Biowar (8 page)

“Lia, she’s working for the Brits. Just stay in the background for now, all right?”

“Suit yourself.”

Lia reached into her large bag and pulled out a tourist guide. The book contained eight pages of detailed maps of the area and hotel they’d be working; while she had the same information on her handheld, there was a certain quaintness to using the guidebook. It also saved on the battery.

In a few moments they were outside of the airport tunnel, hurtling toward London. And then, not....

The train slammed on its brakes, and Lia, caught by surprise, found herself flying into the Plexiglas liner of the luggage compartment.

Dean braced himself as the brakes slammed on, warned by a change in the sound of the train’s wheels—a benefit of having grown up in a town where trains ran through regularly.

“Trouble,” he whispered to his runner.

Dean was sitting next to an emergency exit and eyed the bottom of the glass as the train screeched to a halt.

“We’re with you,” said Rockman in his ear. “There’s a woman following you named Sylvia Reynolds. Brown sweater, brunette hair, about forty. She’s with the Brits but we’re not sure why she’s trailing you. She’s in your car.”

Dean adjusted his glasses, clicking the small tab at the back near his left ear. The tab opened a video feed in the lower portion of the glass; another click and the screen displayed a view from a microscopic lens located at the back of the glasses, allowing Dean to see the woman who was tailing him without actually turning around. She looked as surprised as any of the other passengers. He tapped the feed off and craned his head to the left, looking through to the next car. A conductor and two policemen were moving through the car, glancing at the passengers. Dean slid back in his seat.

“Your passport, sir,” said one of the policemen after Dean presented his ticket.

“Sure,” said Dean. He took out his passport and gave it to the policeman.

“You just landed in London?”

“Yes,” said Dean.

“Where are you staying?” asked the bobby.

“Go ahead and tell him,” whispered Rockman.

“Renaissance Hotel,” said Dean. “What’s going on?”

“Official business,” said the officer, handing the passport back. He pointed ahead and they moved on, stopping near the end of the car and questioning another man.

“They seem to be looking for someone,” Dean told Rockman after they left the car.

“We figured that. Not clear what they’re doing. May have nothing to do with us.”

“The woman you said was tailing me is getting up,” said Dean, watching her. “She’s going after them. Should I trail her?”

“Negative,” said Rockman. “You’re just Kegan’s assistant, remember? Stay where you are.”

It was nearly twenty minutes before the train started moving again. Rockman had tapped into the local radio network in the meantime and determined that the police were looking for a man they called Sand. The name did not appear to correspond to any of the outstanding notices or warrants, but in one of the transmissions they mentioned an MI-5 operative; the operation appeared unrelated. Sylvia Reynolds, meanwhile, had gone back to her seat.

“It’s possible they think you’re Sand,” said Rockman. “Might be a terrorist thing.”

“If so, why didn’t they arrest me?”

“If they really are looking for someone who’s a terrorist, odds are he won’t look like you. Relax. We’re working on it.”

Dean slid back in the seat. The Art Room was
always
working on it. In his experience, they had a tendency to figure out things about five minutes after they’d be truly useful to know.

“Your tail only went to the ladies’ room,” Rockman told him. “Lia doesn’t think she spoke to the police.”

“But we’re not sure.”

“No. Was she close enough to hear you when you told the policeman where you were staying?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Okay, don’t sweat it.”

Once the train resumed moving, the ride into Paddington took only another twelve minutes. Dean got out and, directed by Rockman, tucked around to the right to the outdoor cab stand. Sylvia Reynolds no longer appeared to be following him. Lia had been spotted by Reynolds—it had been impossible to hide when the police came through—and she stopped trailing Dean, though Rockman assured him she was close enough to back him up if something happened.

“Who’s backing her up?” said Dean.

“She can take care of herself,” said the runner. Then he added, “Not that you can’t.”

“Thanks.”

There were members of at least two different intelligence agencies in the giant train station—British and Russian. Guided by Rockman, Dean steered a seemingly haphazard path away from them, heading toward the taxi queue outside. There he joined the line, pulling his bag up as the line moved steadily. It was just after morning rush, and there was a steady flow of large black cabs, punctuated by newer models in green, blue, and red. Dean got into a black one in the far lane, swatting the car on the rear window before getting in. He told the driver his destination only after he was inside, then settled back as they waded into traffic.

His swat on the window had not been for good luck. The Desk Three op had placed a penny-sized wide-angle cam on top of the chrome. He took out his handheld computer and turned on the transmitter, which would work for forty-five minutes, then fry itself beyond recognition with one last burst of energy.

He fed the image into the lower portion of his glasses as well as relaying it back to the Art Room. But after a few minutes he found the fish-eyed feed of the traffic behind him distracting and turned it off. The Art Room claimed he was no longer being followed.

The Renaissance was a luxury hotel near Holburn Street and several blocks from the conference itself. Not using the conference hotel made it easier for surveillance and, more important, kept him away from the British intelligence network already set up there. Three different rooms had already been reserved in the hotel for him under different names, and as he rode through the morning traffic the Art Room checked the hotel’s reservation banks to see who had booked near them. They went with a large room on the sixth floor, wiping the others off the system.

Three doormen sprang to attention as the cab pulled in under the archway into the courtyard at the front of the hotel; Dean pulled a twenty-pound note from his pocket and stuffed it into the cabbie’s hand.

“Too much of a tip, guv,” protested the cabdriver paternally, but Dean waved him off.

“How much did you give him?” asked Telach.

Dean ignored her, following the doormen to the front desk, where the clerk found that his room was ready, despite the early hour. When Dean was alone in the elevator Telach hissed at him not to go overboard in tipping again.

“Rubens will have your head.”

“He already has the rest of me,” said Dean. “So where’s my friend?”

“She switched off and started following Lia,” said Telach. “Must be doing contract work for MI-5.”

The Art Room supervisor explained that British intelligence would routinely collect dossiers on various experts, a preemptive “just-in-case” operation. Dean would have attracted some attention because, cover story or not, he was new to them. The fact that he was covered by a rent-a-spy meant he was considered small potatoes.

“As long as I’m not mashed,” he told her.

“We’re inside the hotel’s computer, which has a link to the video system, so we’ll see her or anyone else if she comes in. So far we don’t have any indications of agents there. It may be that she wants to see what Lia’s up to now—whether she was trailing you or someone else. We’re betting that she was only supposed to find out where you were staying, which she would have been able to do when you spoke to the police. She hung with you long enough to make sure you were headed in that direction, then went after the lead that seemed more interesting.”

“Yeah, but I could go anywhere in the taxi.”

“True, but they don’t know that you’re up to anything particularly interesting. But an American op shows up, that’s different. Lia’s worked with the British before, and with Sylvia. So she’s a hell of a lot more interesting. Don’t get offended,” Telach added.

“I’m not. I’m beat. I want to take a nap: ”

“No time,” said Telach. “We need you go to a store near Charing Cross.”

“Why?”

“We’ve recovered the E-mails that led Kegan to file the contact report. They’re pretty bare, but the last one mentioned the Mysterious Anderson bookstore. You’re supposed to be there at ten. It’s close to your hotel. You can walk.”

“I’d like to catch some rest,” protested Dean.

“Next lifetime,” said Telach.

As soon as she was sure Dean had gotten into his taxi, Lia watched Reynolds come back inside and get into the Heathrow Express back to the airport; obviously her job was done, at least for now. Lia waited until the train left, then took her own circuitous route in and out before ducking down a Tube entrance and making sure she wasn’t followed.

Lia rode the Circle line to the Embankment stop a short distance away. Aboveground, Rockman directed her over to the Charing Cross bookstore Dean was heading for. Rather small, it specialized in mystery and crime books; the shelves were fairly disorganized by English standards, with books pushed in every which way and stacked so tightly that it was hard to take them out.

“When’s this meeting taking place?” Lia asked.

“Supposed to be in a half hour,” said Telach.

“Plenty of time.”

A video camera sat at the rear. Lia asked the more sympathetic-looking of the two clerks if there might be a rest room she could use; in a minute she was being led past haphazardly arranged piles of books to a small, rather fetid room about the size of a closet. Lia went inside, waiting a respectful moment before taking out her small computer and using it to find the shielded video cable running along the edge of the floor at the near wall. From her purse she took out what looked like a button with a metal clip; she attached it to the cable, then left. By the time she thanked the clerk, the Art Room was viewing the video feed from the store system. Lia walked down the street in search of a tea shop, waiting for Dean to arrive.

The sun glinted off Dean’s sunglasses as he turned left out of the hotel, walking down High Holburn toward Shaftesbury. Besides blocking the sun, the mirrored finish of the glasses provided a good backdrop for the viewer portion of the lens at the bottom, which made them much more practical to use than the clear set, at least outdoors. Dean was able to project a GPS map and locator system on the left screen; he found the map a good deal less annoying than Rockman’s directions, which made him feel like little more than a robot.

Rockman barked at him when he came to Cambridge Circus, telling him he should turn left; Dean ignored the runner, waiting against the rail for the light and then crossing, walking around near the Palace Theatre before going back toward the river. That meant he had to cross the street again, but the zigging course made it easier for him to check if he was being followed. He found the small store and went in, wandering for a while as if truly looking for something to read. He found the recent Ian Rankin and picked it up. He moved farther back, then paused over the true crime section, which turned out to be dominated by American authors. He pulled a book at random—
Lobster Boy
by Fred Rosen—and cracked it open.

“So?”

“Browse for a few minutes more,” advised Rockman.

Dean wandered back and forth for about ten minutes before finally going to the register with the two books. As the clerk put Dean’s credit card through the machine, a short Asian man came in, glancing in his direction before heading toward the back. Dean signed for his books, then left the store, walking down the street slowly. Sure enough, the man came out of the store—but went immediately in the other direction.

“Not following you?” asked Rockman.

“No.”

“All right. Go on back to the hotel and let’s see what happens.”

“Maybe I can take a nap,” muttered Dean.

As he reached the end of the block, he decided not to go back the way he had come. He took a right and nearly knocked over a man about his size who’d been studying a newspaper.

“Sorry,” said Dean, moving around him.

The man pulled the newspaper away, revealing a gun. “Onto the Tube,” he said, pointing with the barrel.

10

Rubens had placed his best analysis team on the virus project, but he had not made the decision lightly. The team was headed by Johnny Bib, a genius mathematician and a remarkably brilliant leader, at least in the eccentric world of the Deep Black analytic section. But Johnny brought a certain annoyance factor to any enterprise he was involved in. He was eccentric even by the outsize ruler the NSA used to measure eccentricity.

At the moment, for example, he sat in Rubens’ office holding a red apple in his hand, glancing at it and shaking it, without explaining either the apple’s significance or, more important, what he had wanted to talk about.

“Johnny, what did you want to tell me?” Rubens asked.

“Fauna.”

“I assume that means something.”

“Fauna,” repeated Johnny Bib.

“Why, Johnny? Why?”

“Yes. I haven’t decrypted it yet. Yes. Yes. Pictures, though. JPG format; any PC could view them.”

Frustrated and confused, Rubens just barely controlled his anger, stifling the urge to yell. He made his voice very quiet instead. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

“Does he have a garden?”

“Who?”

“Dr. Kegan.”

“Why is that important?”

Johnny Bib took a bite of the apple and then began talking. According to the material they had recovered from the computer linked to the Internet, Kegan had downloaded considerable information about plants in the past few days.

“Why?” asked Rubens.

“Yes,” said Johnny triumphantly.

“What about the reformatted hard drive?”

“Very good work. We haven’t gotten anything from it yet. Very, very good work. The plants, though. Why?”

“Okay.
Why?
Does it have to do with plant bacteria or viruses?”