Silent Assassin(74)

“The spore collection is coming along well,” he said. “We will have the amount you requested in about a week.”

The Russian nodded. “What about the cure?”

“A cure is elusive,” said Vogt. “There is no known medicine that will kill the fungus that will not also seriously affect your own cells. Not for the infection in the brain. All you can do for now is to continue to take the serum.”

“It’s not working!” the Russian cried. “It’s spreading. I can feel it. Consuming me.”

“It is possible that I will not be able to stop it,” said Vogt quietly, bracing for the Russian’s reaction.

“Then what am I paying you for?” The words came as a subhuman growl, and the Russian’s face contorted with rage, looking like some kind of animal. Vogt backed away against the table. The Russian lunged, and he saw the fist coming at his face.

The Russian struck again and again. Vogt felt and heard the breaking of bone in his face. Each stroke made his ears ring and his mind flash white. With one of the impacts, he suddenly couldn’t see out of his left eye. Finally, the Russian seemed to tire, and stopped his attack.

Vogt slumped on the ground, his awareness fading. Before he lost consciousness, he heard the Russian say, “Pick him up. Get this done. We deploy the fungus within the week.”





CHAPTER 39


Washington, D.C., February 12





Chapman sat at the table of the situation room with the rest of the Emergency Investigative Task Force and a few other significant personages. Around him was a group of very important and very, very nervous men and women, sitting at the edge of their seats with their eyes firmly glued to an image on the big screen.

“The President has just authorized the operation,” said Schroeder. “The team is moving out.”

Waiting was agony. The SEAL team still had to arrive on site by helicopter, which meant fifteen minutes of nail-biting nothing. Still, everyone just watched the screen, where there were feeds from each of the helmet cameras of the team. Right now all they could see was the inside of a troop transport helicopter, all in green from the night vision.

It had been a week since Smith had whispered in his ear about the lab. The past seven days had been a mad scramble to coordinate the various intelligence agencies. There’d been a worldwide search of mycologists and labs. Finally, they’d caught a break: a qualified mycologist, a research superstar, had abruptly quit his job in a prestigious German institute and then disappeared. They traced his whereabouts to Turkey, where they had found that some very expensive laboratory equipment had been shipped a few months before. It took all of seven days before they had a location for the lab—an achievement to be proud of.

But right now, Chapman was only nervous. The operation could fail, and it could fail spectacularly at that. These were the best-trained men in the country, but even that was no guarantee of success—there was always the possibility of a tragic twist of fate, of a tiny misstep having dire consequences. Chapman wasn’t a religious man, but if he were, he’d be praying at that moment.

“Moving out,” said one of the SEALS on the monitor, and suddenly, the images began to change as the men left the helicopter. He ran along the dusty ground, in line with three SEALS ahead of him, toward a low building that looked fuzzy in the night vision. The lead SEAL planted a bomb on the door of the building. The door blasted open, and then they threw flash grenades inside. The brightness overwhelmed the night vision for a moment. They went inside, and there were no armed guards posted at the door.

The image followed them as they spread around the facility, finding empty room after empty room.

“Clear,” same the report.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

“It’s empty,” said the team leader. “No one here.”

There was a palpable sense of dismay in the room upon hearing that.

“Documents have been burned,” he said. “Hard drives are fried. There’s a body. The scientist. And three others. This was the place, all right. But whatever happened here, they’re done.”





CHAPTER 40


Rio de Janeiro, February 14





Peter Conley opened his eyes to the first rays of the sun coming over Ipanema beach. He looked to the side and saw the gentle curve of Sonia’s back, a thin mist of sweat on her smooth tawny skin. The gentle rise and fall of her breathing told him that she was still asleep. He rolled out of bed and began stretching.

Sonia stirred on the bed, rubbing her eyes and mumbling sleepily in Portuguese, “What time is it?”

“Six or so,” he said, reaching for the sky with his hands.