Martin looked at Martha for an explanation. “Ugo oil,” she said without elaboration. Martin was still lost.
“He used his stolen fortune to join the group. One billion American dollars was the enrollment fee.” Maria said thickly, trying to shake off the effects of the drugs. “You can release me. I am not your enemy.”
“Your handgun says otherwise,” Martin answered. “Why did Avanti send you here?”
“On a fool’s errand. I altered your computer files, but there was nothing in them. He knew much more about the virus than you did. After that, he just had me watch you. We used the Internet to communicate.”
Martin was disappointed. He had hoped that she had taken something or destroyed something that they could use. “So what was your escape plan, or were you supposed to die along with the rest of us?” Martin couldn’t believe a Russian agent would allow herself to die just to preserve her cover story.
She looked into Martin’s eyes with a gaze as steady as the drugs in her system would allow. “I knew nothing of this. For two years, I worked as a translator for him, and later as one of his aides. Then he sent me here. It was only supposed to be for a couple of months, just long enough to gain access to the computer files.
“I may be a Muslim, but I am not a fanatic, nor am I suicidal. If I had known about any of this, I would have reported it to my superiors and disappeared.”
She may have been putting on an Emmy-deserving performance, but Martin believed her. “Why don’t we let her go,” Martin said to Martha, who nodded her head in agreement and then undid the cuffs. “Once you found out what was happening, why didn’t you come to one of us?”
“I found out when you found out. Apparently the bastard wanted me dead as much as he wanted you dead.” She looked up at Martin and adjusted her torn scrub top.
“The military is coming to get you.” He was starting to lose interest in her. Twenty minutes ago, he had thought she would have all the answers, but now she was just another dead-end.
“Why would this Group of Eight want to destroy the United States?” Martha wasn’t done yet. She wanted every last bit of information before the military claimed her.
Maria smiled. She had been blown and would soon be a prisoner of the United States. She needed a bargaining chip. “I don’t think I want to share that just yet.”
“Young lady, people are dying, right here, right now, and if you think I will hesitate in using all means available to me—”
“Knowing the motivations of the Group of Eight will not stop people from dying. When the time is right, and the crisis is past, I will tell the appropriate people what you want to know.” Maria was a well-trained professional and knew how to play the game better than Martha did.
Martha’s blood pressure was topping out just below the level that caused strokes in healthy people, but she knew Maria was right. “Fine, but I want you to remember that in a short while, you are going to be taken out of this sealed environment and brought to a place where the likelihood of infection is high. If the
virus is released, you die along with the rest of us.”
“I am well aware of that,” Maria said, her voice taking on the slightest trace of an Eastern European accent. “As I told you a moment ago, I have no desire to die, or to see any of you die.”
“What happened to the real Rachel Hill?” Martin rejoined the conversation.
“That is a very good question.” She turned to face Martin, who had sat back down into his chair. “When I first came here, I met a man named Kameel Neser. He gave me all of Rachel Hill’s papers and accompanied me to Tampa. We spent four days together setting up her new identity in Florida. Just before he left, I asked him about the real Rachel Hill. He said that he had taken care of her, and that there was no possibility of her reappearing. He left no doubt in my mind that he had killed her. I passed on his name and photograph to my control officer, and I forgot about Neser. Two months ago, my control officer contacted me; Neser had been arrested. I was told that he was in possession of a firearm that had been used in a double homicide, and that I was exposed. I was supposed to come in, but I had invested five years of my life getting close to Avanti, and I wasn’t willing to throw that away.”
“Kameel Neser. Was that his real name?” Martha was writing again.
“That is his real name. He introduced himself to me as Alexander Stone, and that is the name he is using in the federal prison in Cumberland, Maryland. I am guessing that Neser took care of more than just Rachel Hill.”
“You should have told us this earlier, Maria,” Martin said as his phone began to ring.
Chapter 40
Phil was awake, wide awake. In fact, he was more awake than he had ever been. He tried to move, but the restraints were still holding his wrists tightly. They should have taken these off already, he thought. He pulled and felt first the Velcro and then the fabric rip. His right arm came free first, and a moment later, his left was free as well. He undid what was left of the straps from his wrists and tried to sit up, but the monitor screwed to his scalp pulled taut. It probably wasn’t wise to remove it, but that didn’t stop him. He twisted the small flange, and the monitor unscrewed like a bolt from his skull. A small suture had been thoughtfully placed around the four-millimeter wound, and he expertly tied it, closing the incision as well as any surgeon could have done it. He finally sat up and looked around. He was in an isolation room, with negative pressure and laminar flow, and knew that Reisch had infected him with the Hybrid virus through George Van Der. The German’s thoughts still floated through Phil’s head.
He remembered the struggle with Reisch, and grabbing the German’s neck, and then unimaginable pain; after that he remembered nothing more — until now. His head was bursting from pain, but a dozen voices talked through it. His Monsters had been replaced.
One of the voices exploded in volume, and he looked up to see a nurse pointing at him. She began running towards the isolation anteroom. Shock and amazement filled her mind, as well as Phil’s, as she donned the isolation suit.
Phil began to disconnect himself from every piece of medical paraphernalia. He stood on shaky legs, his gown open to the back, which made him feel self-conscious. That was a feeling he was used to. He tied up the gown and turned back towards the glass door and locked it. His nurse alternated between cries for assistance and orders for Phil to get back in bed.
“You can’t come in!” Phil yelled in a hoarse voice. Now that his breathing tube had been removed, every exhaled breath released millions of viable virus particles into the room. He was surprised that no one had been infected thus far. Maybe the fiberglass masks were more effective than he thought.
She started banging on the door hard enough to threaten the seals. “Stop!” Phil yelled, and she was suddenly flung against the opposite wall. He watched her fly through the air and realized that he had done that. “I’m sorry!” he shouted. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
The nurse climbed to her feet, her elbow bleeding where it had struck the edge of a table. People were running to her aid, and she stared at Phil, confused and very angry. “What did you do?” she demanded in a high, indignant voice.
Her fellow nurses didn’t understand the accusation.
“Did you see what he just did to me?” she turned and asked them.
No one answered her because they could see that there was no possible way that Phil had done anything to her.
“I need a phone, now!” Phil yelled through the glass. The nurses stared at him and their bloodied colleague and no one moved. Phil began banging on the glass with enough force to threaten the seals. “Get me a phone!” He demanded again, and finally, someone passed him the cordless extension through the airlock.