Then a second voice—Kitano: “Where would you release it?”
Dunne: “One option is Harbin. Like construction stirred it up. Or near one of the Chinese agriculture ministry’s biological research facilities south of there. Make it look like the incompetent fools were working on the Uzumaki, accidentally released it themselves.”
Kitano: “Like the Soviet anthrax incident at Sverdlovsk in ’79?”
Dunne: “Exactly.”
That would seal it. The Chinese government would go ballistic.
She typed in the private email addresses of the ambassadors of China and Japan, along with the top-ranking military officers at the Chinese Ministry of State Security and the Japanese Defense Intelligence Headquarters, then attached the Zip file containing the documents.
She hit Send.
46
DUNNE STARED AT THE MAP ON THE WALL. AT THE ONE-HOUR mark, the position signal came in. Center of the garage. Nothing.
The money hadn’t moved.
Now the two-hour mark was seconds away.
Bing! The dot appeared on the map. No one said a word.
The FBI director was first to break the silence. “I don’t get it. The money hasn’t moved. It’s been two hours and the money hasn’t moved. I say we go in.”
“Yes,” the President said. “Do it now.”
Dunne tried to focus but couldn’t think clearly. It’s been two hours. Why should I trust you? … Some moments he felt as though he were above the room, floating, watching the proceedings from a distance. Other times he felt frozen, paralyzed, his thoughts acidic, eating away at the tissues of his brain. What the hell was wrong with him?
The President’s chief of staff entered the room. “Mr. President. Something strange is happening. At the Chinese and Japanese embassies.”
“What?”
“The Chinese ambassador is livid. He says he must talk to you. Immediately. The Japanese ambassador as well.”
“George, we’re a bit busy here. Send somone over to babysit them.”
“Both ambassadors claim we are in violation of the 1972 UN Biological Weapons Convention. With our development of an offensive weapon called the Uzumaki.”
The room went silent. Dunne felt as if his skin was burning.
“They used that word?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Sometime in the last hour, Orchid sent both the Chinese and Japanese governments a message. We don’t know what’s in it yet, but it’s clear she informed them about the Uzumaki.”
The President was silent for nearly a minute, anger and worry etched on his face. “Goddamn it. I don’t understand. Why would she do this?”
“Mr. President. One other thing. A number of the staff from both embassies are said to be leaving work, scrambling to get on flights to Beijing and Tokyo. The rumor is that she’s already set the Uzumaki loose.”
47
JAKE AND KITANO DROVE NORTH. THE IPHONE DISPLAY TOLD them where to go. On its face was a map, with a little circle showing their location. Below it were written instructions, updating as they progressed. Jake put the phone on the dashboard where he could easily see it.
They were approaching the Canadian border now, just east of Lake Ontario, an area called the Thousand Islands. Here, the Saint Lawrence River widened and fragmented, wandering among the eighteen hundred chunks of land isolated by the river, each a moored ship in the slow-moving flow. A light snow was falling. It was still October, but winter was knocking at the door. This far north, snow could come at any time after September.
After leaving Boston, they’d traveled in total silence. The instructions on the iPhone told Jake exactly which roads to take, a series of state and county highways passing through western Massachusetts, cutting the corner of Vermont, then into New York and through the Adirondacks and on to Watertown. Jake had hit the radio a couple of times, tuned to a news station in case anything happened. But Kitano turned it off, without a word, each time.
Four days. Four days since the psychopath Orchid had started her rampage. Liam was dead, Vlad was dead, Maggie was a prisoner, and Dylan was mortally ill.
Four days.
Jake was sore all over, an aftereffect from his near electrocution a day and a half ago. His right ear still ached, his hearing still bad on that side. Roscoe said it might never come all the way back.
Jake had his game face on, but he was weighed down with worry and guilt about Dylan. It killed Jake how brave Dylan had been, running from Orchid, risking his life to get rid of the Uzumaki. It broke Jake’s heart that Dylan’s bravery had been repaid in such a horrible fashion. Jake felt responsible. He’d filled Dylan with ideas about being brave and conquering fears. And now Dylan was paying for it. A nine-year-old kid. Their last meeting had been tough, right before Jake had left for Boston. Jake had stood outside Dylan’s containment room, looking through the glass, phone to his ear. “I don’t feel right,” Dylan had said, his voice thin. “I can’t think right.”
Jake had promised Dylan the moon. “I’ll get your mom. I’ll bring her back. We’ll get through this.” He tried to believe it as he said it, so that Dylan would believe it, too. “Hang in there, little guy.”
The doctor was ready with a hypodermic. They planned to sedate Dylan as soon as Jake left. It was the only thing they knew to do. It took all Jake had to hold back the darkness. He had never in his life felt so powerless.
Jake was haunted by a truth he’d been circling for months. More than anything he’d wanted since the war, he wanted a life with Maggie and Dylan. He couldn’t picture any other future. But his fantasy was shattered before it came close to coming true, replaced by a reality where Maggie was Orchid’s prisoner, Dylan was gravely ill, and all Jake could do was chauffeur an old war criminal to his death.
He tried to shake it off. He was beat up, adrenaline-burnt, but itching for action. The combination of frustration, anger, and anxiety made him dangerous, possibly prone to mistakes. Every soldier knew that danger the way he knew his rifle. Unreleased pressure ate at you, chewed you up. Jake had seen it, the slow, creeping toll of unreleased pressure. Months in the desert, staring across the sand, waiting to kill or be killed, putting on the damned bioweapons suits, taking them off again. It was a relief when the final orders came down and they were moving. Once that happened, the air changed. Everything was sharp, like a knife, the contrast suddenly turned up. You could do anything.
“THERE IS A CRISIS,” KITANO SAID SUDDENLY, JUST AFTER they left the town of Hammond, a few miles from the Canada border.
Jake jumped so hard he swerved. The back wheels slipped before catching the road again. The road was empty, nothing but forest on either side. He hadn’t seen another car for a couple of miles. “What’re you talking about?”
“In Japan. A crisis with the men. Approximately two-thirds of the young men. They have become soshoku-danshi.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Soshoku-danshi. Herbivorous males. Grass-eating men.” Kitano shook his head. “They are soft. Weak. No longer interested in war. They are not even interested in women. They garden. And buy trinkets for their homes. A marketing report from Matsushita maintains that forty percent of them sit down when they piss.”
Kitano went silent. Jake glanced over. The old man’s face was drawn, eyes narrowed. His hands scratched at his skin. Kitano said, “The Japanese defense ministry is calling it a crisis. The grass-eaters are taking over, and soon there will be no men left to fight. The ministry is forced to spend billions developing robots that will fight to defend Japan.” He glanced at Jake, his jaundiced eyes dark. “I am ashamed to be Japanese.”