The Ares Decision Read online

  He shoved his door open and stepped outside, grimacing at the fat snowflakes suspended in the wind. Smith knew nothing about him beyond the fact that he was one of the many talented free agents that Klein maintained contact with all across the globe.

  Howell leapt out after the Turk, throwing an arm around his shoulders as they made their way to the rear of the vehicle. It was good to see him back to normal. Bahame was dead and they were well past the time symptoms would have presented if they’d been infected. In the context of the lives they’d chosen, things were more or less back to normal.

  Their skis and packs were already lying in the snow next to the car when Smith eased himself out into the cold. He felt like he’d been run over by a semi. No serious injuries, but at least two lifetimes’ worth of bruises, strains, and abrasions. Combined with the fact that he’d spent most of the flight to Turkey monitoring every angry impulse and moment of confusion while Howell snored into his scotch bottle, he wasn’t sure how much he had left.

  “This is the best I could do without making it look like camouflage,” Nazim said, handing them each a stack of used backcountry clothing in tones of light gray and white. Smith stripped, letting the cold attack the swelling in his lower back and elbow for a few moments before getting dressed.

  “I checked over the skis personally and they’re in perfect condition,” Nazim said. “One of the pairs of boots is less so, but I’m told that this isn’t a problem.”

  When he saw them, Smith managed a smile at Klein’s—or more likely Maggie Templeton’s—otherworldly efficiency. They were his. Taken from his garage and flown to Turkey in time for their arrival.

  “You’re going there,” the Turk said, pointing toward a steep canyon sandwiched between two wind-scoured mountains. Smith tried to look up it, but between the snow and the gray clouds hanging from the edges of the rock walls, it was impossible to penetrate more than a quarter mile.

  “The Iranian border is about ten kilometers, and while there are no fixed defensive structures, there are patrols. Your passports and other papers are in your packs and the cover story of two adventurers getting turned around in bad weather is solid but less than original. Better to just avoid contact.”

  “What about Farrokh’s people?” Smith said, settling onto the bumper and pulling his boots on. Despite the ungodly pounding he’d taken only a few hours ago, Howell was already busy attaching climbing skins to his skis in order to give them the traction necessary to carry him up canyon.

  “They know you’re coming and by what route.”

  “How will we identify them?”

  Nazim thought about it for a moment. “They probably won’t kill you right away.”

  “No code word?”

  “Our communication with them isn’t that good. It’s channeled through too many intermediaries to be reliable.”

  “Great.”

  The Turk slammed the back hatch closed as soon as Smith stood, obviously anxious to get out of there.

  “Do you know anything about the snowpack, Nazim? Is it stable?”

  “I’m afraid I’m from a small village on the Mediterranean,” he said, climbing behind the wheel. “To me, snow is snow.”

  The motor roared back to life and he began rocking the car out of the hole his wheels had sunk into. When he was free, he rolled down the window and motioned Smith over.

  “Mr. Klein says you have many enemies. Perhaps even in your own intelligence agencies. Be careful who you trust.”

  With that, he started backing down the way they’d come. After a few yards, though, he slammed on the brakes and leaned out the window again. “Peter! The Battle of Gaugamela in 382 BC. Who had the larger army?”

  “Darius. And it was 331.”

  Another thumbs-up from Nazim and he disappeared into the fog, guiding the car in a controlled skid down the slope.

  Smith clicked into his bindings, then checked to make sure the batteries in his avalanche beacon were fully charged. “You ready?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Smith nodded in the direction of the canyon. “Age before beauty.”

  65

  Central Iran

  November 29—1044 Hours GMT+3:30

  SARIE VAN KEUREN FOLLOWED along obediently. There was no other option.

  She’d spent the last eleven hours locked in a dormitory-style room, unable to sleep. De Vries, the Iranians, Smith, and the parasite were enough to keep her awake for the rest of her life.

  Mehrak Omidi opened a heavy steel door that looked like every other door they’d passed and motioned her inside. When she started to back away, he shoved her through.

  It turned out to be nothing more than a simple conference room. There weren’t enough chairs around the large table and some of the people were standing against the walls, expressions ranging from stony resolve to barely controlled panic.

  Sarie barely saw them, though, instead focusing on a Plexiglas wall that displayed a white cube of a room and its lone occupant: Thomas De Vries.

  He rushed at the glass when he saw her enter, slamming into it, mouth twisted in a silent scream. Blood washed across his face as he tried to get through, adding fresh streaks to the dried ones already there.

  She looked away, telling herself that the thing in that room wasn’t the person she’d known in Uganda. De Vries was gone—destroyed by Mehrak Omidi and the indifferent cruelty of nature.

  “I’d like to introduce your team,” Omidi said, closing the door behind him with a metal clang that carried a strange finality.

  “My team?”

  “The men who are going to help you alter the parasite. Make it more controllable.”

  She had a hard time tracking on the names as he went around the room introducing biologists, chemists, and lab techs. Instead she looked each one in the eye, trying to find something meaningful. Why had they been chosen and not someone else? Were they the best minds Iran had to offer or were they just believers?

  When the introductions were complete, Omidi pointed to a stack of folders centered on the table. “They’ve all read my report on what I’ve observed about the parasite, and everyone is aware of your background and reputation.”

  “My background and reputation?” she said, though it almost sounded as if someone else were speaking. “What are you talking about? What are you people doing here?” She pointed at De Vries, who had exhausted himself and was now on his knees in front of the glass. “Do you see him? They want you to turn this into a weapon. To use it against other human beings.”

  “Your moral outrage is commendable,” Omidi said. “But weren’t you part of a team that included a microbiologist from America’s bioweapons research program and a former employee of the British Secret Service?”

  “The U.S. doesn’t have a bioweapons program,” she responded.

  “You’re being a bit naïve now, aren’t you, Doctor? The Americans spend more on their military than the rest of the world combined. They are the only country to have ever used a nuclear device during war—against primarily civilian targets.” He looked at the people in the room as he spoke and it became obvious his words were meant more for them than for her. “They invade and bomb any non-Christian country at the slightest provocation—sometimes at no provocation at all. Do you really believe that they’ve drawn some sort of line that prevents them from doing this kind of research?”

  “Even if that’s true, why would you want to do the same?”

  “What we develop here will never be used, Doctor. It will be held up as a deterrent—a safeguard against America trying to take away our freedom again.”

  “What makes you think you can control it? That no one else will ever get hold of it? That it won’t get out of this facility by accident? We have to destroy it. We have to let it disappear.”

  “It can never disappear again. You know that.”

  “It doesn’t have to—”

  “Enough!” Omidi said, clearly finished using her as a foil for his lecture. He pressed a butt
on on the room’s intercom and said something that Sarie couldn’t understand. Everyone else did, though, and the sound of rustling fabric filled the room as everyone shifted uncomfortably and shot nervous glances at one another.

  A moment later, a door at the back of the room holding De Vries slid open, revealing a tiny elevator and its lone occupant. He was tall and dark skinned, with a thick build and matching beard. There was no fear in him at all, only defiance.

  De Vries heard the door and turned, leaping to his feet and charging the man, who, unable to retreat, stepped forward and raised his fists.

  He had the look of someone who had seen, and probably perpetrated, a great deal of violence in his life. It was understandable that he didn’t see the pudgy, bleeding old man as much of a threat.

  The shock was clearly visible in his eyes when he was lifted into the air and slammed into the wall behind him. De Vries clawed at his face, going for his eyes as the man threw a forearm up and used the leverage of the wall to push his attacker back.

  The gap opened between them was wide enough for the man to lift a booted foot and deliver a kick that caused De Vries to slide back on the slick floor. He stayed on his feet, though, and ran at the man again, this time bringing him down.

  The battle became impossible to follow after that—De Vries’s arms blurring as he broke down the man’s pathetic attempts to defend himself. They stayed locked together like that for what seemed like an eternity before the elevator door slid open again, revealing an armed man in a hazmat suit.

  De Vries abandoned his barely conscious victim and charged to within a few meters before a muzzle flash glinted off the glass. He went down hard, thrashing wildly but unable to get back to his feet.

  A uniform gasp rose when the gun sounded again, sending a round into the center of the old man’s chest. It was impossible to know if it was the act of shooting the helpless man that affected them or the fact that De Vries didn’t stop trying to get up until the gun was empty.

  Smoke swirled around the room as De Vries’s body was dragged into the elevator and the man on the floor crawled toward the glass. His right cheek was split from the edge of his mouth almost to his ear, and bare cartilage was visible on the bridge of his nose. Both eyes were still intact, but one no longer tracked straight as he silently pleaded with the people watching from the safety of the conference room.

  Sarie swallowed hard, fighting the urge to throw up as Omidi looked on.

  “We got him from a rural prison where he was awaiting execution for rape and murder. To pity him would be a waste of time you would be well-advised to use more productively.”

  She’d been in danger all her life—in the backcountry, on her father’s farm, in her home outside of Cape Town. But it was danger she had grown up with, that had become part of her.

  This was different. There was no sky above her, no beat-up rifle in her hand—nothing familiar at all. It wouldn’t be malaria or a snake or even a gang of violent men. No, she’d lose who she was a thousand feet underground, finally bleeding to death while Omidi’s people jotted notes.

  She took slow, even breaths like the psychologist had taught her as a child and felt a little of her calm returning. She wouldn’t let Omidi use fear and empty promises to break down her resistance. There would be no reward for helping him—no safety, no flight home, no rescue. Her life was coming to an end. The question was, what was she going to do with the time she had left?

  Sarie let the fear and uncertainty remain etched deep into her face, though she felt only anger and hate. It would be those emotions that would get her through this. Anger and hate.

  * * *

  “All diseases spread quickly in Africa,” she said, beginning the speech she’d worked out during the hours she’d spent locked away. “AIDS is a perfect example of that. But it’s different in the West. They have sophisticated medical response systems, reliable media, and an educated population.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the man in the glass cage staring at her, and it caused her to lose her train of thought.

  “Go on,” Omidi prompted.

  “The initial symptom of the infection is obvious disorientation. Warnings will be all over the news about this, and since nearly everyone in America has a house, a gun, and a phone, they’ll have a lot of options. They could barricade themselves somewhere, shoot the infected person, call the police or an ambulance…”

  Of course, she was talking nonsense. The disorientation phase wasn’t serious or lengthy enough to ensure that it would be noticed. Even a married person with a family might become sick while their spouse went to work and go fully symptomatic while alone. Or, even more likely, the disorientation phase could occur at night when the victim was asleep. Hospitals, unable to provide a cure and handle thousands of violent patients, would shut down. Family members would try to protect loved ones from authorities, who would have no choice but to euthanize victims in an effort to contain the pandemic. And to the degree that people in America had guns, did it really help? Many would find it impossible to shoot family and friends, while others would panic and shoot everything that moved.

  Omidi nodded thoughtfully. His own arrogance and misogyny would work against him. Despite not having a background in biology or disease control, he would never believe that anyone could outsmart him—particularly a woman.

  “I agree,” he said finally. “Along with making the parasite easily transportable, we’ll have to make the onset faster and more violent. We can’t leave time for people to react.”

  66

  Langley, Virginia, USA

  November 29—1607 Hours GMT–5

  SO WE’RE STILL NOT completely certain,” Lawrence Drake said, leafing through the stack of police and fire reports.

  Dave Collen slid another folder onto the desk. “We don’t have a body, if that’s what you mean. But the local investigation is still ongoing and I wouldn’t expect to at this point. What we know is that Russell’s car was there and that she hasn’t been seen since. The cops believe she was in the house when it went up.”

  “And what do you believe?”

  “I don’t know. It was too risky to have surveillance there when it went down. We’re still not sure how the fire started or what happened to Gohlam. It’s possible that instead of using a gun, he decided to use some kind of incendiary device and he blew himself up in the process of getting Russell—either by accident or by design.”

  “That’s a lot of speculation, Dave.”

  “I know, but at this point there isn’t anything we can do about it. It’s possible that Russell escaped and went to ground, but I doubt it. With an Afghan coming after her, it’s more likely that she’d want to use our resources to find out where the orders came from.”

  “Unless Brandon’s message spooked her.”

  Collen nodded. “Unfortunately, it gets worse. I think we have to assume at this point that the Iranians have van Keuren.”

  “Do we have updated casualty estimates?”

  “Even with the response plan we’ve put together under the cover of upgrading our biological attack readiness program, adding her into the equation could push it to a million.”

  Drake let out a long breath and pointed to the file Collen had placed on his desk. “Smith and Howell?”

  His assistant nodded. “They were on the plane to Brussels that got diverted to the military base on Diego Garcia. The public story is that the plane had a problem with its navigation system and made a safe emergency landing. Based on what little I’ve been able to get out of Army Intelligence, the real story is that there was a Sudanese man with an unknown infection aboard and that he’s been killed. The passengers all look clean and will be released soon.”

  “What about Smith and Howell?”

  “They got on a private jet that we don’t know anything about. Every avenue I’ve tried to get information on it turns into a dead end.”

  Castilla, Drake thought. It had to be. “Do we know where it went?”
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  Collen flipped open the folder, paging to a satellite photo of a small jet landing on a remote airstrip. “Turkey. They got immediately into a car and started toward the Iranian border. The satellite lost them in the cloud cover when they started into the mountains. By the time I got a man up there, the tracks were already covered. He estimates that they couldn’t have gotten their vehicle any closer than seven or eight miles from the border before the snow got too deep.”

  “To what end?”

  Collen jabbed a finger onto a topographical map of eastern Turkey. “In all likelihood, Smith and Howell went up this canyon on foot.”

  “So we have the enigmatic Dr. Smith and a former MI6 operative headed into Iranian territory under orders from what can only be the White House. The Iranians may have van Keuren, and no one has actually seen Randi Russell’s body. Jesus Christ, Dave. Is there anything left to blow up in our faces?”

  “It’s not all bad news. Even if it is Castilla, I think we can be pretty confident that he’s grasping at straws by sending two lone men across the border like this. How are they going to find the facility Omidi’s taken the parasite to? And even if they do find it, how are they going to stop him?”

  Both interesting questions, but by no means the ones foremost in Drake’s mind. Clearly, the CIA was being purposefully kept out of the loop. Given the fact that Castilla wouldn’t want to reveal that he was operating an extralegal team, it wasn’t entirely surprising. But it was still extremely worrying.

  “Do we have anyone we can use in that part of Iran?”

  Collen nodded. “Sepehr Mouradipour. He’s a former Iranian special forces man who grew up not far from where Smith and Howell were inserted.”

  “Reliable?”

  “If the money’s right, he and his men never fail.”

  Drake leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring down at the carpet. There were two paths laid out in front of him. He could walk away and explain the CIA’s ignorance of the situation as just another intelligence failure. Or he could stay the course and do everything he could to bring about a permanent end to a threat that was potentially greater than even the Third Reich or Soviet Union. Germany would have never been able to mount a viable invasion of North America, and the members of the politburo had never been anxious to destroy their world of Crimean dachas and young Czech models.