The Cradle of Life (7 page)

Marvelous.

Reiss had to hold Monza's neck even tighter to keep the man steady in his chair.

“These, my friends—” Reiss spoke without taking his eyes away from Monza's, he wanted to see every ounce of agony reflected there “—are the sounds of a traitor.”

Then all at once, there were no more sounds.

The coughing had stopped. So had Monza's breathing.

Reiss stood over the fat man, whose head had come to rest against one of the Gulfstream's windows. Red matter trickled out of both sides of his mouth, and had stained his suit and one of the armrests on his seat.

There was some on the floor, as well, Reiss saw. And on the windows. The doctor didn't envy whoever was on cleanup duty after this flight.

He turned away from the corpse and focused his attention on his other guests.

“Please forgive that unpleasantness. It was necessary, of course, but—” Reiss shrugged. “I regret you had to see it. In case you were wondering, that was an accelerated form of ebola. It is the deadliest disease known to man. Highly contagious.”

Duvalier, who still hadn't sat down (for someone with such an illustrious pedigree, Reiss thought, the man was a bit…well, jumpy), exchanged a nervous glance with first San, and then Krev. Even the normally unflappable Al-Sabah looked tense.

Reiss nodded sympathetically. “Yes, it is an airborne pathogen—I don't doubt the cabin is full of the virus. However…”

He nodded toward the two ladies at the rear of the cabin. They came forward and placed a single black pill in front of each of the other guests.

“Like all known diseases, there exist stockpiles of antiserum in the West—ready to stifle any outbreak.”

His guests all studied their pills for a moment. Then, one by one—Duvalier first of all, and Reiss made a mental note to speak with Sean about the man, he was too jittery today, he would fold under any sort of pressure, Reiss knew that now—they each picked up the capsules and swallowed them.

Only when they'd all done so did Reiss take his own dose of antiserum. He sipped from his water, and smiled at the others.

“My friends, there's no antiserum for what I'm offering to you. No treatment, no protocol, no vaccine, no cure. The modern world has never seen anything like what I've uncovered.”

“Uncovered?” Mr. San asked.

“Yes,” Reiss nodded. “I branched out. Archaeology.”

San looked at him questioningly. Madame Gillespie frowned.

“I don't understand,” she said.

“It's not important that you do,” he told her. “All you need to know is zero-seven-seven-four-four-six-eight-one.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Zero-seven-seven-four-four-six-eight-one. That is the account at the Lardesbank in Bern. Nine-figure deposit—a fair price for what you're getting. Those of you who pay will see their enemies eliminated. Those of you who don't—” he looked from her to the others “—I hope for your sakes none of your enemies buy it. You have twenty-four hours.”

Again, there was silence in the cabin.

“That's too soon,” San said. “I'll need more time to gather that kind of money.”

Reiss sighed. “Ah. Then I'm sorry for you, Mister San. Because this is, as they say in America, a limited-time offer. And the time limit is twenty-four hours.”

Just as Reiss finished talking, a soft chime sounded in the cabin. The two serving girls made their way toward the back of the plane.

“I'll leave you now,” Reiss said. “But the girls will be serving dinner shortly—after we've had a chance to clear the cabin of—” He nodded in the direction of Monza's body. “That.”

“Let me prevail on you to stay with us a moment, doctor,” Al-Sabah said. “I would like to discuss exactly what it is you've found. Since you're asking us to take an awful lot on faith.”

Reiss shook his head slowly. “I cannot believe, sir, that after my demonstration here—” he nodded again at Monza's body “—that you doubt my ability to deliver what I promise.”

Al-Sabah, to his credit, Reiss thought, met his stare.

“I don't doubt your abilities—I just don't like paying that kind of money blindly.”

“Not blindly, sir,” Reiss said. “I believe you have more than enough information to make a rational decision here. And now, if you'll excuse me…”

Without waiting for an answer, Reiss spun on his heel and walked forward to his own cabin.

 

The doctor spent the next several hours resting. He preferred plenty of rest—ten hours a day, not necessarily in contiguous time chunks, blocks of an hour at least, though, at a minimum—though he did not use the time solely to sleep. Reiss spent much of it just thinking. The most valuable time he had, and the hardest to find, particularly in a world that seemed determined to supply a sound track—be it music or commercials or what passed for news—for one's every waking moment. It really was astounding to him, every time he went out in public, how anyone got anything done with the constant din of so-called civilization howling in their ears.

Among the things he considered now, as he sat in the half-darkness of his cabin, were the implications of Monza's contact with MI6. He of course knew the British Intelligence organization was on to him—Rankin, and Calloway, and Stevens, all three of them had been tracing his activities surreptitiously, and not-so-surreptitiously over the last several years. But if Monza had given them even a clue as to what he was up to now, that surveillance would turn into active pursuit. Relentless pursuit.

So what had Monza known? What could he have told them?

The invitation Reiss had sent to all his guests for today's meeting had been the same tersely worded message, delivered by fax to their respective offices.

Something of interest has just become available. Please join me at one
P
.
M
., our usual rendezvous point.

And of course, when Sean had spotted the MI6 operatives at the Harrod's salon, Reiss had moved the meeting, and Sean had moved to discover who was behind the betrayal. Monza topped his list of suspects from the start—Reiss had a profound distaste for the man, his crass, deliberately revolting manner, his poor hygiene—and a cursory survey of Monza's cellular calls was all it took to prove his instincts right. Thus, the enhanced ebola.

But what could he have told them before he died?

That Reiss had something new. So MI6 would right now be looking in the usual places for clues as to what Reiss had found. They would corral scientists who'd worked with him before, visit facilities he'd utilized, countries whose stockpiles he'd raided…no, there was simply no way that MI6 could suspect what he was up to. They—like everyone else—thought the newest, most dangerous weapons would come from the development of new technologies. They were looking forward, keeping their eyes on the future. Where Reiss's attention had been focused for the first two decades of his professional life.

But the problem was, everyone was looking toward the future, exploring the same techniques, technologies, treatments, seeking the cutting edge. What he had said earlier was true—as fast as the new diseases were being developed, there was always a cure also being tested.

Over the last few months, Reiss had been looking somewhere else entirely. The ancient, dimly remembered past.

He'd gotten the idea from a book, of all things—which was more than a little surprising. Reiss was not a man who read frequently, not even within his chosen field of expertise. Scientists today published because the universities or corporations who employed them demanded it, and their conclusions were always predetermined matters, driven by the bottom line. Reiss preferred to do his learning in the laboratory—or through experience.

Which is just what had happened, several months back, when the Gulfstream had been forced out of service for repairs. Reiss had been forced to fly a commercial plane out of London into the States. First class, of course, but still…a horrendous experience.

A baby in coach, sneezing and spreading all sorts of God-knew-what germs throughout the plane (luckily, Reiss had taken a half-dozen immune-system boosters before boarding), a woman next to him—a taut, tense, business executive a few years older than him, late forties—who'd flirted shamelessly throughout the flight, and the way the flight attendant prepared his steak…

Reiss shuddered, remembering how closely she'd leaned over his food, the minted scent of her breath, the stifling musk of her perfume—good Lord, there were no doubt traces of that horrible stinking liquid underneath her fingernails, all over her hands…

He'd passed on lunch.

He'd also passed on all the businesswoman's attempts at engaging him in conversation, preferring instead to stare intently out the window, pretending to focus on the view but instead working a bit of third-level calculus, working out the diffusion matrix for a cannister of Tyrolean flu, delivered via a low-flying airplane—a skydiving school having just presented itself as the perfect cover for such an attack.

And then at some point during the flight, he'd turned away from the window to find that his seatmate had picked up a book.

Plagues and Peoples in the Ancient World.

Reiss's interest, of course, was piqued.

He cleared his throat.

“May I take a look at that?” he asked.

The woman's eyes flickered from the page to Reiss, and she shook her head.

“In a moment,” she said absently, obviously no longer interested in engaging Reiss in anything.

He reached into his pocket, and pulled out his billfold. Extracted a five hundred-pound note, and laid it on the woman's tray, next to her drink.

“Please give me the book,” Reiss repeated.

She looked from the bill to Reiss, and shook her head.

“Really.” She looked insulted. “I don't see how you can simply ignore people and then expect—”

Reiss pulled out another five hundred-pound note, and laid it next to the first.

“The book, please.”

She frowned. “This is quite ridiculous.”

Reiss couldn't help himself. He was getting angry.

“Please don't waste time,” he said. “Give me the book.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, then saw the look on Reiss's face.

He saw the look on hers, as well, and smiled.

Then he slid the book out of her hand, and settled it on his lap.

“Honestly,” the woman said a moment later—after she'd picked up the bills and put them away. “What makes the book so—”

Reiss held up a finger to silence her and began reading.

The author's position he gathered at once, it being identical to not only his but that of several other popular works. The idea that disease played a pivotal role in history—in allowing Cortés to take Mexico, the English to overrun the North American continent—none of this was new to him.

What was new—and quite interesting—were the less-credibly documented examples the author drew on from ancient times. Rumors of what really caused the downfall of Minoan civilization, where the Anasazi had actually gone…

What had stopped Alexander the Great's march east.

It had put Reiss in mind of a story he'd heard as a child, a story that had made quite an impression on him at the time. Over the years, while he hadn't forgotten that story, he had tended, more and more, to dismiss it as apocrypha. Now, as he sat there on the plane, greatly intrigued by the book's discussion of ancient catastrophes, he wasn't so sure.

Over the last several months, Reiss had followed up on those discussions. Several promising lines of research had developed.

And now, through a serendipitous series of events, he was very close to reaping the rewards of that research. A thousand pounds well spent, he thought—and he was also convinced now that there was no way MI6 could have a clue as to his current plan of attack. Not from Monza, not from anyone, in fact. All in all, a very satisfactory state of affairs.

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a soft chime, followed a second later by Ms. Kelly's voice at his door.

“Landing in five minutes, Doctor.”

“Thank you,” Reiss called back.

He stood up, flicking the lights on to full, and checked his appearance in the mirror. Straightened his tie, dabbed water on his temples—there.

That was satisfactory, as well.

 

Reiss's chief of operations—Sean O'Sullivan—was waiting for him on the runway. Three bodyguards—Reiss had made more than his fair share of enemies over the years—waited with him.

Suddenly, Reiss was not happy.

There was supposed to be a fifth man.

“Where is Chen Lo?” he asked.

In response, Sean handed him a piece of paper. A faxed photograph, Reiss saw.