Game Changer (38 page)

Coffey considered. “Are you
saying that it wasn’t Islamic terrorism? That Kovonov was behind it?”

“I am,” said Quinn. “They were a
secluded group of true believers. What better group to test his virus on? As
you said, the virus won’t discriminate. It will work the same on Christians as
it will on Muslims. So I’ll bet he exposed them to the virus, waited for it to
do its thing, and then tested them to see if they suddenly lost their religious
passion.”

“Makes sense,” said McLeod. “We
just have to hope that his field test failed.”

Carmilla Acosta shook her head. “Rachel
is certain the regions targeted are those needed for religious belief,” she
said weakly. “And I’m certain the virus will do its job. I’m sure the test was successful.”

Coffey frowned deeply. “I’ll try
to pull strings to get one of the bodies from the massacre,” he said. “Rachel,
if you had one of the victim’s brains, could you confirm this happened, and if the
virus worked or not?”

Rachel didn’t hesitate. “I’m
sure I could. If I remember right, they were all shot through the head. So all
of their brains will be . . . compromised. But I should be able to find pinpoint
ablations of the religious centers within otherwise undamaged brain tissue. I
don’t have to verify every last one has been hit. Two or three would be more
than enough confirmation.”

“Given that we’re certain it
will work,” said Karen, “is this worth doing?”

Coffey nodded. “I think so, yes.
For good measure. And in case others in the future require more convincing than
we do.”

“But don’t we have to face the
fact we might already be too late?” said Major McLeod.

“We’re not,” said Quinn.
“Carmilla assured us that the current version of the virus isn’t contagious. No
matter how manipulated she was, Kovonov could never have supplied a plausible
reason to engineer
this
in.”

“Can it be
made
contagious?” asked Coffey.

Rachel turned to Carmilla. “Do
you feel up to fielding this, or do you want me to?”

“You,” whispered Carmilla, her
energy having faded even since the meeting had begun. They needed to get her
back to her room.

Rachel turned to address the
gathering. “I’ll just parrot what Carmilla told us earlier today,” she said.
“The answer is
yes
, it can be made
contagious. Hypercontagious. But Kovonov will need to have extensive
modifications done. It will need to be inserted in a hyperinfectious carrier,
which won’t be simple. But if done correctly, she estimates it could infect
every man, woman, and child on Earth within six months.”

“No virus ever gets
everyone
,” said Coffey.

“This one could,” said Rachel,
“because it will be insidious. No one will know they have it. No one will seek treatment.
Carriers won’t stay at home or be put into quarantine. A number of seizure
victims over the years have shown us what to expect. Those true believers who
are infected will suddenly stop being true believers, without having any idea
this is due to an outside agent.”

“How long will it take Kovonov
to make the needed modifications?” said Coffey.

“Carmilla thinks it will take at
least a few months,” replied Quinn. “But she’s convinced he can’t do it
himself, even if he had genetic engineering implanted using his Matrix Learning
system. It can only be done by the best in the world.”

“So what’s our play?” said
Coffey.

“Carmilla is putting together a
list of maybe twenty to thirty scientists in the world capable of pulling this
off,” said Quinn. “Rachel will race to find a simple method to confirm that Davinroy
and Henry haven’t been compromised. Then we can bring them on board.”

Coffey nodded thoughtfully. “And
once this happens, they can activate more than enough resources to put
surveillance teams on every last scientist on Carmilla’s list.”

“That would be the goal,” said
Quinn.

“Then maybe it’s a good thing
Carmilla is on the team, after all,” acknowledged Coffey with a smile.

62

Quinn stayed behind in Rachel’s
apartment after the meeting disbanded and the participants had gone their
separate ways. Their mutual attraction had continued to grow, and Quinn
couldn’t help but wonder if this, too, was simply their genes, neurons, and
unconscious minds giving them no choice in the matter.

They had agreed to keep their relationship
platonic, to resist the magnetic pull their personalities and presence seemed
to have on one another. Yet the more they fought to ignore this pull the more
it seemed to intensify. Was this just human nature? Quinn wondered.

If something was forbidden, did
that necessarily make it that much more appealing? Or was this effect like that
of hunger? The longer you denied yourself food that was sitting right in front
of you, the greater your hunger would grow, eventually becoming irresistible.

Quinn could tell that Rachel Howard
was just as susceptible to this effect as he was, whatever the cause.
 

In addition to a natural
attraction, they found they made a great team, and had made great progress
together. They had managed to chip away at the secrets of Kovonov’s neurotech
advances, and they were now beginning to get a handle on the man himself.

They had been on the couch for
forty-five minutes, engaged in effortless conversation, as usual, punctuated by
long bouts of laughter, when Kevin decided he couldn’t take it any longer. If
he didn’t have Rachel in his arms he would burst.

Judging by the look in her eyes as
he inched ever nearer on the couch, she felt the same.

He leaned in closer to her face,
slowly, and she didn’t pull away. She closed her eyes as his lips neared her
own, and he longed to feel their softness against his.
 

“Incoming call from Major McLeod,”
announced her phone, breaking the spell when his lips were but millimeters away
from their destination.

Rachel’s head jerked back and her eyes
shot open.

“Accept the call,” she called out,
and instinctively Quinn slid a foot or two farther away from her on the couch.

McLeod’s head floated in front of
them and his enthusiasm was unmistakable. “Good, you’re together,” he said by
way of greeting. “We just got another bite on your 800 number.”

Quinn was immediately alert. Finally,
another of Kovonov’s neural nanite victims had identified themselves. “Tell us
about it,” he said.

“Male caller.” The major raised his
eyebrows. “Israeli accent.”

Rachel inhaled sharply. “Are you
sure?”

“I took the call myself. I worked
with a few Israelis on a joint project years ago, and I know the accent well.”

“What name did he give?” asked
Quinn.

“He didn’t. It was a very short
call. He said that he remembered sending some hair in for genome analysis, but
that he hadn’t been thinking clearly. He said he had no interest in the
results, and insisted that we not call again.” McLeod grinned. “He was quite
agitated by the whole thing, as you can imagine. I told him we couldn’t take
him off our call list if we didn’t know who he was.”

“Nice touch,” said Quinn.

“Thanks. He still didn’t give a
name, but he gave his cell phone number so we could remove it. Then he
threatened to sue if we ever called again and ended the call abruptly.”

Even after having personal
experience with the implantation of false memories, Quinn continued to be
impressed by just how powerful they could be. The Plum Island team never had
this guy’s number in the first place because no message had ever been left. He
just
remembered
having listened to a
message, which he
remembered
having deleted.

“I assume you were able to trace
him,” said Quinn.

“We were. I’ve scrambled two of the
Prep H team, Lieutenants Gene Bowen and Dave Zerkle. They’re in the air now.
Their helo will land at Fort Drum in New York and take a faster aircraft to
this new lead. They should be at their final destination in just over an hour.
Once they are, given we now have this guy’s cell number, they’ll be able to
pinpoint his exact location. I have a few items to attend to, but I’ll be
leaving in a hour myself to meet up with them. Captain Stagemeyer—Brian
Stagemeyer—will be in charge of the Prep H team while I’m away. So you’ll still
be well protected.”

“I never doubted that for a moment,”
said Rachel.

“Same plan as with Dr. Acosta?”
said Quinn. “Wait to move in, hoping this guy will lead you to Kovonov?”

“Yes. Maybe the second time will be
a charm.”

“So where was he calling from?”
asked Rachel.

“Just outside of Knoxville, Tennessee.”

Quinn thought for a moment and then
frowned. “What’s in Knoxville, Tennessee?” he asked.

“Hopefully, Dmitri Kovonov,”
replied the major. “But whoever this guy is, and whatever he’s doing in
Knoxville,” he added, “you can bet your ass we’re going to find out.”

63

Dmitri Kovonov waited calmly in the
deep darkness of Cherokee National Forest. He was lurking just inside the tree
line beside a narrow road, with a small rucksack resting on the ground near his
feet. It was ten minutes until midnight and he knew that Colonel Stephen Hansen
would take great care to arrive for their rendezvous precisely at the appointed
time, parking a few minutes away, if necessary, to ensure he arrived not a
minute too early or too late.

Earlier that day, just after
Kovonov had left the Starbucks, he had sent Mizrahi to help his freelance communications
expert ready the new home they had acquired nearby. When this was completed,
Kovonov had sent his underling on another important mission, one designed to
take advantage of a strategic opportunity he wanted to exploit.

Kovonov loved midnight. It held a
unique place in the collective imagination, had become synonymous in literature
and mythology with evil and dread. The stroke of midnight, the precise moment
separating one day from another. In ancient times called the
witching hour
, when black magic was at
its zenith and witches, demons, and ghosts roamed the Earth at their most
powerful.

And in modern times, when experts
wanted a way to represent their assessment of just how close humanity was to
self-destruction, they settled on something they called
the doomsday clock
, with midnight representing the global
apocalypse, of course. Currently, the clock was set to its latest point ever,
11:58, but Kovonov thought these so-called doomsday experts were idiots. In his
opinion it was 11:59:59. And then some. If not for Israel’s efforts at
thwarting the plans of Iran and North Korea, midnight might have already
arrived.

But he was determined to usurp the
witching hour. Instead of the global apocalypse Islamic extremists longed to
bring about, he would use the stroke of midnight to mark the beginning of the
end of this malignant threat. The precise moment that he had single-handedly begun
to reverse the tide.

Several minutes later a pair of headlights
lit the dark night, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant. The headlights
continued to work their way closer until the ten-foot truck to which they were
attached pulled up to within yards of Kovonov’s position and stopped.

Right on schedule.

Kovonov noted the truck had U-Haul
markings, as expected, although the telltale colors of orange and white were
impossible to make out in the dim moonlight. He hadn’t seen another vehicle
since he had arrived thirty minutes earlier and didn’t expect to see another
one for at least as long.

He emerged from behind the tree
line with his rucksack in hand and approached the driver, motioning for him to
lower the window. “Glad to see you, Colonel,” he said by way of greeting. “I
assume al-Bilawy is inside,” he added, nodding toward the back of the truck.

“That’s correct, ah . . . Daryl,” replied
Hansen, rolling his eyes. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me your real name
since we’re going to be working together.”

“Not yet,” said Kovonov.

He moved to the opposite side of
the cab, pulled open the door, and seated himself. He directed Hansen to drive
along a dirt road that twisted deeper through the woods, ensuring even greater
seclusion and privacy.

After about ten minutes of this
Kovonov called a halt. “Let’s get out,” he said, “and you can introduce me to
our prisoner.”

“Right here and now?” said Hansen
in disbelief. “Can’t this wait until we’re at our destination?”

“If I thought it could wait,”
growled Kovonov, “it would wait! I don’t expect my orders to be questioned
again!”

Hansen glared at his temporary
superior. “Your show,” he said through clenched teeth, bristling at the entire
bizarre situation he was now in and the need to answer to a stranger he knew
nothing about.

Kovonov followed the colonel to the
back of the truck through a blanket of darkness, taking a moment to gaze at the
glorious star field above, which he rarely took time to appreciate.

Hansen opened the back of the truck
and climbed inside, with Kovonov close behind.

The prisoner was restrained in one
of four chairs bolted securely into the vehicle’s frame.
 
His loathing of the two men who had entered
was etched into every line in his face. He had all the markings of a zealot, a
true believer, for whom the assertion that America was the
Great Satan
wasn’t just a rhetorical flourish.

“Haji A
hmad al-Bilawy,” said Kovonov in delight, still holding his ruck. “Am I
ever glad to see you.”

Al-Bilawy glanced back and forth
between Hansen and Kovonov. He looked confused by Kovonov’s obvious enthusiasm.
Interrogators had often tried to establish rapport with him, but had never
acted as though he were a long-lost uncle.

Hansen looked equally confused.
More so when Kovonov removed a silenced pistol from his bag.

“What are you planning to do with
that?” demanded the colonel.

“Shoot you dead,” said Kovonov
calmly, raising the gun in one smooth motion and pulling the trigger. Hansen’s
head exploded like a pumpkin dropped from a skyscraper. Blood and brains sprayed
outward, splattering the prisoner and much of the inside of the truck.

Al-Bilawy’s eyes widened and he
shouted into the duct tape covering his mouth, which muffled his words.

Kovonov ripped the duct tape free.

“
What is going on?
” demanded the prisoner, having no idea what to
make of what he had just witnessed.

Kovonov didn’t reply. Instead, while
al-Bilawy was pinned to his seat with no range of motion, he reached up and
injected him in the neck with a microneedle array.

“Is that truth serum?” spat the
terrorist in disdain. “If it is, it won’t work. Besides, you American
pigs
don’t believe in truth serum, or in
torture.”

Al-Bilawy glanced at Hansen’s bloody
corpse on the floor of the truck and his smug expression vanished. Americans
didn’t believe in executions of this type, either. “
What have you done to me?
” he shouted in alarm.

“First, I’m not an American,” replied
Kovonov, reverting back to his Russian accent. “Second, have you ever
considered that if America truly were the Great Satan, it would revel in
torture, not outlaw its use? Or is Satan a pacifist in your religion?”

“What?”

“I’m saying, shit-for-brains, that
you possess a psychotic ideology that is as stupid as it is evil. But I’m not
here to debate theology. In answer to your question, I injected you with many
billions of nano scale electronic devices. They are already making themselves
at home in your brain.”

Al-Bilawy shrank back in horror.

“This nanite infestation won’t hurt
you,” continued Kovonov. “But it will allow me to implant complex memories, and
perform other manipulations. This will take some doing, since the memories I
plan to implant are fairly extensive. But the bottom line is this: I’m going to
turn you into a puppet. Into my
bitch
as the Americans would say. You’re going to do exactly what I want you to do,
and you’ll think you’re carrying out orders from your own leaders.”

“I will never do anything for you!”

“Were you not listening? It won’t
be for me. It will be for your superiors. You’ll think the orders came directly
from that psychopathic asshole, Walid A
bousamra
.”

“Do your worst!” bellowed
al-Bilawy. “I am a loyal servant of Allah. He will either protect me or I will be
happy to become a martyr in his service.”

He shook his head and his eyes
burned into Kovonov’s. “And very soon Allah will help his pious followers smite
you dead, along with all other infidels on Earth.”

“Yeah, yeah . . . smite us dead. I
get it.”

Kovonov pulled a standard syringe
from his bag and injected al-Bilawy in the arm. “You really need to relax,” he
said. “This will help. In fact, you’ll be going to sleep now. For a long time.
It’s easier to manipulate you with the proper precision when you’re
unconscious, and I don’t need you just yet.”

“I’m going to kill you,” whispered
the prisoner, already fading away.

“No you’re not,” said Kovonov,
looking amused. “Because when you awaken, you won’t remember that we ever met,
and none of what I’ve told you.”

The Israeli smiled. “Sweet dreams,
you demented piece of shit!”