The Judas Strain (13 page)

“Just ask Dr. Cummings to call in as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Brant, check in with the cruise ship’s switchboard.”

He knew he was being paranoid. He attempted to return to the folder, but he found it hard to concentrate.

“Sir…” Brant’s voice returned a moment later. “I’ve reached the sea-band operator. They’re reporting communication troubles shipwide, drops in satellite feed. They’re still working out some of the bugs in the new ship.”

Painter nodded. The
Mistress of the Seas
had been on its maiden voyage, also known as a shakedown cruise, when it had been commandeered for this medical emergency.

“They report no other major problems,” Brant finished.

Painter sighed. So he was indeed being too paranoid. He was letting his feelings for Lisa cloud his judgment. If this had been any other operative, would he have even called?

He returned to his reading.

Lisa was fine.

And besides, Monk was with her. He would keep her safe.

J
ULY
5, 3:02
P.M.

Aboard the
Mistress of the Seas

W
HAT THE HELL
was going on?

Lisa stood with the other three scientists. They were all gathered in the ship’s presidential suite. A uniformed butler poured single-malt whiskey into a row of tulip-shaped snifters, lined atop a silver tray. As a result of Painter’s appreciation for malt whiskey, Lisa recognized the bottle’s label: a rare sixty-year-old Macallan. The butler’s hands trembled, jostling his aim, splashing the expensive whiskey.

The butler’s poor stewardship could be blamed on the pair of masked gunmen, armed with assault rifles. They stood guard at the double doors that led into the suite. Across the room, French doors opened onto a balcony wide enough to park a municipal bus, where another gunman patrolled.

Inside, teak cabinetry and leather furniture appointed the grand suite. Vases of miniature island roses decorated the room, while a Mozart sonata whispered softly from hidden speakers. The scientists clustered in the room’s center. It could have been the beginning of any university cocktail party.

Except for the raw fear in everyone’s faces.

Earlier, Lisa and Henri Barnhardt had obeyed the summons to climb to the ship’s bridge. What else could they do? Up in the bridge, they found the WHO leader, Dr. Lindholm, already there, wiping blood from his nose, plainly clubbed in the face. Benjamin Miller, the infectious-disease expert, arrived shortly thereafter.

They had been met by a towering figure, the leader of the pirates. He was the size of a linebacker, heavily muscled, with thick, cruel hands. He wore a khaki uniform, jungle-camouflaged pants tucked into black boots. He did not bother with a mask. His hair was the color of wet mud, clipped short, his skin polished bronze, except for a green-and-black tattoo across the left side of his face. It was of a Maori design known as Moko, all swirls and windblown lines.

He had ordered them to this suite, to wait in seclusion.

Lisa had been happy to abandon the bridge. A pitched battle must have been waged atop the ship, evidenced from the bullet-pocked windows and equipment. She had also noted the wide smear of blood across the bridge’s floor, where a body had been dragged away.

Herded over to the presidential suite, Lisa had been surprised to discover one last captive caught in the net.

The owner of the cruise line, Ryder Blunt, stood beside his butler and gathered up a handful of the crystal snifters. Dressed in jeans and a rugby shirt, he looked like a young, sun-bleached Sean Connery.

He crossed over and passed around the snifters of whiskey. “I think we can all use a little of this Macallan heat,” he said, puffing around the smoldering stump of a cigar. “If only to steady our nerves. And if not that, at least we’ll drink through my best stores before the bloody bastards discover it.”

Like most people, Lisa knew Ryder’s story. Only forty-eight, the Aussie had earned his fortune during the silicon boom, developing encryption software for downloading copyrighted material. He then parlayed his profits into a series of wildly successful real estate and commercial ventures, including the cruise line. A lifetime bachelor, he was also renowned for his maverick ways: swimming with great whites, helo-skiing to remote parts of the world, base-jumping off buildings in Kuala Lumpur and Hong Kong. Yet he also had a reputation for generosity, joint-venturing a slew of philanthropic pursuits.

So it was no wonder he lent his ship to assist during this medical crisis. Though in hindsight, he might now regret his generosity.

He offered a snifter of whiskey to Lisa. She shook her head.

“Lass, no offense,” he growled at her, still holding out the crystal snifter. “Who knows when we’ll ever get another chance?”

She accepted the glass, more to get him to move away. His cigar smoke stung her eyes. She sipped the amber liquid. A fiery smoothness flowed into the belly, warming through her. She exhaled a bit of the warmth. It did help steady her.

Once the glasses were spread, the billionaire sank into a neighboring chair. He leaned his elbows on his knees, glaring toward the armed guards, puffing on his cigar.

At her side, Henri finally asked the question that had been plaguing all of them. “What do these pirates want with us?”

Lindholm sniffed, his eyes red, already bruising from the punch to the face. “Hostages.” He glanced sidelong toward the seated billionaire.

“Perhaps in the case of Sir Ryder,” Henri agreed, lowering his voice, using the man’s knighted title. “But then why even bother with us? Our net worth combined wouldn’t even equal the man’s pocket change.”

Lisa wafted cigar smoke from her face. “They clearly wanted all the main scientists here. But how did they know whom to summon?”

“They could have obtained a manifest from the ship’s crew,” Lindholm said sourly. He cast a second sidelong glance toward Ryder. “No doubt some of his crew were in league with the raiders.”

Ryder heard and mumbled to himself, “And if I ever find out who they are, I’ll have them strung up from the yardarms.”

“But wait…if they wanted all the main scientists here, why wasn’t Dr. Graff summoned with us?” Benjamin Miller asked, naming the marine researcher who had left to collect samples with Monk. He turned to Lisa. “Or your partner, Dr. Kokkalis? Why summon us, but not the others?”

Miller sipped from his glass, his nose crinkling at the potency of the single malt. The Oxford-trained bacteriologist was not an unhandsome man, with thick auburn hair and green eyes. He stood barely over five feet, but he appeared even shorter due to the roll of his shoulders and hunched posture, possibly earned from decades of crouching over a microscope.

“Dr. Miller is right,” Henri said. “Why weren’t they called?”

“Maybe the bastards knew they weren’t on board,” Lindholm said.

“Or maybe they’d already been captured.” Miller glanced apologetically in Lisa’s direction. “Or were killed.”

Lisa’s chest hollowed out with worry. She had hoped Monk had escaped the trap, was even now summoning help, but she placed little faith in this dream. Before the assault, Monk had already been late getting back to the ship.

Henri shook his head and downed his drink in one swallow. He lowered his glass. “No use speculating on their fate. But if our captors knew our colleagues were out in the field, then that suggests whatever is going on here is more than a hostage situation.”

“But what else could they want?” Miller asked.

The thumping of an approaching helicopter drew all their gazes toward the open balcony doors. It was too throaty for the smaller Eurocopter that had added air support to the sea battle. As a group, they moved to the doorway. Ryder stood up with a fierce exhalation of smoke and joined them.

A fresh breeze blew off the sea, smelling of salt and the barest hint of chemical bitterness, the aftermath of the toxic expulsion or perhaps it was just from the oil burning on the water. Nearby, the Australian Coast Guard cutter, gutted by a rocket blast, still smoked and foundered on its side, half sunk.

From over the top of the ship, a gray helicopter with double rotors, front and rear, military design, canted into view. It veered out over the water, stirring the smoke. It passed toward the seaside township, aflame in several spots now—then swung around, satisfied with whatever it had surveyed. It sped back to the ship and disappeared out of sight. From the path of its roar, it settled to the helipad atop the ship.

The thumping of the blades slowed and quieted.

In its absence, Lisa recognized a new rumble. A slight vibration tickled the soles of her feet.

“We’re moving,” Henri said.

Ryder swore around his clamped cigar.

Lisa saw it was true. Very slowly, like the hands of a clock, the view of the burning township was shifting.

“They’re taking the ship out,” Miller said.

Lindholm clenched a fist to his chest.

Lisa felt a similar fear. There remained a certain level of security in knowing land was so near. But even that was being taken from them. Her breathing grew heavier, yet drew less air. Surely someone would soon realize what had transpired and come to investigate. In fact, she was due to call Painter in only three hours. When she didn’t call in—

The pace of their movement accelerated as the giant cruise ship fought its own inertia and began to roll away from the island.

She checked her watch, then turned to Ryder. “Mr. Blunt, how fast can your ship travel?”

He stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray. “The Hales Trophy benchmark for racing the transatlantic crossing in a cruise ship is forty knots. Bloody fast.”

“And the
Mistress
?” she asked.

Ryder patted one of the bulkhead walls. “Pride of the fleet. German-designed engines, monohull construction. She is capable of forty-seven knots.”

Lisa calculated in her head. If she didn’t phone in three hours, when would Painter begin to worry? In four or five hours? She shook her head. Painter wouldn’t wait a minute longer.

“Three hours,” she mumbled to herself.
But was that still too late?
She turned to Ryder. “Is there a map in here?”

Ryder pointed and led the way. “A globe. In the library alcove.”

He took her to a niche off the main room lined with teak bookshelves. A standing wooden globe rested in the center. She leaned over it and rotated the world to bring up the Indonesian islands. She calculated in her head and measured with her fingers.

“In three hours we’ll be lost among the Indonesian chain of islands.”

The region, dominated by the bigger islands of Java and Sumatra, was literally a maze of smaller atolls and islets. Over eighteen thousand of them, spread over an area equivalent to the size of the continental United States. Away from the main cities of Jakarta and Singapore, the region subsisted at a Stone Age level of technology. Cannibalism was still practiced on some of the outer islands. If you wanted to hide a cruise ship, here would be a good place to do it.

“They can’t hope to steal an entire ship,” Lindholm exclaimed, drawn to the library in the wake of the others. “What about surveillance satellites? You can’t hide something as big as a cruise ship.”

“Don’t underestimate our captors,” Henri said. “First someone has to know to look for us.”

Lisa knew he was right. Given the swiftness of the assault, along with the collusion of key members of the ship’s crew, the hijacking had to have been weeks in the planning. Someone knew what was happening on Christmas Island long before the rest of the world. Lisa remembered the patient in the isolation ward, the John Doe with the flesh-eating bacteria. He had been found wandering the island
five
weeks ago.

Did their captors’ knowledge extend that far?

A commotion at the suite’s double door drew them all around. A pair of men entered. In the lead, Lisa recognized the pirate leader with the tattooed face.

Stepping past the Maori warrior, a tall stranger pushed forward. He swept off a wide-brimmed panama hat and passed it to a woman who appeared from beyond the tattooed man’s shoulder. Striding forward, the newcomer had apparently come dressed for a garden party, dapperly attired in a loose-fitting white linen suit with a matching cane, his salt-and-pepper hair cut rakishly long to the collar. His burnished features and close-set eyes cast him as Indian or perhaps Pakistani.

He crossed to the group, thumping his cane, but plainly not needing the support, all for show. His eyes glinted with a misplaced cheeriness.

“Namaste.”
He greeted them in Hindi with a slight bow of his head. “Thank you all for joining me here.”

As the stranger settled to a stop, he nodded to the owner of the
Mistress of the Seas
. “Sir Ryder, I appreciate your hospitality and the use of your fine ship. We will do our best to return your ship to you unscathed.”

Ryder merely glowered, sizing up the man.

Turning, the stranger acknowledged the scientists. “As we embark on this great endeavor, it is a privilege to have such leading experts from the World Health Organization gathered in one room.”

Lisa noted Henri’s brows pinch both in wariness and confusion.

The stranger’s eyes settled last upon Lisa. “And of course, we must not forget our colleague from U.S. covert operations. Sigma Force, I believe, yes?”

Stunned silent, Lisa could only stare. How could he—?

The man offered the barest bow in her direction, genteel, not mocking. “I’m sorry your partner could not join us. It seems he met with a mishap while we attempted to fetch him. Something to do with indigenous crabs. The details remain sketchy. We lost several of our own men in the attempt. Only one fellow made it back alive.”

Lisa’s vision narrowed, closing down with dread.

Monk…

A hand touched her shoulder, consoling. It was Ryder Blunt. He faced the stranger. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

“Of course. My apologies.” The man lifted a palm and formally introduced himself. “Dr. Devesh Patanjali, chief acquisition officer, specializing in biotechnology, for the Guild.”

Despite her anguish, a cold stone settled into the pit of Lisa’s stomach. She had heard all about the Guild from Painter…and the bloody swath that the terrorist organization left behind in its wake.

The man tapped his cane on the floor with a note of finality. “And I’m afraid we must not waste any more time on introductions. We have much work to do before we reach port in the morning.”

“What work?” Lisa managed to force out, bitter with grief.

He cocked one eyebrow toward her. “My dear, together we must save the world.”

3:45
P.M.

M
ONK CLAMPED HIS
palm tight over the man’s mouth. His other hand’s prosthetic fingers tightened on the man’s throat, just under his jaw, squeezing off his carotid, halting blood flow to the brain. The man struggled, but Monk’s fingers were strong enough to crack walnuts between them. He waited for the man’s kicking legs to go slack—then lowered him to the floor.