The Judas Strain (54 page)

Someone called out.

Ryder lifted an arm, acknowledging, then glanced back down. “Hold fast! Ladders on their way!” He rolled away and vanished.

Gray continued to keep guard over those here, his weapon ready.

It was all he could do.

That, and one last thing.

He lifted the phone to his ear again. “Director?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for not listening to me, sir.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

J
ULY
14, 10:34
A.M.

Bangkok, Thailand

A
WEEK LATER
Lisa stood at the window to her room in a private hospital outside of Bangkok. Tall walls surrounded the small two-story facility and its lush gardens of papaya trees, flowering lotus, sparkling fountains, along with a few quiet statues of Buddha wrapped in saffron robes, trailing thin spikes of smoke from morning prayer sticks.

She had said her own prayers at dawn this morning.

Alone.

For Monk.

The window stood open, the shutters thrown back for the first time in a week. Their quarantine was over. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of jasmine and orange blossoms. Beyond the wall she heard the slow bustle of village life: the lowing of oxen, the chatter of a pair of elderly women passing the gates, the heavy tread of an elephant dragging a log, and best of all, unseen, but as vibrant as sunshine, the laughter of children.

Life.

How close had they come to losing it all?

“Did you know,” a voice said behind her, “that standing in front of the window, the sun shines right through that hospital gown? Leaves very little to the imagination. Not that I’m complaining.”

She turned, swelling with joy.

Painter leaned against the door frame, holding a paper-wrapped bundle of yellow roses, her favorite. He was dressed in a suit, no tie, clean-shaven and scrubbed. He had a slight tan after a week in the tropics, out of Sigma’s subterranean lair, setting off the spark to his blue eyes and dark hair.

“I thought you weren’t going to be back here until late tonight,” she said, stepping away.

He entered the room. Unlike the sterility of most hospital accommodations, the private facility had rooms lavishly appointed in teak. It was also adorned with vases of flowers, even a pair of fishbowls, swimming with tiny, orange-and-crimson goldfish.

“The meeting with the Cambodian prime minister was postponed until next week. And is probably unnecessary. Even the quarantine there will be ending within the next few days.”

Lisa nodded. Crop dusters had spread a weak solution of disinfectant over the outlying areas. The ruins of Angkor Thom had been soaked thoroughly. The refugee quarantine camps had revealed some cases, but they were responding to treatment.

The cure had worked.

Susan was in another wing of the hospital, under the strictest guard, but even that was proving an unnecessary caution. She had indeed come forth with the cure, walking through fire to do it. Afterward, there remained no trace of the virus—
cis
or
trans
—inside her. It was all gone.

Except for the cure.

It proved not to be an antibody, or an enzyme, or even a white blood cell. It was bacteria. The same cyanobacteria that had made her glow.

The second toxic exposure had altered the bacteria yet again, churning the life cycle fully around. Like healthy lactobacillus in yogurt, the bacteria, when ingested or inoculated, produced beneficial compounds that destroyed any toxic bacteria generated by the Judas Strain and scavenged away all trace of the virus itself, digesting it.

The cure produced symptoms equivalent to a mild flu, then you were immune from further reinfection. The bacteria also appeared to act as a vaccine in healthy subjects, offering immunity against exposure, similar to the Salk’s vaccine against polio. But best of all, the bacteria also proved easy to culture. Samples had been passed to laboratories around the world. Vast quantities were already being generated, a global storehouse to stamp out the early pandemic and protect the world from any future recurrence.

Health organizations continued to remain vigilant against such an event.

“What about Christmas Island, where it all started?” Lisa asked, sitting at the edge of her bed.

Painter replaced some wilting flowers with his roses. “Looking good. By the way, I read some of the papers your friend Jessie stole from the cruise ship before it sank. Apparently, as the Guild departed Christmas Island, they had dumped a tanker load of bleach along the windward shoreline. Not out of any altruism, mind you. Just trying to wipe out the major bloom, to confound any competitors to their discovery.”

“Do you think that will keep the bloom from reappearing?”

Painter shrugged, stepped to the bed, and sat down. He took her hand—not in any purposeful way, just reflex, which was why she loved him so much.

“Hard to say,” he answered. “The typhoon swept over the island. International teams of marine scientists are monitoring the waters—led by Dr. Richard Graff. After his help with the crab situation…figured he deserved the assignment.”

Lisa squeezed Painter’s hand. The mention of Graff only reminded Lisa of Monk. She sighed, watching the twirl of goldfish in the bedside bowl.

Painter freed his hand, put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close. His other hand found hers again. He knew where her heart lay at the moment. His voice dropped to a soft rumble, setting aside some of his playfulness.

“You heard we were interviewing all the survivors of the
Mistress of the Seas
.”

She didn’t answer, just slid her arm around his waist. She knew the news to come was bad.

The island was still under quarantine, a joint venture between Australia and the United States. Australian commandos had been able to orchestrate a massive evacuation of the ship as it burned and sank. Most of the Guild’s work now rested a thousand feet underwater, a new addition to the deepwater home of the predatory squids. It made diving on the wreck extremely dangerous. The squids had been classified as a new species of
Taningia,
granted the name
Taningia tunis
in the memory of Susan’s husband.

Yesterday Lisa had spoken over the phone with Henri and Jessie at the refugee camp on Pusat. They had survived, managing to protect most of the patients and WHO staff, aided by the cannibals during the chaos. Everyone was now undergoing treatment, and so far, faring well. The only exceptions were those few who had passed into a full maddened rave. The brain damage appeared permanent. Most of the afflicted had died when the ship sank. Not a single member of the Guild team made it off the ship alive.

Except perhaps one.

Jessie had told Lisa a story of the evacuation. He had come upon a padlocked hold. He heard children crying inside. He had broken through in time to rescue the children, who told the story of a strange angel who came and gathered them all together, locking them up out of harm’s way. This angel had then led a group of the ravening patients away from the hold, using herself as bait.

The children had described their angel.

Flowing black hair, dressed in silk, silent as the grave.

Surina.

She had vanished away.

Painter continued. “We interviewed everyone in camp.”

“About Monk,” she whispered.

“One of the WHO doctors had been hiding out on the ship’s deck. He had binoculars. He watched your escape in the
Sea Dart
. Through binoculars, he saw Monk fall, witnessed the net dropping over him, dragging him down.” Painter paused to take a tired breath. “He never resurfaced.”

Lisa closed her eyes. She felt something burst inside, spreading a burning acid through her veins, weakening her. A part of her still had been hoping…some thin chance…It was why she had knelt outside before one of the Buddhas.

She had been praying he was still alive.

“He’s gone,” she murmured, fully admitting it to herself.

Oh, Monk…

Lisa hugged tight to Painter. Her tears soaked through his shirt. Fingers clenched to him as she assured herself with his physicality. “Have you told Kat yet?” she mumbled, resting her cheek against his chest.

Painter remained silent.

Lisa felt him tremble.

He had.

She pulled his hand from her shoulder and kissed his palm.

He spoke in a whisper, coarse and deep. “Don’t you ever leave me.”

Lisa remembered why she had gone on this mission. To evaluate her life outside of Painter’s shadow. To get some perspective as their lives merged together, professionally and personally.

She had learned her answer.

From cannibal attacks to the tortures of madmen.

She knew she was strong enough to stand alone.

But…

She leaned up, kissing his lips, whispering.

“This is where I belong.”

12:02
P.M.

G
RAY CROSSED DOWN
the hospital’s garden path. He had changed into jeans, boots, and an untucked shirt with a tropical print. It was good to be in regular clothes, to shed the hospital gowns. It also felt good to be outside, under the sun, though his lungs still felt heavy and the bright light stung his sensitive eyes. He was still healing, but his restless energy after a week indoors had built to an edgy irritation.

His pace quickened, his stride lengthening. He had circled the entire garden, full around the building. He wanted no surprises.

He had been plotting this for the past three days, and now the timetable had been moved up. The gate to the hospital appeared ahead.

They were allowed to leave, but only as far as the surrounding village.

Rounding a corner of a tall hedgerow, Gray came upon a small alcove, a private altar with a fat Buddha draped in red silk. A few smudge sticks lay on the ground, but currently the smoke came from another source.

Kowalski leaned on the Buddha, a palm atop the stone head. He removed the cigar from his mouth, puffing a long thick cloud.

“Oh, yeah…” he moaned in grudging contentment.

“Where did you get a—oh, never mind.” Gray held out a hand. “Were you able to find what I asked for?”

Kowalski stubbed out his cigar on the Buddha’s shoulder.

Even Gray cringed a bit at the casual sacrilege.

“Yeah, but what do you want with all this?” he asked, and lifted a paper-wrapped bundle from behind his back. “I bribed my nurse while getting a sponge bath. Of course it was a guy. Took all the fun out of it. But he was able to buy what you wanted.”

Gray took the package and turned to head off.

Kowalski crossed his arms, his brows heavy with disappointment, even heaving out an irritated sigh.

Gray stepped back. “What’s the matter?”

Kowalski opened his mouth—then closed it.

“What?” Gray pressed.

Kowalski flipped his hands in the air. “First…well, all this time, I didn’t get to shoot a single goddamn gun. Not a rifle, not a pistol, not a popgun! I mean I might as well have been on guard duty back home. All I got for my troubles was a bunch of needles stuck in my ass.”

Gray stood a moment, staring. It was the longest speech Kowalski had ever given. He was plainly passionate on the subject.

“I’m just saying…” Kowalski blurted, suddenly mildly chagrined.

Gray sighed. “Come with me.” He stalked off and headed toward the gate. He did owe the guy.

Kowalski followed. “Where we going?”

Gray led him to the gate. The guards on duty nodded to them. Gray tucked the package under his arm and fished out his wallet. He stripped out a bill and passed it to Kowalski as they stepped through the gate.

“What am I supposed to do with ten dollars?” he asked.

Gray stepped farther out and pointed down the road to where a work crew labored. Thailand-style. Four men and their two work animals.

“Look…elephants,” Gray said.

Kowalski stared down the dirt track, down to the bill in his hands, then back out to the elephants. A giant grin split his face. He strode off, turned back, struggled to express his thanks, failed, then headed down the road again.

“Oh, yeah, I’m all over this elephant ride…” He lifted his arm. “Hey, you! Gunga Din!”

Gray turned around and headed back inside.

Poor elephant
.

12:15
P.M.

V
IGOR RESTED IN
his bed. He had a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He had books piled on his nightstand, crowding his goldfish bowl. He had articles printed out and stacked on the other side of the hospital bed: on angelic script, on Marco Polo, on the history of the Khmers, on the ruins of Angkor.

He was presently rereading for the fourth time the scientific report Gray had sited, an article in
Science
magazine from 1994, relating the study of human language to DNA code.

Fascinating…

Motion at his open door drew his attention from the paper. He spotted Gray. “Commander Pierce!” he called out.

Gray paused at the door, checked his watch, then leaned in. “Yes, Monsignor.”

Vigor was surprised at the formality. Something had set Gray on edge. He waved the man inside. “Come in for a moment.”

“I have just that…a moment.” He stepped inside. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Vigor waved away such matters. “I read this article. I didn’t realize that only three percent of our genome is active. That a full
ninety-seven percent
is junk and codes for nothing. Yet, when this junk is run through the cryptography program testing for language, even such random garbage also reveals a language. Amazing.” Vigor took off his glasses. “Gray, what if we could understand that language?”

Gray nodded. “Some things may be forever beyond us.”

Vigor scowled gently. “Now I certainly don’t believe that. God didn’t give us these big brains and not want us to use them. We were born to question, to search, to strive for a fuller understanding of the universe, both external and internal.”

Gray checked his watch again, subtly, a flick of his eyes down to his wrist, not wanting to appear rude.

Vigor decided to quit torturing the young man. He plainly was busy. “I’ll get to my point. Remember back in the barrel vault beneath the Bayon, I mentioned how the angelic script—the possible written form of this unknown genetic language—could be the Word of God mapping out something greater in us, maybe something buried in that ninety-seven percent of our genetic code that is considered
junk
. What if it’s not junk? Maybe we even caught a glimpse of that greater part of us.”