Sins of the Father (24 page)

“She’s published very little about it, and most of the news out of her lab is vague at best. One particularly juicy tidbit is that the virus was stolen from her lab a short while ago.”

“It was,” Peter said.

“Oh, that could be bad,” Stokes said. “Especially if some of the other rumors are true. Particularly the one that says it’s based on smallpox.”

“That one’s true, too,” Peter said. Stokes said nothing for a long time. “You there?”

“I’m digesting all this,” Stokes said. “All right, boy, out with it. I think you need to tell me everything.”

Peter looked around. There was no one in the church that he could see, and from a sign on the front door it looked as if afternoon Mass wouldn’t be starting for another few hours.

“Well,” Peter said, “let’s start with Bangkok.”

* * *

Peter had been talking for the better part of an hour, and he was starting to get a sore neck from being on the phone so long. Every now and then a member of the church personnel passed by, tossing him a curious look. He just grinned, pointed to the earpiece, and mouthed,
my mother
.

That seemed to satisfy them. “An Englishman,” Stokes said.

“Yeah,” Peter replied. “I’m thinking there might be a connection between Julia’s guy, and the one I saw in Bangkok.”

“First-name basis already?” Stokes paused. “You slept with her, didn’t you?”

“Focus, Stokes. The Englishman.”

“Right. Interesting. Have you ever heard of a man named Richard McCoy?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”

“Not unless you’re a fan of Royal Shakespeare wash-outs, London dinner theater, or early nineties British horror films, no. He’s an actor, if you can call it that, who had some minor fame in the late eighties until he drank it away.” Peter could hear the tapping of a keyboard and wondered what sorts of databases Stokes could access.

“He’s been doing bit parts since then,” Stokes continued. “Barely staying one step ahead of the bill collectors. He disappeared about three months ago, and his name’s been bouncing around the sorts of message boards the authorities would sell their grandmothers to get access to. Talking about wanting to move some merchandise. Somebody’s taken him up on it, too. Though his messages are rather cryptic, epilepsy figures prominently in them.”

“What the hell would a has-been actor be doing with an epilepsy cure?”

“No idea. Might not even be him. Identity theft is big business, as you well know. That’s not the strange thing, though. I’ve moved medications like this before, and there’s a particular pattern these sorts of deals take. A particular way the language is used.”

Peter was beginning to get a sinking feeling.

“It’s not a drug deal, is it?”

“No, I don’t think so. Particularly because it looks like they’ll be moving the merchandise at”—Stokes paused as he typed some more—“the Ambassador Hotel in Manhattan, the day after tomorrow.”

“Why would that be unusual?” Given the types of people Stokes dealt with, he saw no reason why McCoy and his people wouldn’t stay at a high-end hotel like the Ambassador.

“Because the hotel’s going to be crawling with police and federal agents,” Stokes said. “There’s a fund-raising dinner that night for the black guy who’s running for president. If that’s not a place for a terrorist bio-weapon, I don’t know what is.”

The Ambassador Hotel, tucked away in the theater district in midtown Manhattan, was famous for political and presidential goings-on. It was a venerable old building, full of history and secrets. Its turn-of-the-century splendor had been lovingly maintained through the decades and it had recently been granted historic landmark status, assuring that it would remain pristine and unaltered well into the future.

With the security surrounding the presidential candidate and his party, Peter and Julia weren’t going to be able to get anywhere near the place without Curt.

Curt Caldwell, like many chefs, had a checkered past.

He had long since gone straight, and worked his ass off, scrubbing pots and deveining mountains of shrimp in a dozen New York kitchens. He’d risen through the ranks, made his bones, and finally scored a plum gig as executive chef in the Ambassador’s massive kitchen. It was a pretty stodgy, old school steak-and-chocolate kind of operation, all Waldorf salads and Beef Wellington with no room for culinary creativity, but Curt was glad to be there.

Especially considering the alternative.

Peter figured his best bet would be to give Curt a little reminder of that alternative, and the person who’d helped him avoid it. It was time to cash in a favor.

* * *

He and Julia sat in the Stage Deli, a touristy restaurant on Seventh Avenue just north of Times Square. It had been decorated with a ham-fisted New York theme, but just as easily could have been in Los Angeles, Las Vegas, or Atlantic City.

Julia was picking apart a dry, crumbling black-and-white cookie without eating it, while he forced down a culinary abomination that had billed itself as a “Pastrami Burrito.”

“I don’t know how you can eat at a time like this,” she said, shoving away her plateful of crumbs and downing the dregs of her third black coffee.

“Gotta feed the machine,” Peter replied, shrugging. “That’s biology 101, isn’t it?” She just grimaced.

“Are you sure this friend of yours can be trusted?” she asked for the umpteenth time.

“Positive,” he replied. “Given everything I know about Curt Caldwell’s less-than-kosher past, it’ll be in his best interests to keep me happy.”

As if on cue, a tall man in his mid-forties walked into the restaurant, scanning the tables. He was thick through the middle, with a pale, nocturnal complexion and full sleeves of ink on both arms. Dark, messy hair and bloodshot blue eyes, dressed in civvies—jeans and sneakers with a vintage rock-and-roll T-shirt under a battered leather jacket. But his relaxed clothing clashed with the tense, tightly wound body language beneath. He had a black canvas duffle bag slung over one shoulder.

Peter held up his hand and Curt spotted him, heading over to their table.

“This is a really bad idea,” Curt said, not bothering with a greeting. He stared straight at Peter, and if he even noticed Julia, he gave no hint of it.

“Duly noted,” Peter said. He gestured to the bag. “That the stuff?”

Curt nodded, setting the duffle on the booth seat next to him.

“Uniforms, IDs, everything you need to get into the kitchen,” he said. “After that, you’re on your own.”

“Curt, you’re a lifesaver,” Peter said. “You have no idea.”

“I don’t
want
an idea,” he replied. “I don’t want to know nothing. All I want to know is, are we square?”

Peter nodded.

“Square,” he said. “More than square—I owe you one.”

“No,” Curt replied, eyes narrow and face gone hard. “You don’t owe me a damn thing, kid. We’re square. That’s it.”

He turned and walked away without another word.

“Nice meeting you, too,” Julia said to his retreating back, her eyebrow arched.

“Forget it,” Peter said. “That’s the best you’ll get out of him on a good day.” He unzipped the bag. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Inside he found two chef jackets with the Ambassador Hotel logo on one breast and last names embroidered on the other. The larger jacket said Wheatley, while the smaller was labeled Cooper. Also included were two pairs of checked pants, two pairs of sturdy clogs, and two laminated IDs, complete with photos so badly blurred that they were rendered useless.

Peter handed Julia the ID with the name “Lucy Cooper.”

“We don’t have time to go back to our hotel. Hit the restroom and get changed,” he said. “We need to hurry.”

* * *

They walked briskly up 5th Avenue toward the Ambassador, just a couple of harried line cooks, running late for a shift. The streets were closed for several blocks in every direction around the hotel.

Peter whistled inwardly at the security, which was tighter than he’d ever seen it. Not really surprising, though, what with the combination of post-9/11 paranoia and the fact that an African-American was running for president—and looked like he might actually have a shot at winning. Not that Peter paid any real attention to politics, unless there was a way he could turn them to his advantage.

On this particular day, the politics presented a serious
disadvantage
. And while the security was crazy over-the-top, they were right to be paranoid, for once. Someone really did want to kill the candidate, and all his supporters. Even crazier was the fact that if all that security succeeded, and managed to keep Peter and Julia out, the real terrorists would succeed.

They’d infect the entire city, regardless of political affiliation. The virus was naturally bipartisan.

First Peter and Julia needed to get past the street cops. Several heavy wooden barriers had been placed to block off the street, while knots of police in full SWAT armor patrolled the sidewalks. There were pretty big crowds milling around the edges of the secure area. Curious natives and confused tourists mingled with a smattering of nut jobs carrying handwritten signs. As Peter led Julia through the onlookers toward the checkpoint, he gripped her elbow and spoke in a low voice.

“Act bored,” he said. “Like this is just a minor annoyance, and all you want is to get to work without being hassled. Let me do the talking.”

“Right,” she said.

He started shouldering his way through the crowd with Julia in tow, allowing his expression to go soft and neutral with just the slightest hint of mild annoyance in the brow. When he reached the barrier, he was stopped by a handsome Puerto Rican cop with a clean-cut, central-casting kind of face.

“Street’s closed,” the officer said to Peter with the air of a man who had said the exact same words so many times that they had lost all their meaning. He might as well have been a tape recording.

“We’re line cooks at the Ambassador,” Peter said, holding out the ID Curt had provided. “And we’re already late for the banquet prep.”

The cop took his ID and scowled at it, then did the same with Julia. Peter glanced over at her, and saw that she was giving an Oscar-winning performance of bored New York indifference. Impressive—better than his, even. She continued to surprise him with her hidden talents.

“Okay,” the cop said, handing back the IDs. “Go on through.” He turned and called over his shoulder. “Shulberg, you wanna escort these two around to the service entrance.”

Another cop, presumably Shulberg, came over to the barrier and moved it aside just enough for Peter and Julia to squeeze through. He was tall and lean, like an upright greyhound, even with the added bulk of the body armor filling out his long narrow torso. His eyes were cold and blue, all business.

“This way,” he said, and nothing more.

He led the two of them around a variety of large, bulky vehicles that looked more military than police, and down a gauntlet of armed and surly men who all glowered at Peter as they passed. He didn’t let it rattle him.

The service entrance was around the corner from the showy main doors, almost hidden between a large parked van and a locked dumpster. Standing by the dented metal door was a fed wearing a rumpled suit and a grim, humorless expression. His body language was all stress and anxiety, shoulders pinched and hands fisted, and a tic at the hinge of his jaw. But he was fighting not to let it creep into his eyes.