Black Page 41

  The idea that she had anything to fear from a dream was absurd. He suggested that she keep looking while he turned his attention to the shelter they had to build. He had some ideas on how to build one. He might even know how to make metal.

  And what ideas are those, she wanted to know.

  Something from my dreams, he’d made the mistake of saying.

  Maybe the rhambutan was a good idea after all.

  Johan had finally returned from his scouting trip and helped Tom with the first lean-to, constructed out of saplings and leaves. Tom knew how it should look, and he knew how to make it.

  “How did you know to tie those vines like that?” Johan asked when they’d finished the roof. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “This,” Tom said, rubbing the knots lovingly, “is how they do it in the jungles of the Philippines. We’ll strap palm leaves to these—”

  “Where’s the Philippines?” Johan asked.

  “The Philippines? Nowhere, really. Just something I made up.”

  And it was true, he thought. But with less conviction now.

  Rachelle strode into camp about the time Tom was thinking they should go looking for her.

  “How are my men? My, that is a handy-looking thing you have there.” She studied the lean-to. “What on earth is it?”

  “This is our first home.” Tom beamed.

  “Is it? It looks more like one wall.” She walked around it. “Or a falling roof.”

  “No, no, this is more than a wall,” Tom said. “It’s the entire structure. It’s perfect! You don’t like it?”

  “Functional enough, I suppose. For a night or two, until you can build me bedrooms and a kitchen with running water.”

  Tom wasn’t sure how to respond. He rather liked the open feel of the place. She was right, of course. They would eventually have to build a house, and he had some ideas of how to do that as well. But he thought the lean-to was quite smart.

  She looked at him and winked. “I think it’s very clever,” she said. “Something a great warrior would build.” Then she brought her hand from behind her back and tossed him something. “Catch.”

  He caught it with one hand.

  It was a rhambutan.

  “You found it?”

  She smiled. “Eat it.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, of course now.”

  He bit into the flesh. The nectar tasted like a cross between a banana and an orange but tart. Like a banana-orange-lemon.

  “All of it,” she said.

  “I need all of it for it to work?” he asked with the one bite stuffed in his cheek.

  “No. But I want you to eat all of it.”

  He ate all of it.

  Rachelle watched Thomas sleep. His chest rose and fell steadily to the sound of deep breathing. A slight gray pallor covered his body, and she knew that if she could see his eyes they would be dull, like her own. But none of this concerned her. The lake would wash them both clean as soon as they bathed.

  What did concern her were these dreams of his. Dreams of the histories and dreams of this woman named Monique. She told herself it was more about the histories. After all, an argument could be made that a preoccupation with the histories had gotten Tanis into trouble. But her concern was as much about the woman.

  Jealousy had been an element of the Great Romance, and she made no attempt to temper it now. Thomas was her man, and she had no intention of sharing him with anyone, dream woman or not.

  If Thomas was right, eating Teeleh’s fruit in the black forest before he’d lost his memory had started his dreams in the first place. Now she desperately prayed that what remained of Elyon’s fruit would wash his mind clean of them.

  “Thomas.” She leaned over and kissed his lips. “Wake up, my dear.”

  He moaned and rolled over. A pleasant smile crossed his face. Deep sleep? Or Monique? But he’d slept like a baby and not once mumbled her name.

  Rachelle couldn’t extend her patience. She’d been awake for an hour already, waiting for him to wake.

  She slapped his side and stood. “Wake up! Time to bathe.”

  He sat up with a start. “What?”

  “Time to bathe.”

  “It’s late. I’ve been sleeping this whole time?”

  “Like a rock,” she said.

  He rubbed his eyes, stood up, and marched out to the fire. “Today I will begin building your house,” he announced.

  “Wonderful.” She watched his face. “Did you dream?”

  “Dream?” He seemed to be searching his memory.

  “Yes, did you dream?”

  “I don’t know. Did I?”

  “Only you would know.”

  “No. The fruit must have worked. That’s why I slept so well.”

  “You can’t remember anything? No phantom trips to Bangkok? No rescuing the beautiful Monique?”

  “The last thing I dreamed about was falling asleep in Bangkok after the meeting. That was two nights ago.” He spread his hands and grinned purposefully. “No dreams.”

  She knew he was telling the truth. The fruit did as the boy had promised. “Good,” she said. “Then it works. You will eat this fruit every day.”

  “Forever?”

  “It’s also very healthy and makes a man fertile,” she said. “Yes, forever.”

  So Thomas ate the rhambutan fruit every day and not once did he dream of Bangkok. Or of anything.

  Weeks passed, then months, then years, then fifteen years, and not once did Thomas dream of Bangkok. Or of anything.

  He became a mighty warrior who defended the seven forests against the desert Hoards who marched against them. But not once did he dream. Not of Bangkok, not of anything.

  Perhaps Rachelle was right. Maybe he would never dream again. Maybe he would eat the rhambutan fruit every day forever and never again dream of Bangkok.

  Or of anything.

  37

  Valborg Svensson stood at the head of the table and eyed the gathered dignitaries. All from governments that had been coaxed for three years with promises of power. Until now, none of them knew enough to damage him significantly. And if they did know more than they should, they hadn’t damaged him, so the point was moot. There were seven, but they needed only one country from which to build their power base. All seven would be useful, but they needed the keys to one of their kingdoms as a backup. If they only knew.

  Carlos was in Bangkok now, only hours away from eliminating Hunter once and for all. Armand Fortier was making the necessary arrangements with the Russians and the Chinese. And he, Valborg Svensson, was dropping the bomb that would make everything possible. So to speak.

  He extracted his pointer and tapped off the cities on the wall map to his left. “The Raison Strain has already entered the air space of London, Paris, Moscow, Beijing, New Delhi, Cape Town, Bangkok, Sydney, New York, Washington, D.C., Atlanta, and Los Angeles. These are the first twelve. Within eight hours, we will have twenty-four entry points.”

  “Enter the air space—as in . . .”

  “As in the virus is airborne. Delivered by couriers over twenty-four commercial aircraft, spreading as we speak. It’s highly contagious, more so than any virus we’ve seen. Fascinating little beast. Most require some kind of assistance to get around. A cough, fluid, touch, high humidity at least. But this pathogen seems to do quite well in adverse environmental conditions. A single virus shell is enough to infect any adult.”

  “You’ve already done it?”

  “Naturally. By our most conservative models, three million people will be carriers by day’s end. Ninety million within two days. Four billion within one week.”

  They sat dumbfounded. Not a single one truly comprehended what he’d just said. Not that he blamed them. The reality was staggering. Too significant to digest in one sitting.

  “The virus is gone? There’s no way to stop it?”

  “Gone? Yes, I suppose it is gone,” Svensson said. “And no, there’s no way to stop it.�
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  They were all jumping into the mix now. “And who will be infected?”

  “Everyone. Myself, for example. And you. All of us are infected.” He pointed to a small vial on the counter. “We were infected within minutes of stepping into this room.”

  Silence. The yellow liquid sat undisturbed.

  Their objections came in a barrage of angry protests. “You have a vaccine; we should be inoculated at once! What kind of sick joke is this?”

  “A very sick joke,” Svensson said. “There is no vaccine.”

  “Then what, an antivirus?” the man demanded. “I demand to know what you’re doing here!”

  “You know what we’re doing. Unfortunately, we don’t have the antivirus quite yet either. But not to worry, we will very soon. We have less than three weeks to perfect one, but I’m confident we’ll have it by the end of the week. Maybe sooner.”

  They looked at him like a ring of rats frozen by a wedge of cheese.

  “And if not?”

  “If not, then we will all share the same fate with the rest of the world.”

  “Which is what?”

  “We aren’t precisely sure. An ugly death, we’re quite sure of that. But no one has yet died from the Raison Strain, so we can’t be sure about the exact nature of that death.”

  “Why?” To a man they were incredulous. “This was not what we discussed.”

  “Yes, it was. You just weren’t listening very well. We have a list of instructions for each of your countries. We trust you will comply in the most expeditious fashion. For obvious reasons. And I really wouldn’t think about trying to undermine our plans in any way. The only hope for an antivirus rests with me. If I am inhibited, the world will simply die.”

  The gentleman from Switzerland, Bruce Swanson, shoved his seat back and stood, face red. “This is not what I understood! How dare you proceed without consulting—”

  Svensson slipped a pistol out from under his jacket and shot the man in the forehead at ten paces. The man stared at him, his new third eye leaking red, and then he toppled backward, hit his head on the wall, and crumpled to the floor.

  Svensson lowered the pistol. “There is no way to stop the virus,” he said. “We can only control it now. That was the point from the beginning. Dissension will only hinder that objective. Any argument?”

  They did not argue.

  “Good.” He set the gun on the table. “As we speak, the governments of these affected countries are being notified of our demands. These governments won’t react immediately, of course. This is preferred. Panic is not our friend. Not yet. We don’t need people staying home for fear of catching the disease. By the time they realize the true nature of our threat, containment will be out of the question. It virtually is already.”

  He took a deep breath. The power of this moment, standing over seven men—six living—was alone worth the price he’d paid. And it was only the very beginning. He’d resisted a smile, but now he smiled for them all.

  “It’s a wonderful day, my friends. You find yourselves on the right side of history. You will see. The die has been cast.”

  Markous had been guaranteed two things for this assignment: his life and a million dollars cash. Both he valued enough to cut off his own leg if needed. The cash he had already received. His life was still in their hands. He doubted neither their will nor their ability to take his life or give it.

  He stood in the bathroom stall and flicked the small vial with his fingernail. Hard to believe that the yellow liquid could do what they insisted it would do. Unnerved by a few drops of amber fluid.

  He held his breath and pulled the rubber cork out of the vial’s neck. Now only air separated him—his nose and his eyes and his skin—from the virus. Had he been infected already? No, how could he be?

  He exhaled the air from his lungs, held his breath at the bottom, and then slowly inhaled, imagining invisible spores streaming into his nostrils. If it were scented, like a perfume, he would notice. But the objective was not to notice.

  So then, he was now infected.

  Markous impulsively splashed some of the fluid on his jacket, his hands, rubbed his face. Like a cologne. He tested it with his tongue. Tasteless. He drank a little and swished it around his mouth. Swallowed.

  Markous stepped from the men’s room. Travelers crowded Bangkok International Airport despite the early hour. He looked both ways, straightening his tie. Rarely did he mix with women at nightclubs or other common social institutions, despite his handsome Mediterranean features. But at the moment, spreading a little love seemed appropriate.

  He saw what he was looking for and walked toward a gathering of four blue-suited flight attendants talking by a phone bank.

  “Excuse me.” All four women looked at him. Their luggage tags read “Air France.” He smiled gently and zeroed in on a tall brunette. “I was just walking by, and I couldn’t help but notice you. Do you mind?”

  They exchanged glances. The brunette lifted an eyebrow self-consciously.

  “Could you please tell me your name?” Markous asked. She wasn’t wearing a nametag.

  “Linda.”

  He stepped closer. His hands were still moist with the liquid. He imagined the millions of cells swimming in his mouth.

  “Come here, Linda. I would like to tell you a secret.” He leaned forward. At first she hesitated, but when two of the others chuckled, she spread her hands. “What?”

  “Closer,” he said. “I won’t bite, I promise.”

  Her face was red, but she complied by leaning a few inches.

  Markous stepped into her and kissed her full on the mouth. He immediately pulled back and raised both hands. “Forgive me. You are so beautiful, I simply had to kiss you.”

  The shock registered on her face. “You . . . what do you think you’re doing?”

  Markous grabbed the hand of the woman next to the brunette. He coughed. “Please, I’m terribly sorry.” He backed out quickly, dipping with apology. Then he was gone, leaving four stunned women in his wake.

  He walked by the airport’s first-aid station, where a mother was asking a nurse for something while her two blond-headed children played tag about the waiting bench. An older man with bushy gray brows watched him take his still-moist jacket off and hang it on the coatrack. With any luck, the man would report the jacket and security would confiscate it. Before he took five paces, the mother, her two children, the nurse, and the old man were infected.

  How many more he infected before leaving the airport, he would never know. Perhaps a hundred, though none with such tenderness as his first. He stopped in a morning market on his way through the city and worked his way down the crowded aisles. How many here, he couldn’t guess. At least several hundred. For good measure, he tossed the shirt he’d soaked into the Mae Nam Chao Phraya River, which wound its way lazily through the city center.

  Enough. By end of day, Bangkok would be crawling with the virus.

  Job done.

  Carlos parked his car in the Sheraton’s underground parking structure at eight o’clockand rode the elevator to the lobby. The morning crowd was already bustling. He crossed to the main elevators, waited for an empty car, and stepped in. Ninth floor.

  The meeting with Deputy Secretary Gains and the gathered intelligence officers had gone late last night, and his latest intelligence had it that Hunter was still in his room. Asleep. The source was impeccable.

  In fact, the source had actually been at the meeting.

  If they only knew to what extent Svensson had gone to execute this plan. The only caveat was Hunter. A man who learned from his dreams. A man none of them could possibly control. A man Carlos had killed twice already.

  This time he would stay dead.

  The elevator bell rang and Carlos slipped down the hall, tried and found the room next to Hunter’s ,which was open as arranged.

  There were two critical elements in any operation. One, power; and two, intelligence. He’d engaged Hunter once, and despite the man
’s surprising skill, he’d handled him easily enough. But he’d underestimated the man’s endurance. Hunter had somehow managed to survive.

  This time there would be no opportunity for a fight. Superior intelligence would prove the victor.

  Carlos approached the door that adjoined the suite next door to this one. He withdrew a Luger and screwed a silencer into its barrel.

  Superior intelligence. For example, he knew that at this very moment this door was unlocked. The inside man had made sure of that. Past this door, one door on the left, was the door to Thomas Hunter’s room. Hunter had been sleeping in the room for seven hours now. He would never even know he’d been shot.

  All of this Carlos knew without the slightest doubt. If anything changed—if his sister, who slept in the suite’s other bedroom, woke, or if Hunter himself woke—the video operator would simply page him, and the receiver on Carlos’s belt would vibrate.

  Intelligence.

  Carlos opened both doors separating the suites and walked to the room on his left. Cartridge chambered. All was silent. He reached for the doorknob.

  A phone rang. Not the main house phone—the one in the sister’s room on his right. Immediately his pager vibrated. He ignored the pager and paused to listen.

  The phone beside Kara’s bed rang once. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Where was she?

  Bangkok. She and Thomas had attended a meeting the night before with deputy secretary of state Merton Gains because the Swiss, Valborg Svensson, had kidnapped Monique de Raison for one reason only: to develop the antivirus to the virus he would unleash on the world. At least that was what Thomas had tried to persuade them of. They hadn’t exactly run to him and kissed his feet.

  The phone rang again.

  She sat up. Thomas was hopefully still asleep in the suite’s other bedroom. Had he dreamed? Was he still dreaming? She’d suggested he dream a very long time and become someone new, an absurd suggestion on the face of it, but then so was this whole alternate-world thing he was living through. The spread of evil in one world, the threat of a virus in the other one.