roughly tie Dylan’s hands together behind his back.

“Now
Herr
Hart, relax,” Von Schotten said. “I vill shortly be back.”

The last thing in the world Dylan could do was relax. He could only imagine what Von Schotten was planning for him.

In Von Schotten’s absence, the guard stood sentinel by the door with a level eye on Dylan. Every now and then, he would peer out into the yard as if searching for someone. While he was distracted, Dylan tried to maneuver his hands free. Even though his shoulder ached with even a minor move, he rubbed the rope against the rung of the chair, frustrated each time nothing happened. At one point he accidentally grunted and the guard stared at him with suspicion. He ceased all activity and remained still, but as soon as the guard looked away, he went back to work. Unwilling to give up, he continued to try and ply loose the rope’s grip on him, but it held fast. A chronic throb in his shoulder was wearing him down.

Then he remembered the lighter in his back pocket.

He waited until the guard had once again stuck his head out of the door before making an effort to retrieve the lighter. To remove it from his pants, he wormed two fingers into the left rear pocket of his jeans. Pain radiated down his arm, but he gritted his teeth and persisted. 

Finally, he touched the lighter’s cool metal surface. Pressing a finger beneath it, he pried the lighter upward a couple of inches before it slipped through his fingers and slid back into the deep recesses of the pocket. He made another stab at lifting the lighter and this time raised it enough to firmly roll it into his palm.

While doing this, he shifted the chair, scraping it along the floor. The sound brought the guard instantly to his side. The short, but buff man kept a steady eye on him, causing the sweat to bead his skin and dribble into his eyes. He prayed that didn’t make him look too suspicious. To his relief, the guard soon lost interest and returned to glance out the door.

A competing sound from outside caused the guard to poke his head through the doorway. Dylan immediately flicked at the lighter behind his back. The errant flame seared his skin. He stifled a yelp before shifting ever so slightly, to hold the lighter away from his body and angle the flame at the rope. When the smell of burning rope reached him, he tugged at the twine, hoping to sever the strands before the guard caught on to what he was doing.

He glanced up to see the guard in the doorway chatting with Sawa. So she was the person he had been waiting for. Seizing the opportunity, Dylan worked the rope with flame and chair. It began to give.

He startled at a raised voice. Sawa instantly disappeared from the doorway and Von Schotten entered the room, syringe in hand. Dylan’s gut sank at the sight. He desperately tugged at the rope, but it still held. All hope fled.    

Von Schotten placed the syringe on the tabletop and turned to the guard with harsh words. The guard seemed to shrivel beneath the tirade which went on and on. The diversion allowed Dylan time to yank at the twine. To his surprise, on the third try it ripped loose and his hands were freed. He reached down quickly, palmed the knife from his sock and hid his hands behind his back.

Von Schotten turned away from the forlorn-looking guard toward the lab table, extracted a vial from the refrigerator and filled the syringe with an unsteady hand. “Any last vords,
Herr
Hart?”

Adrenaline kept Dylan on edge. “Not that I’ll share with you.”

The doctor approached, raising the syringe above Dylan’s arm. “Then a
uf viedersehen.”

Dylan tensed, eyes fixed on the syringe. The moment it started its downward plunge toward him, he twisted out of its path and buried the knife deep in Von Schotten’s gut. With every ounce of his remaining strength, he pulled the knife upward, accompanied by a ripping sound, and filleted the doctor like a fish. Skin flapped open, spilling blood mixed with guts. The syringe stopped in mid-air. The doctor bellowed and stumbled backwards.     

Von Schotten stared down at the knife open-mouthed. Rage and surprise flickered across his features. He grasped the knife, but his knees buckled and he fell flat on his face.

Dylan and the startled guard stared at the fallen doctor. The guard recovered his wits first and rushed at Dylan, who scrambled behind the lab table for protection. Instead of pursuing him, the guard stopped before Von Schotten’s body and hovered over it for a moment. Every fiber of Dylan’s being anticipated the ensuing fight.

The guard straightened and pointed toward the door. “
Agro
.”  

Stunned and confused, Dylan didn’t move. 

“
Agro
!” The guard motioned more emphatically.