Rogue Oracle (20 page)

The pilot was waddling the plane down to the runway, chatting banally about the DC heat and how lovely Rome was this time of year.

From the direction of the terminal, a
boom
echoed. Excited chatter rattled in the cabin. In the middle of the pilot’s estimating flight time, the radio cut off.

Galen tensed. Had he been found? Would they stop the plane and drag him away?

The passengers craned over to peer through the windows on the terminal side. Galen looked over the shoulder of the woman with the dog to see a plume of gray rising in the distance.

The pilot’s voice crackled over the radio.
“Please stay in your seats and stay calm.”

At the admonishment to stay calm, panic broke out. The woman beside Galen clutched the pet carrier and sobbed.

The plane rolled down the runway and gained speed. In moments, the plane bounced into the air, the landing gear bumping back into the belly of the plane. The plane took a long, curving climb in the sky.

Looking down through the window, Galen could see flames emanating from the main terminal. Fire trucks swarmed into view, lights flashing.

“Oh my God,” Galen’s seatmate whispered. “What is that?”

Galen squinted at the fire until they’d climbed above the cloud cover. He didn’t answer, but he thought he knew: it was someone’s revenge. He didn’t know who, but someone was taking their own vengeance on the world. He could relate.

He leaned back in his seat. He let the voices wash over him, the mutterings about bombs and fires. The flight attendants trotted to the front of the cabin and reassured everyone that they were safe, that there had simply been some malfunction on the ground, likely in the baggage system. They would be proceeding to Rome on schedule.

Hours into the flight, when the ocean spread out dark and blue below them, information began to trickle in from hushed conversations on air phones: it had been a bomb. Someone had exploded a bomb. A dirty bomb. The news media was reporting that people had been killed, that radioactive material had been strewn all over the airport.

Eventually, the pilot came on the intercom:

“Ladies and gentlemen, as many of you have already heard, there was an incident as we were departing Dulles. There was an explosion in the baggage area, and terrorism is suspected. There is no need for you to panic. We’ll get you to Rome, safe and sound. You’ll be met by workers from the U.S. Embassy at the airport, who will be able to put you in touch with your loved ones and provide more information.

“In the meantime, please try to relax and enjoy the inflight film. Headphones will be offered free of charge. Our flight attendants will be offering a beverage service momentarily …”

The woman beside Galen started to cry again. The dog paced in its carrier, hearing her owner’s sobs, but unable to console her.

Galen leaned back, pretending to watch the movie. But some part of him thrilled at the undercurrent of anxiety in the air, the raw smell of fear of these insulated Westerners in the face of chaos.

It smelled like home.

“How
DID YOU BUILD THE BOMB
?”

The interrogator leaned closer to Zahar than was probably safe. Zahar sat in an interrogation room in a nondescript Homeland Security building, wrapped in a white Tyvek suit and handcuffs. He’d been in custody more than twelve hours, propped up in a chair with no sleep. There were no clocks in the room he was being interrogated in, no daylight to measure the passage of time.

Geiger counters indicated that he was flush with roentgens. Standing too close to him without suitable protection could probably turn an interrogator sterile. There was a stainless steel table between them, but still. The interrogator didn’t look worried. He was over six feet tall, buzz-cut, and looked like his chest could deflect bullets.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Zahar sprawled insolently in his chair, pausing only to turn his head and cough on his shoulder. He was looking pretty green, and had vomited twice in a trash can. Radiation poisoning was a bitch.

Tara watched Zahar through the one-way observation room glass. His posture was different than it had been when she’d last interviewed him. This was all bravado … but false. Tara could see how his foot twitched under the table.

“Why did DHS let him go in the first place?” Tara asked. She folded her arms over her chest. She was wearing a white Tyvek suit, like Zahar, and her skin had been scrubbed sunburn-bright. Her clothes had been taken from her for analysis, and the suit was all that anyone had left to give her. It was too large and pooled at her ankles.

Harry grumbled, picking at the seams of his own plastic suit. “DHS says that they let him go, but were keeping him under surveillance. They wanted to see who he’d lead them to.”

“Evidently, they weren’t watching him close enough,” Tara snarked.

“They lost track of him three days ago. He apparently turned out to be sneakier than they thought. But while they had him under surveillance he made contact with some interesting folks on CIA watch lists. Some of these people were the same people trafficking in the secrets from our case.”

“Small world for terrorists.”

“Yeah. The preliminary lab analysis suggests the materials used in the bomb were rather unique. A cocktail of cesium-137, iodine-131, and strontium-90, pretty specific to former USSR installations.” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is going to be a massive international relations hairball when it gets out.”

Tara leaned forward and stared at Zahar, who was continuing to stonewall the interrogator. “I’d like to try to talk to him.”

Harry shrugged. “Can’t hurt to ask. Homeland Security doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere.”

Harry let himself out of the dim observation room. Tara watched Zahar go pale and ask for another trash can. Irritated, the interrogator stormed out. Tara wondered if Zahar was now regretting the radiation he’d managed to slather all over himself in the creation of the bomb. At the time, he apparently hadn’t cared enough to take precautions.

The door to the observation room cracked open, and the burly interrogator motioned to her. “Your turn, Dr. Sheridan.”

He unlocked the interrogation room door with a key card. “I’ll be watching. Just go to the door when you want to be let out.”

“Thanks.” Tara waited for the green light on the door to blink before she went in.

Zahar looked like a miserable frat boy after a party, cradling a trash can in his lap. He looked up as she entered. Tara sat down opposite him at the table, just as she had days before at the prison.

“Hello, Zahar.”

Zahar spat into the trash can.

Tara folded her hands in front of her. “You’re not the only one with a nice case of radiation poisoning, you know. By last count, more than sixty people are sick. That’s aside, of course, from the eight people you managed to kill with the bomb blast in the baggage area. Twelve more were injured.”

Zahar shrugged. “Not as successful as I hoped, but it was pretty good for a first try.”

“You’re really an amateur, Zahar.” Tara kept her tone cold and level. “You detonated it way too soon. Your handlers are likely very disappointed.”

“Didn’t have much choice. I was surprised to see you there.” Zahar’s brows drew together, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I thought your profile was the reason they set me free.”

Tara shook her head. “I knew you were lying. My report recommended we keep you for a good, long time. You got lucky.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” he said, with an edge of arrogance.

“Did you build that bomb yourself?”

“Yeah. It’s mine.”

“Judging by the amount of radiation you seem to have been exposed to, I would think that’s true.” Tara stared hard at him. “You were expelled from the university, and everything from your apartment was taken. Where did you get the materials for this one?”

Zahar leaned back, hugging his trash can like a teddy bear.

“There’s no point in being coy. You’re not ever going to be released from custody, I can guarantee you. Cooperation might win you a private cell or more immediate medical treatment.” Tara eyed Zahar’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. She was pretty sure that Zahar had been given only the minimum amount of treatment required to ensure his survival. His comfort was probably not at issue.

“Medical treatment?” he echoed.

“Looks like you gave yourself a heavier radiation dose than you expected,” Tara said, neutrally.

“How much?” His eyes widened in startlement. Without his laboratory, there probably wasn’t any way Zahar could have known what he’d exposed himself to.

Tara stared at him levelly. “Where did you get the materials?”

Zahar stared miserably into the murky depths of the trash can. “My handler got in touch with me. Said he had a job.”

“Bullshit,” Tara said. “I know you were lying about being blackmailed for your sister. Tell me the truth.”

“Look, just because I don’t have a sister doesn’t mean I don’t have a handler.” Zahar burped. “The guy called me, said he had something he wanted me to build. Had some raw materials.”

“Who?”

“I just know him as Masozi. He’s the guy who recruited me. Said he had the materials, but couldn’t build the bomb. At first, I was just supposed to build it, but then …” His shoulders slumped.

“What? You didn’t want to be the one to detonate it?”

Zahar opened his mouth, closed it. “I was honored to do it. You’ve been oppressing my people for years. We want you to know what it feels like.”

Tara looked at him. One part of her wanted to reason with him, to point out the comforts his Western education had provided him, to call him a hypocrite. The other wanted to slap the living daylights out of him. Instead, she said: “Where did the material come from?”

“It was old stuff, pretty substandard,” Zahar admitted. “I was told that it was fragments from a dismantled Russian nuclear site.”

“How much stuff?”

“About three cubic feet of cesium and strontium.” Zahar began to sway. “About that medical attention …”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Tara stood up to leave, turning away from the sound of retching echoing in the trash can like the angry ocean in a shell.

I
NFORMATION WAS A LOT LIKE RADIATION
. I
T WAS CONTAGIOUS
, sticking to things that walked away with it.

And information was what Tara needed most.

She leaned against the back of the elevator cab in the Special Projects building, still in her Tyvek suit. She hadn’t been back to the Steves, but she’d called Cassie to check on her. She’d been up all night with the airport debacle, and no sleep was likely to be on the horizon.

Though most of the furor surrounded Zahar, Tara was thoroughly dejected that the Chimera had slipped away. But she was going to correct her mistake. She was going to find him, no matter what it took.

Her fingers tightened around two brand-new presentation flipcharts and boxes of markers. Veriss was dead; he wouldn’t be needing them. She needed them more: as an offering to the knowledge gods. She imagined this was the way it had worked with the fabled lynx-eyed librarians back at Alexandria.

Tara’s cell phone rang in the purse draped over her shoulder. She’d left the purse in Harry’s car when they’d gone chasing after the Chimera. Good thing: her cards would’ve been difficult to replace.

She glanced at the caller ID. It was the Pythia. This time, she decided to answer. Better to have this conversation well beyond Cassie’s earshot. She punched the button to stop the elevator for privacy before she answered. “Hello.”

The Pythia’s contralto voice was irritated. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I’ve been busy. What do you want?”

There was a pause. “Well, I was attempting to warn you about a terrorist attack on an airport, but it seems as if you have that well in hand.”

Tara made a face the Pythia couldn’t see. Had her pride kept her from learning something that could have stopped the attack? She rubbed her temple. Shit.

The Pythia continued. “I know that Cassie is safe, and—”

“Don’t you dare try to take her back. Not after what you did.”

A moment of silence stretched. “I give you my word as Pythia that I won’t. I will not take her back. If Cassie returns to us, it will be of her own accord.”

Tara rocked back on her plastic-covered heels, chewing on that. The Pythia rarely gave her word. But when she did, Tara could think of no occasions when she’d broken it. Breaking such an oath would be sufficient grounds for her to step down. And the title of Pythia would be Cassie’s. This was no light oath for her ilk.

“How is she?”

“She’s been better.” Just because the Pythia wasn’t physically going after Cassie didn’t mean that Tara was going to give the Pythia more information to screw with her head.

“And the animals?”

Tara’s heart warmed a degree or two to hear the Pythia ask about Maggie and Oscar. “They’re fine.”