She glanced around the garage again, listening for the earlier noise, as the mounting coincidences grew more difficult to explain. Her palms dampened. She dug around in her purse before realizing that she had left the small can of bear spray in her "day" handbag.
She stood outside the door, vacillating. She considered climbing back in her car and driving out front of the building, but the thought struck her as paranoid. She took a big breath and yanked the door open to the dark stairwell.
When the door closed behind her, she had to grab on to the handrail to lead her up the stairs. She climbed the first five steps tentatively, more concerned about twisting her ankle than out of alarm. She reached the first landing, stopped, and listened for a moment.
Nothing.
Just as she rounded the comer to take the next step, she felt sudden pain in her teeth. Her mouth filled with the taste of leather. At the same moment, an arm wrapped around her chest and pulled her backward until she almost fell. Something hard pressed through her coat into the small of the back. She knew it was a gun.
"Do not speak, Dr. Savard," a voice whispered in her ear. "Or you die here."
She stood motionless, her mind racing.
"Take me to your car," the whisperer said. "Now!"
Suddenly he spun her in the opposite direction. He released her from his grip but only to shove her forward. She almost stumbled down the stairs before regaining her footing. With the gun jammed into her back, she walked slowly and deliberately. With each step, she brought her hand closer to her waist.
"Faster!" the whisperer urged.
She reached the last step of the stairs. Realizing it would be brighter as soon as she stepped out of the stairwell, she feared she might miss her opportunity. With her next stride, she pulled her thick belt back with her thumb and tucked her tiny cell phone down the front of her pants behind the belt and inside of her underwear's waistband.
"Open the door!"
She reached her now-empty hand forward and opened the stairwell's metal door. He shoved her through it and out into the garage. In the dim light, prodded with the push of the gun barrel, she walked faster toward her car. When she reached the car, she felt a tug on her shoulder as her purse was yanked from her.
She heard him rummaging through the purse and then heard her keys jingle. The car's lights flashed twice as her abductor unlocked the door with the remote. "Open the back door!"
She pulled open the door to the rear seat. Rather than climb in, she wheeled to face her abductor and was met by the sight of his implacable face and intense, light eyes. Her eyes skipped from the gun in his left hand to the object in his right. Seeing only the needle, it took her a moment to realize that it was attached to a syringe.
Instinctively, she pulled back, but it was too late. His hand flew at her, and she felt a sharp sting in her left shoulder. With a huge shove from his other hand, she flew backward through the open door into the backseat, slamming her head against the seat-belt buckle.
Lying on the cold leather, she was overcome by nausea. The car's interior whirled. She swam on the seat. Her eyelids felt heavy. A faint taste of vanilla replaced the leather. She fought to stay conscious, willing her body to resist whatever she had been injected with, but the taste grew stronger.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stave off the encroaching blackness.
CHAPTER 40
DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY, NEBRASKA AVENUE CENTER, WASHINGTON D.C.
Haldane was the first to arrive at the DHS building. Gwen's secretary, Arlene, led him into Savard's office and brought him a fresh coffee. She passed it to him with a warm smile, and Noah wondered for a fleeting irrational moment if Arlene had heard about his date with her beloved boss.
Why would it matter? he wondered. Despite his lasting buzz from their promising kiss, Haldane couldn't shake the nagging guilt. Maybe he wasn't ready yet. As he wrestled those thoughts, Alex Clayton strode into the room dressed in an entirely black ensemble from jacket to shoes, which only Clayton could pull off. "Noah." He nodded. "How are you? Did you have a good dinner?"
Haldane knew that he was not imagining the recognition in Clayton's eyes. "Fine," he said without elaborating. "You?"
Clayton shrugged. "Dinner alone in front of the basketball game."
They fell into an awkward silence, broken when McLeod burst into the room. Without acknowledging Haldane or Clayton, he called over his shoulder, "Arlene, dear, I'm home."
Soon, the young homely secretary walked in bearing more coffees and a big smile for McLeod.
McLeod winked at her. "Ah, Arlene, if you were ten years older and not American ..." Haldane knew he added the last few words for Clayton's benefit.
Clayton rolled his eyes.
McLeod looked from Haldane to Clayton. "Where's our gorgeous leader?"
"She must have had a late night," Clayton said and fired a glance at Haldane.
When they had finished their coffees without any sign of Gwen, Haldane reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He tried her cell number but reached her voice mail after five rings. "Gwen, we're waiting in your office, give me a call if you get this." He hung up and dialed her home phone number and left the same message for her.
Haldane put away his phone and held up his palms. "Well?"
Clayton checked his watch. "I've got to get back to Langley in just over half an hour. The Director's called an urgent meeting."
"Why?" Haldane asked. "A development?"
Clayton looked from McLeod to Haldane, and Noah had the feeling he was weighing whether or not to trust them. "I was going to wait for Gwen, but ..." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two folded pages.
Clayton opened the first page and laid it out on the table in front of them. A photocopy, the Arabic letters on it were written in perfect penmanship.
Haldane and McLeod both leaned forward for a closer look. "What is it?" Haldane asked, alarms sounding in his head.
"We heard from the Egyptians late last night," Clayton said. "Apparently, Abdul Sabri sent this letter to his former commanding officer in the Egyptian Special Forces. The one who overlooked him for promotion."
"When?" Haldane tapped the page with a finger.
"It was postmarked the day after Operation Antiseptic, but as best we can assess it was sent the day before the raid."
Haldane took little consolation in knowing that the letter alone did not confirm Sabri lived through Operation Antiseptic. "Where was it sent from?" he asked.
"Cairo."
McLeod picked it up for a closer look. "What does it say?"
Clayton unfolded the second page, which bore an English translation, and placed it on top of the original text.
Haldane read the letter silently.
General,
For twenty years, I served loyally in your army. I performed every order I ever received. I accomplished every mission you or your designates ever set for me. I excelled where others would not have dared try.
Never questioning my orders, I fought the faithful of the Jihad. And on behalf of you and your illegitimate regime, I tortured and killed them. For which I am destined as you are to spend eternity in the fiery lake of hell.
For all of that, you rewarded my service, my sacrifice, with nothing but neglect and shame. Now you will learn that there is a price for your insult.
When your great ally, America, withers and collapses to her soulless knees because of me, you will see what happens. The faithful will rise up and restore Allah to His rightful seat of power in Egypt and
elsewhere.
They will quickly dispatch you and your kind to your special place in hell. And you will go there knowing that Abdul Sabri played a role in sending you.
Haldane read the letter over, while McLeod whistled. "I'm no psychotherapist, but I think the old major might have a few wee unresolved issues."
No one laughed.
"'When your great ally, America, withers and collapses to her soulless knees,'" Haldane quoted. "That doesn't sound like someone who ever intended to negotiate."
"True" Clayton said, folding up the pages and tucking them back into his pocket. "Sabri always planned on releasing the virus."
"Or still plans to," McLeod said with a disconsolate nod.
"It has been over two weeks," Haldane said, trying to convince himself as much as the others.
"Two weeks, two months, two years?" McLeod banged the table once with his fist. "If he's still alive and has the supervirus what does it matter to him? Shite, the world can't stay on guard forever. He will get his chance."
Clayton shook his head angrily. "Not if we find Major Sabri first."
"A damn good idea, Clayton," McLeod grumbled.
They sat around in despondent silence for five more minutes. Clayton glanced at his watch. "I can't wait for Gwen any longer. I have to go."
"Thanks for sharing the letter with us, Alex," Haldane said genuinely. "We'll update Gwen when she gets here." Haldane checked his own watch, which read 10:15 A.M. "At least, you don't have to worry about getting to Langley. There's still no traffic out there."
As Clayton buttoned up his overcoat, he said, "I don't know about that. Every morning there are more and more cars on the road. People are getting back to their routines."
"Yeah," McLeod agreed. "I even heard that the New Year's celebration at Times Square is on for tomorrow night."
"They're going ahead with it?" Haldane asked.
Clayton stopped buttoning his jacket.
"I heard something on the radio this morning," McLeod said. "I don't think it's the official celebration, but a bunch of New Yorkers are doing their usual, defiant screw-you-terrorists routine. We're going to party in spite of you buggers! They're expecting a big turnout, too."
Haldane looked at Clayton. "People come from all over the States for New Year's Eve at Times Square," he said, not bothering to mask the alarm in his voice.
Clayton nodded gravely. "I know."
"The reason the Spanish Flu took off like it did was because the soldiers from World War I were decommissioned in France right as the virus hit," Haldane said. They took it back home with them. What if tomorrow at Times Square ..."
"We won't allow this party to happen," Clayton said definitively. "Simple as that."
McLeod rubbed his beard with his palm. "Just exactly how do you stop an unofficial party?"
"Don't underestimate us, Duncan," Clayton grunted. "Sometimes we can accomplish things without all the usual red tape."
"You mean like the Bay of Pigs?" McLeod grunted.
Before Clayton could answer, Gwen's phone rang. "Maybe that's her," he said reaching for the receiver. "Hello, Dr. Savard's office."
Clayton listened a moment. "No, she is not here." A pause. "Alex Clayton, Deputy Director of Operations for the CIA."
"What?" Clayton's eyes went wide and the color drained from his face. "Where?"
Haldane stood from his seat. "Alex ..." But Clayton waved him back with a hand.
"Okay," Clayton said. "You call Moira Roberts, the Deputy Director of the FBI, and tell her I told you to. And you call me if you hear anything, anything at all," Clayton said, giving three numbers where he could be reached before hanging up his cell.
Clayton looked slowly from McLeod to Haldane. "The police found Gwen's car this morning at a gas station in Maryland," he said calmly. "There was blood on the backseat."
Gwen felt a vibration against her abdomen under her belt. Nauseous and disoriented, she opened her eyes and squinted through the light. The room smelt musty from mothballs. Springs dug into her back. When she tried to roll over, neither her legs nor her arms would cooperate. With each wiggle, she felt the straps dig tighter into her ankles and wrists.
Anxiety welled in her chest, but she willed herself calm, realizing that panic would be a grave waste of energy.
The cell phone tucked in her waistband stopped vibrating.
She raised her head and looked around the room. The green paint on the walls was peeling. Moldy curtains covered a small row of dirty windows, but the gray light from outside leaked through and around them. The electric radiator hummed loudly.
Though her mind was still bleary from whatever she had been given, she began to put the pieces together. Judging from the metal cot she was bound to, she suspected she was in the bedroom of a cheap motel, possibly the kind with individual cabins.
The sense of orientation helped hold her nerves in check even when she felt the sharpness in her left arm and looked down to see the intravenous cannula sticking out of her elbow's crease. She focused her memory on the face and eyes she had seen in her garage. She had no doubt they belonged to the man whose picture ran constantly on CNN. Abdul Sabri.