The dead guard lay sprawled on the courtyard pavement. The van idled in the chill air, wisps of exhaust smoke visible on the video. An Asian looking man in a white uniform stepped out of the cab and lit a cigarette. He had a pistol in one hand.
Exactly twelve minutes and forty-three seconds later, the raiders came out of the compound into the daylight. One of the men carried an aluminum case.
The plague samples, Stephanie thought. The large man she believed to be the leader reached up as if something bothered him under the ski mask and pulled it off to scratch. For a few seconds his face was visible.
Got you, Stephanie thought. She froze the video for a moment and entered commands on her keyboard. The computer began searching the database for a facial recognition match.
He was a white man, not Korean or Chinese or Asian. She restarted the video. The leader got into the back of the van with the others. The driver was already behind the wheel. The truck pulled out through the open gates, past the dead guard, and started down the road. A minute later a thick cloud of smoke and debris billowed out of the entrance to the complex.
Twenty minutes later, the computer signaled a match to the still shot. Stephanie looked at the result and swore under her breath.
Elizabeth won't like this, she thought. She took the printout and went upstairs to Elizabeth's office. Harker was at her desk. It was still early. The others had not yet arrived.
"Good morning," Elizabeth said. She saw Stephanie's expression and the paper in her hand. "What is it."
"I have the results from the satellite surveillance."
"What did you find?"
"It was the Russians who hit the Koreans," Stephanie said. "Zaslon. I identified the leader. He's a Spetsnaz major named Kaminsky. We ID'd him in Aleppo last year."
"The Russians? Damn."
"Yes."
"I never would have expected that. Zaslon is General Vysotsky's group," Elizabeth said. "He had to be under orders from the Kremlin. If the Kremlin's involved, the stakes just got a lot higher. You're sure about the ID?"
"Positive."
"It's an act of war. Why risk war over something like this? The Russians have plenty of nasty stuff of their own. They don't need another bug for their collection."
"Maybe they just want to make sure it can't be used against them."
"That's possible, I guess. It's more likely they want to add it to their biological bag of tricks."
"Why does everyone work so hard at creating things that can kill millions at a time?" Stephanie asked.
"I don't know, Steph. There's something dark in some people, something barbaric and murderous. An impulse that leads to things like this plague being turned into a weapon."
"If I were more religious I'd think it was the work of an evil being. Satanic."
"I think humans can be evil enough," Elizabeth said. "We don't need Satan to explain it. But I admit it would make things easier to understand if it was about a conflict between absolute good and absolute evil."
"A metaphysical war between the forces of darkness and light?"
"Exactly."
"How do you know it isn't?" Stephanie said.
CHAPTER 10
The fact the Johannes Gutenberg loved his wife didn't preclude taking a mistress. After all, it was a traditional way of life for the European rich. It was a man's prerogative if he could afford it and Johannes certainly could. It added status. People saw her with Johannes and envied him. As for Marta, she knew about Valentina and accepted the fact that her husband was unfaithful. She had long ago decided that the practical benefits of being married to Johannes far outweighed the emotional inconvenience of his philandering. Besides, she could take her own lovers if she wished, though lately there had been no one to interest her. As long as she was discrete it wasn't a problem.
Gutenberg wasn't interested in someone who might challenge his sense of entitled superiority. Valentina Rosetti was everything he could desire in a female companion. She had dark black hair that fell to her shoulders in natural curls. High cheekbones and green eyes gave her genuine beauty. She was tall and moved with languid grace. She radiated sexuality and made any man who saw her wonder what she'd be like in bed.
At the moment Valentina lay next to Gutenberg in the bedroom of her apartment in Paris, her long hair spread in a tangle on the pillow. The room smelled of her perfume and the aftermath of sex. Earlier, he'd taken her to dinner and ordered a bottle of 1928 Chateau Gruaud-Larose, a bargain at 1500 euros. Gutenberg enjoyed educating Valentina about the finer things in life. They'd had an excellent meal and a glass of cognac after, then come back to her apartment and made love.
For all her charms, Johannes didn't think much of Valentina's intellectual capability. It was one of the things he liked about her. She was smart enough to present a good impression when they were out together, but she seemed to have no interest in things beyond the gifts and money he gave her. She had no political opinions that he had noticed. She wasn't very interested in world affairs, though he knew she was aware to the minute of upcoming appointments with her masseuse or for a fitting at the salon. She seldom argued with him and never about anything important. And of course she was accomplished in bed. In short, she was everything a man could want in a mistress. Sometimes Johannes blessed his lucky stars when he thought of her. She was almost too good to be true.
She was.
Valentina's real name wasn't Rossi, it was Antipov. She'd been born in St. Petersburg, not Italy as Johannes believed. She'd never known her father. Her mother had been killed in a meaningless car accident three years before.
Valentina's mother had been a decorated KGB agent during the old Soviet regime, trusted enough to be sent abroad to America and the other Western nations. Quick intelligence and natural athletic ability, coupled with her mother's stellar record as a loyal servant of the state, made Valentina a natural for selection as a future agent. She'd been brought up under the watchful guidance of her mother's minders, groomed from an early age as an agent provocateur.
Like her mother before her, Valentina was a spy.
Valentina worked for Alexei Vysotsky, part of a small group of experienced SVR agents Vysotsky ran separately from the rest of his organization. She cared not at all for Gutenberg but found it easy to enjoy the decadent comforts he provided. He was not a particularly skilled or demanding lover and their liaisons were infrequent enough that she didn't consider it a burden. Valentina was a consummate actress. Her cries of passion in bed would have convinced any man that he was a match for Casanova.
Vysotsky had explained to Valentina why Gutenberg was important. The Swiss banker was the driving force behind an effort to derail the new financial alliance between Brazil, Russia, India and China. BRICS intended to establish a new base currency to replace the dollar as the world's standard. If the alliance succeeded, the U.S. would no longer be able to dominate world commerce as it had in the past. If the alliance fell apart, years of careful planning and difficult political negotiations with Russia's strange bedfellows would be wasted. The United States would remain dominant. A potential war with China would become more likely.
As usual after one of their bouts in bed, Johannes lay back with a cigarette and a glass of cognac. Valentina reached over and laid her arm across his chest, pressing up against him with her breasts. She knew he liked that. At times like this Johannes was relaxed, his guard down. He liked to boast about his business deals, secure in the knowledge that his mistress understood nothing at all of what he was talking about. More than one of these pillow conversations had found their way to Vysotsky's desk.