About ten feet away, a woman was imprisoned in a similar cell built into the opposite wall of the cave. Smith watched through a curtain of blood-smeared plastic as she stretched her arm through the bars, looking like she’d be willing to break every bone in her body to get to them.
“You’re awake.”
Smith turned sluggishly toward the voice, struggling to focus on an old man wearing a canvas apron that looked like it had spent the last fifty years in a slaughterhouse.
“Where’s Sarie?”
“Who?” the man said.
Smith used the depressingly solid-feeling bars to pull himself to his feet while Howell assessed the damage that had been done to the back of his head.
“Sarie van Keuren. She was with us.”
“I don’t know.”
The man clearly wasn’t one of Bahame’s henchmen — he was too white, too old, and, based on his speech, too well educated.
“Who are you?”
“Me?” he said, looking a bit startled by the question. “Thomas De Vries. I’m a retired doctor who was kidnapped to keep a man alive so Bahame could kill him. Then I was put in here and told to find a way to keep a brain parasite alive outside the body so it could be transported.”
“Did you succeed?”
He shook his head. “I’m not a scientist. And even if I was, I wouldn’t do it.” He pointed to the infected woman, who had tired a bit, but not so much that she’d completely given up trying to get through the bars. “Bahame keeps the infection alive by passing it on to successive victims. You’re in the holding tank now. When she starts to die, you’ll be put in with her. And when you start to die, your friend will be. I’m sorry.”
“That’s just outstanding,” Howell said as Smith grabbed him under the arm and helped him to his feet. “Tell me, mate. Is there any way—”
He fell silent at the sound of approaching footsteps, and De Vries ran to a plywood-and-cinderblock table, where he tried to look busy.
The man who entered a few moments later wasn’t the one Smith expected. He was clearly Middle Eastern, and despite filthy, sweat-stained clothing, he had a strange air of meticulousness. When Smith mentally cleaned him up, there was something familiar. He’d seen the face before.
“Colonel Smith, Mr. Howell. I have to say I’m surprised you were captured so easily.”
The Persian accent was the final piece he’d needed. “Slumming a bit, aren’t you, Omidi?”
The man smiled. “Well done, Colonel. Of course, my presence wouldn’t be difficult to predict. Someone has to stop America’s bioweapons division from getting hold of this parasite and using it against the Muslim people.”
“You and Bahame make an excellent team,” Howell commented. “What’s the old saying? Two peas in a pod?”
Omidi ignored the insult, secure in the knowledge that he had the upper hand. “How much does the American government know about what’s happening here?”
“It’s not going to be that easy,” Smith said.
“No, I suppose not. But it doesn’t really matter. You’ve run out of time.”
Footsteps again echoed through the chamber, and Smith counted them, trying to add an estimate of their distance from the cave entrance to the things he’d put together about their surroundings: The bars were solid despite some surface rust, and the lock was modern. Much of the equipment in the lab could be used to cut flesh, but there seemed to be nothing that could be used effectively on steel. The old doctor was certainly an asset but had neither the temperament nor the physical ability to do anything heroic. In the end, Omidi was probably right. Their time had run out.
Sarie appeared first, stumbling into the chamber in a way that suggested she’d been pushed. One of her sleeves was soaked through with blood and her eyes were red and swollen, but beyond that she seemed unharmed.
Caleb Bahame came in behind her and, with the exception of some graying at the temples, looked exactly like the twenty-five-year-old photos Star had included in the dossier she’d prepared.
Howell moved suddenly to the bars, wrapping his fingers around them and glaring at the African as he walked casually to the center of the chamber.
“Peter Howell,” he said. “It’s been many years. You look sick and weak.”
Bahame saw the surprise on Smith’s face and smiled. “Did Peter not tell you? We are old acquaintances. He killed many of my men. Many of my flock.”
“You had a lot to cower behind,” the Brit responded.
“They love me. They understand who I am. What I am.”
“And what is that, exactly?” Smith said, but Bahame ignored him.
“You know, I hired a man in America to come for you, Peter. It’s unprecedented. You should be flattered to command the attention of a man like myself.”
“I remember,” Howell said. “If you’d ever like to visit him, he’s buried out by my shed.”
Bahame’s smile widened. “You must be very anxious to hear what happened to Yakobo. He was a very fine boy and became a very fine soldier. You’ll be happy to know that I eventually found some of his family. An aunt, I believe. I told him to rape her and then burn her alive, though he certainly didn’t need my encouragement. He enjoyed himself very much.”
Howell yanked powerfully enough on the bars to cause dirt to shower down on them.
Bahame laughed. “But now God has delivered you to me. Just as he promised he would. I will very much enjoy dealing with you.”
“Do it now,” Omidi said, speaking for the first time since the African entered.
“In good time.”
“Not in good time. Now. They’re of no use to us. Keeping them alive is an unnecessary risk.”
The African waved a hand dismissively, obviously wanting to savor the sensation of having Howell completely at his mercy. “I said in good time. I’ll use the whites to keep the spirits alive. To show my people that no one can stand against my magic.”
“We have an agreement. We—”
“An agreement? How do prisoners that I captured enter into our agreement?”
“I’m the one who gave you their location. It was my source in the American—”
“God told me their location. You were just a convenient messenger.”
He grabbed Sarie by the hair and pulled her to him. She was smart enough not to fight but drew the line at hiding her hatred.
“And now I have the woman. Maybe I don’t need you anymore, eh, Mehrak?”
It was clear that Omidi understood the weakness of his position. Bahame was a mystic and a psychopath, but he had enough of an understanding of biology to know how useful Sarie could be in making the parasite a more practical weapon.
“Perhaps we could strike a bargain for her,” Omidi said.
Bahame looked vaguely insulted. “She isn’t part of our deal and I can make use of her myself.”
“Of course you are right,” Omidi said, his tone softening into something that approached subservience. “But we have the facilities to put her skills fully to use. Certainly there is room for negotiation.”
The African nodded. “There’s always room for negotiation between good friends. Come, let’s drink and we can talk of this more.”
47
The crunch of icy gravel sounded impossibly loud as Randi walked toward a small cabin tucked into the woods about ten miles from the nearest asphalt. The drive there had offered no opportunity for escape, and the situation wasn’t getting any better. Her captors were a good ten feet behind her, one thirty degrees left and the other thirty degrees right, staying close to the tree line.
The chances of her making a break and getting to cover without catching a bullet seemed to be hovering somewhere between slim and none. It would have been an easy shot for someone half as good as the people covering her. But even if by some miracle they did miss, that left her running unarmed through the snow in heels and a skirt.