Текст книги "The Judas Strain"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Monk also examined the dead body and discovered a surprise. The dark hue of the pirate’s skin extended only to hands and face. The remainder of the man’s skin was as pale as snow, sprinkled with a few freckles. This was no local islander – but some mercenary in disguise.

What was going on here?

Monk crossed back to his room to grab a pair of basketball shoes.

As he pulled them over his bare feet, he spoke to Jessie. “We can’t stay here. Someone will come looking for your sleeping beauty over there. We’ll find you somewhere else to hole up.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going after Lisa.”

“Then I’m coming with you.” Jessie stood up a bit shakily.

The young man tugged his shirt over his head, plainly intending to go in a pirate disguise, too. The young man was all rib bones, but Monk supposed there were some wiry muscles under there, too. Jessie had jumped the man here, taken out someone twice his size.

Still…

“I’m better alone,” Monk said firmly.

Jessie finally got his shirt over his head, mumbling something.

“What?”

The nurse turned to him, exasperated. “I’ve been trained in jujitsu and karate. Fifth-degree black belt in each.”

“I don’t care if you’re India’s answer to Jackie Chan. You’re still not coming.”

A knock at the door startled them both. Someone shouted at them in Malay, plainly a question. Monk didn’t understand a word. He lifted his rifle. He had other means of communication.

Jessie slipped past him, shoving Monk’s rifle barrel down as he passed. The nurse called through the door, sounding irritated, snapping back in Malay. An exchange followed, then whoever was at the door left, plainly satisfied.

Jessie turned back to him, cocking one eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe you could be useful,” Monk admitted.

4:20 P.M.

Lisa stood with the other scientists and Ryder Blunt. The group of captives had been led at gunpoint to the foredeck of the ship. The large helicopter rested on its pad, tethered down now. Its hatches were open and a beehive of activity buzzed around it. Men unloaded heavy crates from its cargo holds.

She noted some of the stamped names and corporate logos: SYNBIOTIC, WELCH sCIENTIFIC, GENECORP. One box bore a stenciled American flag and the letters USAMRIID. The U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases.

It was all medical equipment.

The crates vanished down the throat of an elevator.

She caught Henri Barnhardt’s eye. The toxicologist had also noted the marked crates. One hand absently scratched his bearded chin. Deep frown lines bracketed his lips. Off to the side, Miller and Lindholm simply stood with their eyes glazed over, while Ryder Blunt attempted to light another cigar in the blustering breezes atop the cruise ship.

Standing under the helicopter’s rotors, Dr. Devesh Patanjali continued to oversee the final unloading personally. He had never explained his cryptic statement about saving the world. Instead he had ordered them all up here.

The Maori leader of the gunmen stood to one side, hands free of any weapons, but his palm rested on a holstered horse pistol, a massive sidearm. He stood with squinted eyes, surveying the foredeck’s activity, like a sniper sweeping a killing field. Lisa knew nothing escaped his notice, including the young woman who had accompanied Dr. Devesh Patanjali.

She remained a mystery, having spoken not a single word, her face an unwavering mask. She stood atop the foredeck with her sleek black boots together, her hands folded at her waist, a formal posture of waiting and servitude. And though her face might be unreadable, the shape and curve of her form had fully captured the attention of the Maori gunman.

Lisa had overheard her name when Dr. Patanjali had passed out of the presidential suite below. Surina. The doctor had given her a chaste kiss on the cheek as he left. It had been accepted without a flicker of emotion. The woman appeared to be of mixed Indian blood, dressed in a long sari wrap of muted oranges and rose silk, draped over which was a long ebony braid. If untied, her hair must sweep the floor behind her heels. Marking her heritage, she bore a crimson dot, the traditional bindi,on her forehead. But her complexion, a polished teak, was much lighter than Devesh Patanjali’s, suggesting a European bloodline somewhere in her past.

Whether she was Devesh’s sister, wife, or merely a companion, Lisa could not discern. But there was also something menacing in her silence, possibly heightened by the coldness in her eyes. Also her left arm was gloved in black, so skintight it was hard to tell if it was leather or rubber. But it looked like her limb had been dipped in black India Ink.

Crossing her arms, Lisa turned and searched the receding profile of Christmas Island. In the short time they’d been under way, the island had shrunk to a misty green silhouette, trailing a smudge of dark smoke into the sky. But who was there to see it as a signal? Painter would surely grow suspicious if neither she nor Monk called in to report. And for the moment, she placed all her hopes on his paranoia.

Luckily it was a safe bet.

A wind gusted as the tradewinds kicked up. Gulls coasted the breezes overhead, catching her eyes. If only she could fly away as easily…

A shout drew her attention back to the helicopter.

Two men in surgical scrubs hauled a stretcher from the rear hold of the helicopter. Wheels dropped and locked. Devesh hovered over them, checking the patient strapped to the gurney. Portable monitoring equipment lay nestled haphazardly around the patient for transport. The figure was sealed in an oxygen tent. The patient appeared to be a woman from the rise and fall of her chest. Facial features were obscured by a respirator and a tangled octopus of tubes and wires.

Devesh pointed his cane, and the two orderlies guided the gurney toward the elevators, following the train of medical equipment.

He finally crossed back to his captives.

“We’ll have all the labs and medical suites set up in the next hour. Luckily, Dr. Cummings and her partner were very kind to have brought pieces of equipment that were beyond even my reach. Who would have known your Defense Department’s research-and-development branch had perfected a portable scanning electron microscope? Along with electrophoresis equipment and protein sequencer? Quite a bit of serendipity to have such tools land in our laps.”

He tapped his cane and set off. “Come. Let me show you the true face of what assails us.”

Lisa followed with the others. In this instance, she didn’t need the rifles at her back to make her obey. Mysteries were piled atop mysteries here, and she wanted answers, some clue to the reason for this assault and for Devesh’s words.

My dear, together we must save the world.

They were led down three decks. Along the way, Lisa had noted crews of men in chemical suits, working along the lower passageways, moving within stinging clouds of sprayed disinfectant.

Devesh continued to the forward section of the ship. The hall ended at a wide circular space, off which the pricier cabins extended. Monk had commandeered one of the large suites here for his own laboratory. It seemed Devesh had commandeered all the rest.

Tucking under an isolation drape, he waved them into the busy central workspace. “Here we are,” he said.

A score of men were cracking open crates, yanking out packing straw and Styrofoam, hauling free plastic-wrapped medical and laboratory equipment. One man emptied a boxful of petri dishes used to culture bacteria. The door to Monk’s lab lay open. Lisa noted a man inside with a clipboard, inventorying Sigma’s equipment.

Devesh marched them to a neighboring cabin. He swiped a personal key card and shoved open the door.

Turning, he spoke to the tattooed leader of the mercenary force. “Rakao, please have Dr. Miller taken to the bacteriology suite.” He turned to the scientist. “Dr. Miller, we’ve taken the liberty of bringing up and expanding your bacteriology station. New incubation ovens, anaerobic growth media, blood culture plates. I’d like you to coordinate with Dr. Eloise Chénier, my team’s virologist, down the hall, to complete the infectious-disease lab.”

The Maori leader waved for one of his men to escort Miller down the hall. The bacteriologist glanced around at the others, plainly not wanting to leave their company, but the rifle at his back discouraged any argument.

As Miller left, Devesh nodded to their group. “And, Rakao, would you personally escort Sir Ryder and Dr. Lindholm up to the radio room? We’ll join you momentarily.”

“Sir.” The tattooed man did not like this decision, his one word heavy with warning, eyeing Lisa and Henri with suspicion.

“We’ll be fine.” Devesh held open the cabin door and bowed his head for the young Indian woman to enter. “I believe Dr. Cummings and Dr. Barnhardt would like to hear what I have to say. And Surina will be with me.”

Lisa and Henri were ushered into the cabin.

Devesh stepped after them, closing the door – then stopped and turned back to the Maori leader.

“Oh, yes, and Rakao, gather the children, if you’d be so kind. The ones I picked out. That’s a good man.”

Devesh closed the door, but not before Lisa noted the Maori leader’s face darken into a glower. His tattoos stood out more starkly, an indecipherable map.

As the lock clicked, Devesh strode over to the cabin’s desk. It was actually two desks joined together, one unbolted and moved from another cabin. The pair of desks supported three LCD monitors linked to two tower HP computers. They were the only additions to the suite. The remainder of the cabin consisted of a comfortable seating area of teak furniture facing patio doors and a shaded balcony.

Surina stepped to one of the sofas and lowered herself, bending only at the knees, to perch on one of its arms. And while the movement had a measure of demure modesty, Lisa sensed power and threat: the focused eyes, the smooth control of a geisha, but mostly it was the pair of sheathed daggers exposed on both ankles as she sat.

Lisa glanced away. A bedroom opened behind the desk. A pair of large steamer trunks rested at the foot of the bed. This must be Devesh Patanjali’s personal room. But why had he brought them here?

Devesh awoke the sleeping computers with the tap of a few buttons, drawing her attention back. All three monitors bloomed to a brilliant glare in the dim room.

“Dr. Barnhardt…or Henri,if I may presume…?” Devesh glanced back.

The toxicologist merely shrugged.

Devesh continued. “Henri, I must commend you on your assessment of the true threat hidden within the shroud of the toxic assault. It had taken our scientists weeks to ascertain what you managed to discern in less than twenty-four hours.”

Lisa’s skin went cold. Weeks. So their captors had been aware of the threat at the island long before the full crisis broke. But what did any of this have to do with the Guild?

“Of course, we did not so much appreciate the general alarm you raised, reaching all the way to Washington. It required accelerating our timetable…and some improvisation. Like utilizing the scientific talent here and merging it with my own. But so be it. We must move quickly if there is to be any hope.”

“Hope for what?” Lisa finally asked.

“Let me show you, my dear.” Devesh patted one of the two chairs, inviting her to sit.

She remained standing, but he seemed to take no offense, busy with the computer keyboard. On the center monitor, a video began playing. It depicted a dense microscopic field of twitching chains of rod-shaped bacteria.

“How much do you know about anthrax?” Devesh asked, glancing back.

Lisa’s skin went cold at his question.

Henri answered, “ Bacillus anthracis. It mostly infects ruminants. Cows, goats, sheep. But spores can also infect humans. Often proving fatal.”

It was a clinical assessment, devoid of emotion. But Lisa noted the tense hold to the toxicologist’s shoulders.

Devesh nodded. “ Bacillusspecies are found worldwide in soil. Harmless for the most part. For example, here is one such benign organism, Bacillus cereus.”

The screen image changed to a microscopic close-up of a single bacterium. Rod-shaped with a thin membranous wall, the cell’s DNA strands were stained to stand out in the center.

“Like other members of the species, this little bug can be found in gardens around the world. Happily feeding on microorganisms and nutrients in the soil. It causes no harm to anything larger than an amoeba. But its brother, Bacillus anthracis—” Devesh clicked to bring up another image – side by side with the first, a second bacterium that looked identical.

“Here is the organism that causes anthrax,” he continued, “one of the most deadly bacterium on the planet. It shares the same genetic code with its peaceful, garden-dwelling brother.” Devesh tapped the two cells’ stained twists of DNA. “Gene by gene, nearly identical. So why does one kill and the other remain harmless?”

Over a shoulder, Devesh stared back at Lisa and Henri.

Lisa shook her head. Henri remained silent.

Devesh nodded as if satisfied by their reticence. Turning back, he toggled a key and the anthrax bacterium zoomed on the screen. The mass of DNA swelled on the monitor. Within the cytoplasm of the interior cell, separate from the main tangle of DNA, floated two perfect rings of genetic material, like a tiny pair of eyes staring back at them.

“Plasmids,” Henri said, naming the rings.

Lisa’s brow tightened as she was forced to draw upon her pre-med education. As well as she could recall, plasmids were circular strands of DNA separate from main chromosomal DNA. The free-floating bits of genetic code were unique to bacteria. Their role was still poorly understood.

Devesh continued. “These two plasmids – pX01 and pX02—are what turn ordinary Bacillusspecies into superkillers. Remove these two rings, and anthrax transforms back into an innocent organism, living happily in any garden. Put those same plasmids into any friendly Bacillusand the bug turns into a killer.”

Devesh finally swung around to face them. “So I ask you, where did these extraneous and deadly bits come from?”

Lisa answered, intrigued despite herself. “Can’t plasmids be shared directly from one bacterium to another?”

“Certainly. But what I meant was, how did these bacteria firstacquire these foreign bits of genetic material? What’s their originalsource?”

Henri stirred, moving closer to study the screens. “The evolutionary origin of plasmids remains a mystery, but the current theory is that they were acquired from viruses. Or more specifically bacteriophages,a category of viruses that only infect bacteria.”

“Exactly!” Devesh turned back to the screen. “It’s been theorized that, sometime in the ancient past, a viral bacteriophage injected a peaceful Bacilluswith this deadly pair of plasmids, creating a new monster in the biosphere and transforming a sweet little garden bug into a killer.”

Devesh tapped more rapidly, clearing the screen. “And anthrax isn’t the only bacterium thus infected. The bacterium that causes the black plague, Yersinia pestis…its virulence is also enhanced by a plasmid.”

Lisa felt a prickling chill as realization dawned. All this talk of transforming bacteria reminded her of the patients on the ship. The girl with seizures from vinegar bacteria, the woman with choleric dysentery from yogurt bacteria, the John Doe whose skin bacteria were eating his legs away…

“Are you suggesting it’s happening here again?” she mumbled. “This same corruption of bacteria.”

Devesh nodded. “Indeed. Something has risen again out of the depths of the sea, something with the ability to turn all bacteria deadly.”

Lisa remembered Henri’s example of how prevalent bacteria were in the world, how 90 percent of the cells in our own bodies were composed of bacteria. Nonhuman. If that tide should shift against us…

Devesh continued. “From studying the genetics of anthrax and other toxic bacteria, microbiologists have predicted the existence of an ancient strain of viruses. A strain that created the early ancestors of anthrax and other plague bacteria. Scientists have even coined a name for this ancient strain of viruses, one that turns friend into foe: the Judas Strain.”

Henri must have read something in Devesh’s face, a brightness to his eyes, an excitement. He straightened. “Something tells me you’ve isolated the causative agent in the outbreak here, haven’t you? This Judas Strain. Or you wouldn’t be here.”

“We think so.”

Devesh tapped another two keys. The bacterium vanished, replaced with a rotating figure on the screen, an image from an electron micrograph, all in shades of silver. It made the organism depicted seem more mechanical than biological. It looked like some lunar lander. The main shell was geometric, an icosahedron, made up of twenty flat triangular pieces. Out from every corner stretched thin tendrils, spiked at the tips, made to latch on and pierce.

Lisa had seen many such images back in medical school.

A virus.

“We discovered it in a sample of the cyanobacteria from the toxic tide. It turned the innocent phosphorescent sea bacteria into a flesh-boiling, poison-spewing killer. And within such windblown steaming clouds of toxin, the virus spread onto land, beginning the slow alteration of the island’s bacteria into monsters.”

“And now we’re seeing it happen among the patients,” Henri said. “Turning our own bodies against us.”

Devesh tapped the screen. “The ultimate betrayer of life. This organism has the capability to travel through the planet’s biosphere, transforming all bacteria into lethal, life-destroying organisms. It’s nature’s neutron bomb, a viral explosion with the potential to wipe out all higher life-forms, leaving behind only a toxic soup of deadly bacterial ooze. If unchecked, we’ve already seen a peek of what the world may become on the windward side of Christmas Island.”

“And if it should spread…” Henri’s face had paled. “We’d have no way of stopping it.”

Devesh finally stood and retrieved his cane. “Perhaps. But we’ve barely begun to analyze the organism. The good news is that so far the virus appears to be short-lived and does not infect human cells. Only bacteria. So the virus poses little directrisk to us. It hijacks a bacterial cell, uses the cell to churn copies of itself, then leaves behind the toxic plasmids. Outside the cell, the new virus is fragile. It can easily be killed with simple disinfectants and controlled with good hygiene.”

Lisa pictured the work crews moving through the ship in a cloud of disinfectant. They were sterilizing the ship.

“But unfortunately, the virus leaves behind a killer in its wake. Deadly bacteria that divide and multiply, each a new monster added to the microbial world, contaminating the biosphere forever with never-before-seen life-forms.”

Henri placed a worried palm on his forehead. “If the viral exposure breaks free into the general biosphere…we’re talking about a thousand different new diseases hitting the world simultaneously. A plague with the capability of changing faces faster than we can react. The world has seen nothing like this before.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Devesh countered cryptically.

Henri focused back to their captor.

“My employers and I believe this is not the first outbreak of this Judas Strain. There are historical reports from the region of a similar outbreak. Back almost a millennium ago.” His voice lowered to a contemplative whisper. “The stories were accompanied by some strange and disturbing claims.”

“What historical reports are you talking about?” Lisa asked.

Devesh waved away her question. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve got others looking into that question, following that historical trail. We must stay focused on our goal. Our mission aboard the ship lies not in the past, but the present. My employers orchestrated the evacuation of the island, arranged to have Mr. Blunt’s cruise ship detoured here. We needed to isolate the currently infected in one place. Here we have the rare opportunity to study how this disease unfolds. Its epidemiology, its pathology, its physiologic effects. And we’ve a full shipload of test subjects.”

Lisa backed away a step, unable to mask her horror.

Devesh leaned on his cane. “I sense your distaste, Dr. Cummings. Now you understand why the Guild had to act. When faced with an organism of such virulence, there could be no hand-wringing. No politically correct response to such an onslaught. Action must be swift, and hard choices made. In Tuskegee, did not your own government allow people infected with syphilis to die of the disease while scientists dispassionately recorded the suffering, the advancing symptoms, and the eventual deaths? To survive this, we must be as brutal and cold. Because, believe me, this is a war for the survival of the human species.”

Lisa sought some counter to his words, too shocked.

Henri interceded, but not in the manner Lisa had expected. “He’s right.”

Lisa turned to the toxicologist.

Henri’s eyes remained locked on the screen depicting the microscopic image of the Judas Strain. “This is a planet killer. And it’s already loose. Remember how fast the bird flu circled the world. We have a week, possibly only days. If we don’t find a way to stop it, all life – at least all higher life – will be wiped off the earth.”

“I’m glad we have a meeting of the minds,” Devesh said with a bow of his head in Henri’s direction. His eyes found Lisa’s. “And possibly when I show Dr. Cummings here her role in our endeavor, she may also find the same such enlightenment.”

Lisa frowned at his puzzling statement.

Devesh swung away toward the door. “But first we must join your friends up in the radio room. We have some fires to put out.”

7:02 A.M.

Washington, D.C.

Painter stared at the news reports on his three plasma screens: Fox, CNN, NBC. All reporting on the blast near Georgetown.

“So everything is fine,” Painter said, standing behind his desk. He held the earpiece more firmly in place. Lisa’s voice was faint, traveling from halfway around the world. “You scared Jennings in R and D. He was just about ready to have the island firebombed.”

“Sorry for the false alarm,” Lisa said. “It was nothing more than laboratory contamination. Everything is fine here…or at least as fine as a shipload of burned patients might be. The initial conjecture is a bloom of something called fireweed. It’s been plaguing these waters for years, spews off a corrosive pall, clearing beaches. This was just a perfect storm of the weed. The matter should be resolved in the next day or so, then Monk and I will head back.”

“That’s the first bit of good news I’ve heard all day,” Painter replied.

His eyes kept flickering back to the plasma screens on his walls. They showed the fires being finally put out in the woods behind the safe house. Fire trucks arced water from engines parked along the forest’s fire road.

Lisa whispered in his ear. “I know you’re busy. I’ll report in again in another twelve hours as scheduled.”

“Great. You get some sleep. I imagine the sunsets out there must be beautiful.”

“They are. I…I wish you were here to enjoy them with me.”

“Me, too. But it won’t be much longer until you’re back. And right now I have a fire of my own to put out.”

On the screen a news helicopter swung away to reveal the charred remains of the safe house for the morning news. He had already heard the report from the arson investigators. Tire tracks in the backyard had led to the discovery of an abandoned Thunderbird, the same convertible in which Gray had arrived on the scene a couple hours ago. It seemed he had not fled to the streets, but into the woods. But where did he go after that? There had still been no sign of Gray, his parents, or the wounded Guild operative.

Where had they gone into hiding?

“I have work here, too,” Lisa said.

“Is there anything you need?”

“No…”

He heard a hesitation in her voice. “Lisa? What is it?”

“Nothing.” She snapped a bit. “I guess I’m just tired. You know how I get this time of the month.”

His aide Brant wheeled into the office with a sheaf of faxes in hand. He noted the letterhead on the top. Washington PD. It was another of the progress reports of their canvass of the local hospitals. He spoke as he accepted the papers from Brant.

“Then make sure you get some rest,” he said, already reading the first line on the report. “You just stay safe and don’t forget the sunblock. I can’t have you making me look like some ghost next to your island tan.”

“Will do.” Lisa’s voice had faded to the barest whisper. The ship’s satellite connection was spotty. Still, he heard the disappointment in her voice. He missed her, too.

“I’ll see you soon,” he finished. “Talk to you in another half day. Now go get some sleep.”

The line died without further word. He removed the earpiece and settled to his desk. Prioritizing, he shifted the pile of reports in front of him. He would scan them, then pass on the all clear to Jennings.

At least, one catastrophe had been put to bed.

6:13 P.M.

At sea

Lisa lowered the telephone handset. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest. The line had been cut off at a signal from Devesh Patanjali. He stood in the doorway to the ship’s state-of-the-art communication shack, bracing both palms on his cane.

He shook his head, displaying his disappointment.

Lisa’s stomach churned uneasily. Did he know what she had attempted? She rose from her seat beside the radioman. One of the guards grabbed her elbow.

“All you had to do was stick to the script, Dr. Cummings,” Devesh said, his voice thick with exasperation. “It was a simple request, and the consequences were duly explained to you.”

Panic iced Lisa’s blood. “I…I followed your script. I didn’t say anything out of turn. Painter thinks everything is fine. Just like you ordered.”

“Yes. Lucky for that. But don’t think your attempt at subtle communication, a hidden context, escaped me.”

Oh God…She had taken a chance during the phone conversation. Surely he couldn’t know. “I don’t understand—”

“‘You know how I get this time of the month,’” Devesh quoted her, cutting her off. He turned and headed out the door to the hallway. “In fact, you finished your cycle ten days ago, Dr. Cummings.”

An icy numbness spread through her.

“We have a full dossier on you, Dr. Cummings. Which I’ve read. And my memory is eidetic. Photographic. I encourage you not to underestimate my resources again.”

The guard manhandled her out of the room. She stumbled along.

She had been a fool to try to secretly communicate with Painter, no matter how subtly.

What have I done?

Out in the passageway, other key captives stood lined up in the hall: Dr. Lindholm, Ryder Blunt, and an Aussie captain in a bloody khaki uniform. All of them had called their respective agencies, reporting all was well and under control at the remote island, whitewashing the scenario, buying the hijackers time to add distance between ship and island before anyone grew wiser.

But there were also others gathered in the hall. Four children cowered at the back of the passageway. Boys and girls. Ages six to ten. One for each of those sent into the radio room. Each child’s life was balanced upon their cooperation. Lisa had been assigned a little girl, eight years old, with large almond eyes, terrified, huddled on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. Her brother, a couple years older, kept an arm around her.

The Maori leader stepped over to the child, pistol in hand.

Devesh joined him and faced back to the group, a fist resting on his hip. “You were all warned if you strayed from the script in any significant regard, attempted any subterfuge, there would be consequences. But as this is Dr. Cummings’s first mistake, I’ll be lenient with her.”

“Please,” Lisa begged. She could not bear the child’s blood on her hands. In the radio room, she had reacted instinctively. It had been a stupid ploy.

Devesh’s gaze settled to her. “Instead of the little girl, Dr. Cummings, I’ll let you choose another child to die in her place.”

Lisa’s breath caught in her chest.

“I’m not a cruel man, only practical. This is a lesson all of you must take to heart.” He waved to Lisa. “Pick a child.”

Lisa shook her head. “I can’t…”

“Choose or I’ll have them allshot. Let this be a lesson to everyone. We have too much to accomplish to tolerate insubordination, no matter how slight.”

The guard dragged her forward at a signal from his tattooed leader.

“Choose a child, Dr. Cummings.”

Lisa bit back a sob, staring at the four children’s faces. None spoke English, but they must have read something in her face, understood her agony, and it scared them. Fresh tears flowed. They all hunched tighter.

Lisa caught Devesh’s eyes, pleading with him. “Please, Dr. Patanjali. It was my mistake. Punish me.”

“I believe that is exactly what I’m doing.” He stared back at her, unmoved. “Now pick.”

Lisa stared across the four faces. She could not pick the little girl, or her brother. She had no choice. She lifted a trembling arm and pointed a finger to another of the boys, the oldest of the group at ten years of age.

May God forgive me.

“Very good. Rakao, you know your duty.”

The Maori gunman stepped over to the boy, whose frightened face lifted hopefully.

A moan escaped Lisa. She took a step forward, trying to retract her decision. The guard tightened his grip on her elbow. Restrained, her legs trembled – then she was on her knees, boneless with terror and grief.

The gunman lifted his pistol and pointed it at the boy’s head.

“No…” Lisa gasped.

He pulled the trigger – but there was no blast of fire. The gun’s hammer clicked sharply in the confined space, snapping on an empty cylinder.

Rakao lowered his weapon.

In the silence a gurgling cry erupted from the other side of the hall. Lisa turned in time to watch Dr. Lindholm sink to his knees, matching Lisa’s posture. He met her gaze, eyes wide with shock and pain. His hands clutched his throat. Blood poured between his fingers.

Behind his shoulder, Devesh’s companion, the woman Surina, stepped back, her head bowed down as if she had just served tea and was now exiting. Her hands were empty, but Lisa had no doubt the woman had slashed the doctor’s throat, her dagger vanishing away as quickly as it had struck.