"We'll all be dead," Fatima said softly, half to herself.
"We've done a thorough sweep of the station," Major Alfsson continued, "and you'll find men posted at every possible exit. Please refrain from any further escape attempts — if you are caught trying to leave the station you will be shot on sight. However, now that we have covered all the exits, you can move freely about this part of the station again." He rose and signaled his men. "I am sorry that it came to this." They departed in the direction of the far section of the station, leaving the expedition party alone together.
For a while, no one spoke. Out of habit, Sam went to heat more water for tea. Nina put a comforting arm around Fatima and tried to encourage her to drink her coffee.
"I owe you all an apology." Admiral Whitsun sat bolt upright, his hands neatly folded on the table. He looked around the group, meeting each pair of eyes with a clear, forthright gaze. "This is my fault," he said. "I insisted on joining this expedition knowing that I am, in point of fact, too old and infirm to be here. Were it not for my infirmity, that set of vials would never have been knocked over and this virus would never have been released. I am terribly sorry."
Sam, standing by the door to the galley kitchen, watched everyone avoiding one another's eyes. They all knew that it was true that the admiral had put them at risk, and whatever their opinions were on his culpability in spreading the virus, no one wanted to share them. It was Sam who spoke first. "Look, don't worry about it," he said, silently marveling at the ridiculousness of his words. He's released a deadly virus, he thought, not spilled my pint. Yet he continued. "You fell over. It could have been any one of us."
"Yes," Admiral Whitsun said, "but the fact remains that it was me. I brought this terrible thing on us."
Sam shrugged. "Nothing anyone can do about it now."
"I disagree, Mr. Cleave. I can at least try to put things right. Mr. Purdue, I wonder whether I might borrow Mr. Blomstein from you for a little while."
At once, Purdue and Blomstein moved to join Admiral Whitsun, who led them off into the corridor. Whatever the admiral's plan, the rest of the group was clearly not to be included.
"I wonder what that was about," Sam said. "So what's our plan? Major Alfsson said something about an antidote. Are we looking for one?"
"We can't," said Nina. "The labs are over on the PMCs' side of the station, and from what Alfsson said I think that's out of bounds."
"Shit. Ok. Anyone got any other ideas?"
"We should make some kind of record of our time here," Professor Matlock spoke up. "We may have been the first to find this place since it was abandoned, but I doubt that we shall be the last. Let us put together a report on our time here, something that will explain how we came to be here and what we found. Perhaps then we can spare our successors the same fate — or, if we get out of here alive, it can become the basis for an account of our exploits."
Sam pounced on the idea at once, delighted to have something productive to do. "Sounds great," he said. "Someone take over making the tea and I'll run up and get my notepad."
Chapter 24
After so much excitement combined with so much time spent cooped up, Sam had excess energy to burn. He bounded up the metal stairs two at a time, at least until he got a stitch and had to slacken his pace. He badly wanted to run. His whole body ached with longing for some kind of physical release.
He reached the door to the officers' quarters and turned the handle. The door did not budge. He pushed harder. It gave a little, but it felt as if there was something blocking it from the other side. He backed up a couple of steps and rammed his shoulder against the door, shoving it hard enough to push it partway open. He squeezed through the gap into the corridor and stepped straight into a puddle of blood.
Sam stared down at his foot in disbelief. Why is there blood? He looked at the puddle, then followed the line of the blood flow back to its source — the torso of the PMC who had been guarding that door. The man was definitely dead. He had been shot in the chest and also in the head. At the sight of the dark hole of the entry wound and the traces of white bone around the edge of it, Sam felt the memories trying to flood back in and his mind slamming its defenses into place. It's completely different, he told himself. This man hasn't lost half his… Well, put it this way, his is just a small wound by comparison. Not that that's done him much good.
At the opposite end of the corridor lay the other PMC, having met a similar fate. But how? Sam wanted to know. These guys are highly trained, aren't they? You can't just walk up and shoot them. Something is badly wrong here.
Without stopping to collect the notepad he had come for, Sam turned and fled back to the refectory to tell the others what he had found.
"Sam, calm down!" Jefferson Daniels commanded, pushing Sam into a seat. "Slow down, buddy. You're saying the soldiers upstairs are dead?"
"Shot. Chest and head." Sam nodded, staring blankly at the table.
"But how is that even possible? These are elite soldiers. Are you sure, Sam?"
"If that's what Sam says he saw, then I believe him," Nina said. "But I agree that no one should have been able to walk up to these soldiers and shoot them. That sounds to me like one of their own has gone rogue. We know that this virus causes violent mania, and it's only a matter of time before that symptom shows up in someone holding a gun."
Fear rippled around the group. Suddenly they found themselves yelling at one another, having heated arguments across the long table about whether they should go in search of the gunman, look for weapons, find a safe place within the station to hole up and wait out the virus, or take advantage of the death of the guards to make a break for Neumayer.
"Where's Purdue?"
Alexandr lobbed the question in gently, almost as if it were a social inquiry. Everyone stopped talking.
"Purdue," Alexandr repeated, speaking slowly and carefully, "… and Ziv Blomstein? You remember? Tall, silent, ex-Mossad? Or to be more precise, ex-Kidon."
Fatima stifled a gasp. "You know that for sure?"
"You know it's impossible to be certain," said Alexandr, "but let us say that, judging by the brief conversations we had… it would not surprise me."
Nina looked from Fatima to Alexandr and back again, confused. She glanced at Sam, who was clearly in a traumatized world of his own and not listening to a word anyone was saying, and at Matlock and Daniels, who both looked as nonplussed as she was. "If no one else is going to admit their ignorance, I will," she said. "Fatima, Alexandr — what does Kidon mean? I know about Mossad, but that's a new one on me."
"It's a branch of Mossad," Fatima said, a haunted look in her eyes. "No one knows much about it, though. It's really covert. But the Kidon are believed to carry out political assassinations—"
"Among other things…" Alexandr added in a half-whisper.
"Right. Among other things. They're some of the most dangerous men in the world if you get on the wrong side of them."
"Ok…" Nina fought to keep the nerves out of her voice and the roiling sensation in her stomach under control. "So we know there's someone here who might have been capable of killing those two soldiers upstairs. But what we don't know is why he—"
Her words were cut off. Suddenly the air filled with the sound of machine gun fire. Fatima and Alexandr dived under the table. Daniels, Matlock, and Nina followed, but Sam did not. Nina looked up and saw him sitting still, staring in the direction of the gunfire. Under his breath she heard him utter the word "Trish." Then she reached up, grabbed him by the front of his jacket and dragged him down into their makeshift shelter. She wrapped an arm around him as they crouched there, and told herself that it was solely to comfort him.