Next
German Air Traffic Control had given the Concorde priority clearance to descend into Frankfurt international airport. As she swooped earthward, nose cone angled downward, the early-morning sun cast a huge delta shadow over the ground.
In the communications center, Jacob Chernow sat before the screen receiving Pierre Lacouste's image from Paris via the satellite stationed over the Negev. The only sign that the French security chief's voice was being bounced from outer space was a slight loss of lip sync and a metallic tone to his words.
"Appleton's call came just before the cabinet recessed," Lacouste was saying. "He wanted to know what guarantees we were going to get from Israel that if let the Feydeheen go, Israel wouldn't go after them. He kept reminding us what happened after Munich."
In 1972, eleven Israeli athletes were murdered by Arab terrorists at the Munich Olympics. Chernow had been part of the team sent to kill them. it had taken almost a year and two million American dollars in tip money before they had done so.
"Appleton only knows about Munich because Bitburg told the Americans, Pierre."
Lacouste gave a sigh of exasperation. "I know, but it was the very point Appleton seized upon. He kept saying there would be no way to keep the deaths of the Feydeheen quiet, because Israel would want her other enemies to know their fate. Appleton became quite loquacious, talking about how Israel had cornered the market in an eye for an eye."
Over the intercom came the flight deck announcement that they would be landing in ten minutes. Chernow, Tyreen, and the technicians began to buckle up.
"What did your people tell Appleton?" Chernow asked.
"You can imagine." Lacouste shrugged. "Everyone knew what Appleton was driving at. If we released them, and anything was to happen to the Feydeheen, it would unite Arab radicals and moderates as never before. Appleton kept saying that in this case, there could be no distinction between terrorism and counterterrorism. France would be seen as having conspired in the deaths of pardoned men. From then on, it was downhill all the way. A lot of rehashing about the Palestinian cause being as honorable as the Israeli cause. After Appleton had hung up, it didn't take long to reach the bottom line: billion-franc deals going down the drain; revenge attacks on French soil. It was going to be the Gulf War all over again. Only this time, fought in the streets of Paris..."
"So what are your people going to do?" Chernow asked.
"The President's already phoned your Prime Minister. I gather Karshov wasn't very helpful. He said that until France actually came to a decision, there was nothing to talk about."
Chernow spoke curtly and clearly. "He's right. The best thing your President can do is to keep those Feydeheen where they belong --- in your prisons, serving sentences for which they were properly convicted. If France lets them go, it will simply make it harder for everyone else."
A pocket of turbulence rocked the Concorde. Chernow gripped the armrests of his seat.
In Paris, Lacouste looked pensive. "The pressure's on, Jacob. The Cabinet's going to meet again when they've had a few hours' sleep."
The CCO called out that Danny Nagier was on line from Tel Aviv --- and it was urgent.
"I've got to go, Pierre. Shove a rod up the President to keep him hanging on to those Feydeheen."
Lacouste's image disappeared. If France hung on to the Feydeheen, it could make Raza more prone to make a mistake. One would be enough.
Nagier's face appeared on the screen. "The ACC just came through," he began. "GCHQ have an interesting intercept out of the London area."
He glanced down at a piece of paper. Britain's counterpart to the US National Security Agency was housed at Cheltenham. From there, its technicians had cast an electronic net over London since the hotel bombings.
Nagier began to read. "It's a fax. 'The deliverer has delivered and been delivered. Delivery can commence tonight at the appointed hour.' "
Beside Chernow, Tyreen jotted down the words on a pad.
"What's the ACC's view?" asked Chernow.
Nagier looked troubled. "The transcript came to him through MI5. By then, Percy West had already convinced the powers that be that there was nothing here to show London was the target. West's argument is that Britain's so well buttoned-up that Raza will probably try elsewhere in Europe. He even managed to Convince the Prime Minister that Raza's simply using London as a transmitting station to divert attention.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tyreen shaking her head. "What do you think, Danny?"
"I just don't know, Jacob. Raza could have another transponder in London. Or even an agent. I've persuaded the ACC to act on that possibility. He's pulling in everyone with Arab experience to infiltrate.
"Did GCHQ get even a rough fix?" asked Tyreen.
Nagier looked up. "They think somewhere out of West London, but that's not much help. It's a three-million population spread. And it could have come from a portable fax machine. Half a million were sold in last year in London alone. British Telecom say they have four million on their records. It would take a week to computer-check them all..."
"Get them to do it. I want everybody on their toes twenty-four hours a day, for sure," said Chernow firmly.
"Will do," acknowledged Nagier. "One more thing: a few minutes after the ACC, Lou Panchez came through. A satellite the Americans have over the Azores to catch anything coming in or out of the eastern side of the United States picked up a fax almost identical to the London one."
"Do they know its direction?"
"Out. From somewhere between Boston and Washington."
"Get the Swift people moving on it. Maybe it came from one of the embassies. When's that team of yours due in New York?"
"This evening. You want me to pull some of them away?" asked Nagier.
Chernow considered. Nagier's technicians could be useful in Washington and New York, working Arab embassies in the capital and missions to the United Nations. "No, but have Matti and Lou concentrate on contact-tracing Harmoos. Get Gates to have his people in Colombia do the same thing."
The CCO called to Chernow, "General Yertzin's on the encryptor."
"Hold it, Danny." Chernow picked up a phone on the keybaord beside him and punched buttons. The encryptor had been tuned in to the Soviet Over-the-Horizon radar communications headquarters at Nikolayev in the Caucasus. The encryptor provided a completely secure telephone channel while at the same time monitoring that the conversation was not being overheard. "General, good to hear you."
There was a moment's pause on the line while the encryptor scrambled and unscrambled. Then Yertzin's voice boomed in Chernow's ear, loud enough for Tyreen to hear from her seat beside him. "And you, comrade. You said two days. My Spetsnaz have done it in less. They have found a transponder in a village north of Kabul. They have established that Raza positioned it there weeks ago.
Chernow could imagine how the Russians had discovered the location; he'd seen them at work in Afghanistan. It had always been tell-or-kill time. "I want you to get that transponder to Tel Aviv as fast as possible."
"You want to trace the Voice Throw box, da?"
"Yes."
"We can do that for you in Moscow," said Yertzin.
"I'm sure you can. But I want it done in Tel Aviv, General."
The pause was longer before Yertzin replied. "Okay. I'll arrange a direct flight, Kabul-Tel Aviv."
"Thank you, General. And my congratulations to your Spetsnaz," said Chernow. He put down the phone, turned back to Nagier, and told him what was happening. "How long will it take your people to work backward to where the Voice Throw box is?"
Nagier frowned. "Assuming Raza could have positioned it almost anywhere on earth, I'd say a couple of days."
"That brings us bang up against his deadline, Danny."
Nagier gave a slow nod. Then his face brightened. "Assuming he got Costas' MRT, I've sent him a little reminder to tweak his nerve ends a little." He explained, and then his face disappeared off the screen.
Moments later, the Concorde touched down. Ground control directed it to park away from the terminals in the high-security zone reserved for VIP flights in and out of the airport.
When Chernow and Tyreen came down the steps, Hans-Dieter Müller was waiting at the bottom. Parked close by were two government cars. Each had a chauffeur in military uniform at the wheel.
"Welcome, Mr. Chernow," said Müller somberly. "Ms. Mackenzie."
"Good to see you, Hans-Dieter."
Müller continued to look somber. "I hope you will still say that when you hear what's happened."
Chernow stared at him for a moment. "Appleton's been shoving in his wrench?"
The German security officer's look of surprise was genuine. "How did you know?"
Chernow told him what Lacouste had said.
"Come, we will speak in the back of my car."
As they walked toward the Mercedes, the chauffeur jumped out and whipped open the rear door. After Tyreen, Chernow, and Müller had settled themselves, she went to the front of the car and stood to attention, her back to the bonnet.
Müller nodded toward her. "They teach that at training school. She's been driving me for a year and I still can't break her of the habit."
Tyreen smiled. "Why not threaten to send her back there?"
Müller sighed. "The next one could be even more rigid."
Tyreen and Chernow exchanged a quick chuckle.
The Operations Chief began to hand-roll a cigarette from tobacco he kept in a silver box. "It belonged to my father. He rolled cigarettes all the way to Stalingrad in 1941 and back again two years later. He said it was the only thing that kept him sane."
"What's Appleton done, Hans-Dieter?" prodded Chernow gently.
Müller lit the cigarette. "Called Kunzler and spent almost an hour talking about how important it was for what he kept calling the 'new Germany' to find its place in the Arab world." Müller inhaled deeply before continuing. "Appleton reminded the Chancellor that West Germany alone had current orders worth ten billion Deutschmarks with Arab countries. and old East Germany almost as much. The unification has inevitably led to delivery problems. Appleton was very concerned that we don't lose those contracts by doing anything precipitous. He offered to use his good offices in Riyadh, Cairo, and even Damascus."
"What did the Chancellor say?"
"Kunzler's a great listener, especially when Washington's talking. He's not like Kohl used to be. Kunzler actually speaks English like he was brought up on American Armed Forces radio." Müller shifted in his seat. "Naturally, Kunzler didn't mention a word about our arrangement."
"He didn't have to," said Chernow.
Müller sent a spiral of smoke against the roof of the car, and watched it disappear into the discreetly positioned extraction vents. "Seemingly so. After Appleton phoned, Kunzler had his chief secretary call me to say your visit was to be canceled."
Chernow glanced over at Tyreen and then stared at Müller.
"It's okay, Mr. Chernow," said Müller quietly. "I told the chief secretary that I had to speak to the Chancellor personally. That took a couple of hours to fix. In the end, I got ten minutes between an ambassador presenting his credentials and a Japanese trade delegation protesting about their car import quotas..."
"Why's it okay?"
Müller drew deeper on the butt. "I told him he would have my resignation if he stopped you. That shook him a little. In the end, he compromised. You have a morning, not a full day with her. If she agrees, she only gets a new face and freedom providing there is absolutely no doubt of the value of her contribution. Otherwise, back she comes to serve out the rest. Naturally, she won't know that."
Chernow kept his voice steady. "Who decides? Kunzler?"
Müller smiled. "He acts on my recommendation. I act on yours. So, no problem."
Chernow shook his head. "Wrong, Hans-Dieter. There's still a problem." He opened the car door and bounded up the steps back into the plane.
Müller looked at Tyreen. She appeared just as surprised. Then she was out of the car and running in pursuit of Chernow.
In the communications center, several of the technicians were dozing in their seats. Others were drinking coffee. The CCO looked up in surprise from the foldaway table he used for writing the traffic log of every flight as Chernow ran in, quickly followed by Tyreen.
"Get me the White House," ordered Chernow.
"Any one in particular, Colonel?"
"The President of the United States."
The CCO hesitated, glanced at Tyreen, then back at Chernow. "It's two o'clock in the morning in Washington, Colonel."
"Dammit! Don't argue! Get him on the line!" rasped Chernow, sliding into his seat.
"Yes, sir." The CCO began to give orders. Technicians sprang into action. A circuit was quickly established with Washington.
In the White House basement communications room, the duty officer appeared on screen. "Can you tell me why you wish to disturb the President, sir?" the Marine captain asked.
"No. Just get him on the line."
"I can't do that, sir..."
"Listen to me. I have the authority. Wake him. Tell him Colonel Chernow wants to talk to him!"
"Sir, I'm not..."
"Do it!" commanded Chernow. "Otherwise, you're going to be fixing telephone lines in Alaska."
"Wait one, please, sir."
The screen went blank in Washington. Chernow sensed the tension around him. People could get fired for being part of this. Even was Tyreen was hanging back instead of taking her seat beside him.
A button began to flash on the CCO's console. He picked up the phone, listened, and turned to Chernow. "That was the White House Chief of Staff. They're connecting a feed up to the President's bedroom."
Chernow grunted.
Moments later, the screen lit up and a face appeared. The President wore a dressing gown that matched his pajamas. He glared out of the screen. "I understand this is so important, Mr. Chernow, that it couldn't wait until I got my first full night's sleep since this crisis began."
"I'm sorry to wake you, Mr. President. But I have a problem only you can solve. And I need it solved now."
The President pursed his lips. "What is it?"
"Appleton. He's interfering in my work. I've already called him and asked him to stop. Now, I'm asking you to stop him." Chernow studied the face on the screen. The anger was because the President hadn't known.
"Tell me what's been happening, Mr. Chernow. Everything."
Chernow told him.
There was a long pause before the President spoke. He sounded cold. "Very well, Mr. Chernow. I have no doubt Mr. Appleton was acting from the highest motives. But he will not trouble you further. You have my assurance on that."
"Thank you, Mr. President."
The President ran a hand through his hair. "I assume you have not made sufficient progress to reconvene a conference call?"
"Not yet, Mr. President."
"Good night, Mr. Chernow." The screen went blank.
Chernow stood up and looked around him. The CCO and the technicians stared at him in awe. Tyreen's lips were pressed tightly together, but there was a glimmer in those bright blue eyes of hers.
In complete silence, he walked out of the cabin and back down the steps, Tyreen quickly falling in behind him. If he had turned around, he would have seen the corners of her mouth starting to turn up.
Müller was waiting by the car, a file in his hand. He stared curiously at Chernow and asked what he had done.
Tyreen told him, as if the whole thing had been her idea all along.
"Mensch!" said Müller finally, again staring at Chernow. "You called the President of the USA? Just like that? Mensch!"
Chernow smiled as Tyreen again answered for him. "No big deal. After all, you called your Chancellor."
"But the President of the USA..." Müller shook his head. "Here," he said, holding out the file. "Your permission. The other car will take you there." He gave a stiff little bow and climbed back in the Mercedes.
The chauffeur of the second car was already holding open the door. She gave an immaculate salute as Tyreen and Chernow climbed inside.
Matti Talim walked through the apartment under the watchful eye of the Swift crew chief, who was holding a clipboard. In a few hours, he and his men had installed a small switchboard and several handsets as well as an additional computer and three more fax machines, one on a tie line to Langley.
His living room furniture had been replaced with a row of desks and chair against one wall. Portable booths with equipment for listening to tapes stood along another. Foldaway camp beds lay on the floor.
"I don't imagine they'll get much time to use them," grinned the grizzly-haired chief. "But they came with the inventory for a mobile war room."
"You guys did a first-class job," said Talim. "A real home away from home for Danny's specialists."
The chief's grin widened. He held out his clipboard. "Just sign and I'll be off to scout a location for Major Nagier's boys around Sweetmont. Those sorts of places are harder to work in than somewhere like this. Here, no one cares if you come or go. A place like Sweetmont, everybody wants to say howdy."
As Talim closed the apartment door behind the chief, the bedroom phone began to ring.
It was Miriam Cantwell, calling from City Center. "Matti, it's about Nancy Carson."
"How is she?"
"Bad. And getting worse. She's in intensive care. But she managed to tell one of the nurses something. The nurse told me and I figured you'd want to know. On the other hand, it might be nothing..."
"So just tell me, Miriam," Talim gently interrupted. He was always surprised how diffident she could be with something outside her own field.
"Nancy was mugged at JFK. Some guy made off with all her gifts."
Talim made a sympathetic noise. "That happens. All too often, sadly. What kind of gifts?"
"That's why I'm calling. There were a couple of bottles of what sounds like expensive perfume. She says she opened one and splashed some on her face. Some new brand I've never heard of, something with Greek in it. Anyway, because she became sick soon afterward, we're running serology tests along with everything else. She may have an allergic reaction to complicate her pneumonic symptoms..."
"Hold a moment, will you?" Talim ran to the safe room and picked up a fax. It was Danny Nagier's Double Flash that had come with the photocopy of the perfume bottle label and the photo. While the label was still readable, the photo had lost its sharpness in transmission. He ran back to the bedroom and picked up the phone. "Grecian Nights the name of that perfume, Miriam?"
"Yes. How'd you know?"
"Miriam, I've got to talk to Nancy. It's very important," said Talim urgently. "Can you fix it?"
"I would, if she could talk. She's in a semicoma," replied Miriam. "You can get that with certain types of pneumonia."
"Miriam, listen, she may not have pneumonia..."
"Miriam spoke sharply. "What are you talking about, Matti?"
"I'm not a doctor, Miriam. But that perfume bottle could have contained Anthrax-B-C. There must be some way I can talk to her to find out how she got those bottles."
"Matti, you just listen to me," snapped Miriam. "There's no way you or anyone else is going to question Nancy right now. She's a very, very sick girl. And she's got classic pneumonia. In all the tests so far, nothing else has shown up. If serology comes up with anything, you'll be the first to know after me." She hung up without saying goodbye. Talim knew that this time it was not only from habit, but also from anger.
As he walked back into the living room, the television he'd insisted must remain was screening a local news show. The top story was that it would be at least a week before the last bodies were recovered from the devastated hotels. There were updates on the hunt for the bombers. A consortium of Wall Street brokers had posted a million-dollar reward for their arrest. That brought the bounty figure to seven million dollars.
The third story was about a spectacular accident on the Connecticut Expressway late the previous afternoon. Over film of the wreckage, a reporter described how a cab had gone out of control and burst through the center median into the path of an oncoming gasoline truck. The fire had killed both drivers. Rescue workers interview on camera said it was an accident long overdue; that stretch of road was notorious for speeding. A police officer said that the likely cause of the accident was a blowout of two of the cab's tires.
The reporter ended by identifying the truck driver as being from out of state. The cab driver was named Muktar Sayeed, a bachelor living in Queens. He had been driving for the Day-Nite Cab Company for a year. The company, the reporter reminded his readers, was owned by the wealthy Arab philanthropist Rachid Harmoos. He had been unavailable for comment, reportedly having left his Sweetmont residence shortly before the tragedy.
Matti Talim scribbled Muktar Sayeed's name on a piece of paper and walked into the safe room.
Fifty miles south of Frankfurt, the chauffeur turned off the autobahn and began to drive through the rolling Hessen farmland.
Fifteen minutes later, the Mercedes stopped before a high steel-mesh fence. At regular intervals, there were triangular signs fixed to the wire. The notices carried the same warning written n the principal languages, including Arabic. Do not touch. High-voltage electricity. Beneath was the universal symbol for danger, a white skull and crossbones.
Three policemen armed with machine pistols emerged from the solid brick guardhouse. One came forward while the other two covered him. He studied the passes the chauffeur presented, hen opened the back door and carefully inspected the passengers. Satisfied, the policeman nodded to his companions. They lowered their machine pistols and walked back into the guardhouse. Moments later, the gates swung open.
The car entered slowly. On either side of the roadway, the ground was completely covered with coils of razor wire. The wire extended all the way to a wall taller and more difficult to climb than the Berlin Wall had ever been. The face of it was covered with broken glass set in a greasy plastic compound impervious to heat or cold. Not even a lizard could scale that wall.
Set in the wall were a pair of heavy steel doors. Another trio of policemen emerged and conducted another check before the gates rolled silently open on their runner and the car moved forward. Beyond was farmland no different from what they had already passed.
A group of men, all alike in their gray uniforms, were tilling a field. Armed guards watched over the workers.
Next were tennis and volleyball courts, and a soccer pitch. Play ball after a stint on the couch. Run them off their feet in the hope it'll make it easier to winkle out all those secrets, which always begin with why. Why did they rarely show emotion and almost never kill anyone in anger? Why was their violence so deliberate and dispassionate? Why was it so carefully engineered for theatrical effect? Why, why, why? And --- why?
The Germans had purpose-built this place to find the answers. It was Europe's first criminological laboratory-cum-prison.
Chernow glanced at the briefing paper in the file as Tyreen handed it back. Currently, ninety-six of the once most dangerous men and women on earth were confined in these five hundred acres. Three hundred handpicked warders guarded them. The doctors did the real work. There were fifty of them, each an expert in the use of psychiatry, psychology, sociology, and psychotropic drugs. Their brief, the paper explained, was to study the pharmacology of violence that lay behind all acts of terrorism. The study was supposed to make it harder for someone to hijack another plane, kidnap an industrialist, hold an embassy at gunpoint or a busload of kids prisoner. Very German.
The car parked before a tawny-colored building. A sign fixed to the wall beside the double-doors proclaimed this to be the Administration Block. On either side rose the forbidding fortress of the prison itself.
"I will wait for you here," They were the first words the chauffeur had spoken since Frankfurt.
"Danke schön, Fräulein."
Chernow got out of the car, followed by Tyreen clutching the file, and walked up the steps of the Administration Block. The building had the angry look pf prison architecture everywhere. As they reached the door, it was opened by a short, broad man who looked as if he had been created by the same architect who had designed the building. The man wore a tweed suit with a nametag in the lapel.
"Herr Chernow, ja? Und Fräulein Mackenzie?"
"Yes." The sudden smile didn't fool either of them. The man was looking them over.
"Sehr gut."
It was a recent thing in Germany to speak only German to foreigners. Chernow glanced at the man's nametag. "Do you speak English, Herr Vogel?"
"Ja. yes, of course. And I am Herr Doktor Vogel, Deputy Direktor."
"That's fine, doctor. Let's stick with the English, okay?"
"Ja... of course, if you prefer."
"I prefer."
"Show me, please, your permission," said Vogel stiffly.
Tyreen handed over the file.
Vogel riffled through it. "Herr Direktor wishes to see you first."
"How's his English?"
"Perfect. He was at George Washington University for two years."
They walked in silence past closed doors from behind whch came the sound of typing. Beyond was a row of rooms with open doors. Each was spotlessly white with an examining table and armchairs. They reeked of antiseptic.
"Treatment rooms?"
"Ja. Sorry, yes."
They stopped at a door marked Direktor.
Vogel knocked quickly before opening the door.
The Director was seated behind a large expanse of desk framed by bookshelves filled with bound volumes and journals. It reminded Tyreen of Bitburg's sanctuary in Tel Aviv.
"Thank you, Dr. Vogel." The Director stood up as he nodded at his deputy. He turned to Chernow but waited until Vogel had left the room before speaking again. "Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Chernow." Coming from behind his desk, he shook first Chernow's hand then Tyreen's.
"Good to meet you, Herr Direktor."
"Dr. Schmeissner will do okay. Washington taught me to shake off our national trait of formality." He laughed, his face softening. He had heavy brows, a high forehead, and thinning dark hair. He walked with a limp --- it could be an old war wound. He looked close to seventy. "Please." He motioned toward armchairs grouped around a coffee table. There was a pot and cups, cream jug, and sugar bowl on a tray.
Tyreen and Chernow sat down opposite Schmeissner.
"Coffee?"
Chernow answered for both of them. "Thank you. Black, no sugar."
"Like the Arabs here. We import their coffee from Damascus or Teheran." Dr. Schmeisner began to pour.
"Does it help, giving them their own coffee, to know why they do it?" asked Tyreen.
Dr. Scmeissner gave a sidelong glance, evaluating the question. "Everything helps. The policy here is to avoid anything that smacks of institutionalism. We take a lot of care with the food, the sports facilities. Everything is designed to help us get inside the minds of these people." He handed Tyreen a cup. "We're looking, for instance, at the differences and similarities in their psychopathology. What do they mean when they speak of 'revolutionary heroism?' Our sociologists try to discover the level of genetic disposition which drove them into terrorism in the first place." He handed Chernow a cup and began to pour for himself. "Did you know that over ninety percent of our prisoners come from broken homes? As a psychiatrist, I find that interesting."
Chernow took a sip and put down his cup. "Not all kids from broken homes end up throwing hand grenades. And certainly not Raza's people, who have a strong sense of belonging to his group. He's managed to endow terror as the justification to create his idea of a new and ideal society. One in which a place like this would never exist."
There was sudden silence in the room.
When Dr. Schmeissner finally spoke, there was no protest in his voice. "I suppose it all depends on one's perspective. Where you sit, killing terrorists is the priority. Where I sit, understanding them comes above all else."
Chernow looked at the Director. When he spoke, his voice was almost gentle. "Doctor, I respect your position. Maybe one day I'll understand its full importance. But right now I'm not sure." He emptied his cup and picked up the file, handing it to Tyreen. "I'd like to see her now. You have the tape player I asked for?"
"Of course." Dr. Schmeissner stood up, limped over to his desk, picked up a pocket-sized cassette player, and handed it to Chernow. He slipped it into his pocket, where he carried copies of the tapes made by the two women working for Raza.
Dr. Schmeissner led them out of the office, back down the corridor, and across an enclosed bridge. As they walked, he continued to lecture, the broad face suffused with certainty. "We see ourselves as alchemists of sorts. We're looking for the soul of these people. That helps us to understand the complex psychological forces which drive them."
A guard opened a steel door at the end of the bridge. They entered the prison.
Chernow turned to Dr. Schmeissner. "I've read everything in her file. But is there anything more I need to know?"
The Director smiled. "Only that the change in her is genuine. A most remarkable thing is the way she's managed to adopt what our behaviorists call 'a group ego.' The very defense which made her so formidable as a terrorist has successfully transferred into her new life. She's among the most popular of all the inmates."
They turned into a shorter corridor. Halfway along, a guard stood outside a door. There was a spyhole set into the steel. Dr. Schmeissner pressed his eye to the peephole. Then he stepped aside and motioned for Chernow to look.
Chernow studied her for about a minute before stepping aside and letting Tyreen look.
Standing at the window, the prisoner had her back to Tyreen. She was taller than Tyreen had expected, and wore a red cardigan over her blue smock. Her jet-black hair shone in the sunlight streaming through the window. Several leather armchairs stood against the walls. There was a table with a vase filled with real flowers.
Tyreen stepped aside as Chernow again took position. He studied the prisoner for several minutes before turning to Tyreen and Dr. Schmeisnner. "I'll go in alone."
The Director nodded. "Of course. I'll be in my office." He turned to Tyreen. "You're welcome to join me, Fräulein."
"Thank you, but no." Tyreen shook her head, leaned her back against the wall, and crossed her arms across her chest. "I'll wait right here."
Dr. Schmeissner limped away as the guard opened the door.
Taking the file from Tyreen, Chernow walked into the room. "Hello, Shema."
Nadine's sister turned and looked at him.
In the bunker's broadcast studio, Raza continued to sit in front of the Voice Throw console.
It was still early morning in the Libyan desert and the air in the bunker was cool. But that was not the reason Nadine shivered slightly. It was because of the look on Raza's face. He had never seemed more terrifying.
He watched his hand begin once more to move toward the console's keyboard and then stop. Then, after a little while, it started to move again, creeping this time toward the gadget he had taken from the Zionist pig in Athens.
During the flight to Libya and the drive from the Tripoli airport, he had handled the little box as if it were a bomb. It stood now beside the console where he'd placed it an hour ago.
He had been exultant then, reading aloud to her the faxed messages from Faruk Kadumi and Rachid Harmoos confirming the Anthrax-B-C had arrived safely. Nothing, Raza had proclaimed, could now stop him. Nadine could not remember when he had been in such good humor. He had invited her to come to the studio and watch him open the gadget and learn its secrets so that he could use them against the Zionists.
Coming into the studio, a light had been blinking on the console. Cursing, he had run forward amd feverishly begun to dial the transponder in Afghanistan. A terrible high-pitched noise began. When he realized what had happened, his scream had been more than one of fury, it was like an animal in terrible pain.
When she had moved to comfort him, he had pushed her aside.
Twice more, Raza had dialed the number. Each time, the studio was filled with a piercing continuous shrill.
Now, an hour later, his words still echoed in her ears. "The transponder has been disconnected. Only the Russians, the Americans, and the Zionists know how to do this."
Fighting to control the shake in hs hand, he had switched on the gadget. The message for Gabriel to call ha-Zoafim had been replaced by one so completely unexpected that Raza had backed away from the gadget as if it was the living embodiment of evil.
Nadine had run forward and turned it off.
Since then, Raza had not spoken. He sat like a statue carved from the desert rock. Nadine saw his hands. They were once more edging toward the gadget. His lips were moving, but no words came.
"Don't!" she cried out. "It's a trick! It will tell the Zionists where you are!"
He turned and stared at her. "I must know," he whispered. His hand reached the gadget. It was cold to the touch. His fingers began to move toward the switch.
"Please, don't," she implored.
He pressed the switch. The studio was filled with the same booming voice as before.
"Khalil Raza! We will find you wherever you are. And you will be destroyed."
Jacob Chernow continued to hold Shema's gaze.
She sat upright in her armchair opposite him, her eyes level with his. The sunlight streaming through the window made her hair glisten like freshly-cut coal as it fell to her shoulders in one sleek drop. Her face was petite and not classically beautiful, for her mouth was too big and her eyes a little too far apart. Their color reminded him of ripening figs, dark brown and flecked with gold.
For an hour, he had taken her through her life: what she'd told her German interrogators, the trial judge and all those who had questioned her since. He knew from his reading that she had answered him truthfully. Once in while, however, he had sensed a nuance in her voice, a curiosity perhaps of who he was and why he was here.
Both times he had mentioned Nadine, Shema had looked at him quickly before giving her sister's date and place of birth and a physical description. He decided the time had come to once more deal with Nadine. From his pocket, he produced the photo Tyreen had assembled in Athens. "Is this your sister?" he asked, showing it to Shema.
"Yes. Where did you get it?"
"In Athens, yesterday. Do you recognize the other woman?"
"No."
He put the photo back in his pocket.
They looked at each other silently for a long moment. When Chernow resumed, his voice was relaxed; he had reached a watershed. "Would your sister be close to Raza?"
"Close?" echoed Shema. "What do you mean? He keeps everyone close to him. That's how he controls them."
Chernow acknowledged this truth with a nod of his head. "Do you think Nadine could even be like you, and see the truth for herself?" he asked in a lower, and more gentle voice.
"When you're with him, that's very hard," she replied with a wise and hopeless smile. "He's very convincing." She folded her arms as if she needed to hug herself because she was suddenly cold.
" 'Convincing,' " he repeated, a if it was a serious admission. " 'Convincing.' If he was that convincing, why did you change your mind?"
"You know why."
His eyes left her face. "Tell me, Shema. Just tell me in your own words."
His eyes were so fixedly upon her that she clasped herself even tighter. "He is a liar," she finally began. "He talks of Palestine with passion. But he has no interest in reclaiming it. He only uses it as an excuse to wage war. He speaks of everything with passion. But the only passion he really has is for himself."
He watched her face register the memory, and as it did so, to cloud with anger. He bored in. "He still wants to kill all those dirty little Jews who live in Palestine now."
"Don't speak about Jews like that!" snapped Shema. "We Arab are not anti-Semitic. Only against what the Zionists do!"
Chernow nodded, but she didn't speak.
"Did you sleep with Raza?" he abruptly demanded.
She looked at him steadily. "He took whom he wanted."
He pressed a little harder. "Including Nadine?"
She looked fiercely past him, to some hated spot on her private horizon. "Not when I was there. I kept her away from him."
Chernow thought about this for a long moment, not only studying her face, but also her body as a guide. He had willed her, cajoled her, lulled her, startled her, and finally angered her to reach this stage. Everything she had said was the complete truth. It was there in the pain in her eyes and the tension in her body. He glanced down at the file open on his knees, made a pretense of reading, and then abruptly looked up. "Do you know why I am here?"
She shook her head.
Swiftly, but leaving out nothing, he told her about the hotel bombings, Trekfontein, and the threat Raza had made to unleash the remainder of his Anthrax-B-C.
When he had finished, she stared at him, dazed. " Who are you?" she asked finally.
"I am a Jew. An Israeli," he said flatly. "People call me Chernow. Or Jacob."
She looked at him, staring knowingly. "You are... Mossad?"
"Yes." He sensed the struggle in her.
"I am still an Arab. Aren't we all terrorists for you?"
"No." He waited, but she didn't speak. Yet there was a tacit acceptance in her silence. He leaned forward in his armchair, his eyes still never leaving hers. He spoke in the softest of voices. "We both want the same, for sure. The right of our peoples to live together in peace. The way it was, Shema."
She sighed deeply. "I cannot remember how it was."
"Let me show you how it has become." His voice had assumed a detached tone from which all emotion had been rigorously expunged.
He almost felt her tighten like a cord, saw her unfold her hands and clasp them around her knees. She looked at him with almost childlike curiosity.
He produced from his pocket the cassette player and the two tapes. He inserted one into the machine and pressed the play button.
A woman's voice began to repeat Raza's demands. When the tape ended, he removed it. Shema's face was taut and strained.
"Do you know this woman?" Chernow's voice was deliberately dull.
Shema nodded. "Her name is Lila. That is the only name I know her by. Raza never allows his women to use their family names."
Chernow looked unsurprised. "What can you tell me about her?"
"She will always be totally committed to him. She has been with him from the very beginning. She was born to hate."
"What does Lila look like?"
Shema described her. Then Chernow inserted the second tape into the player and pressed the button.
Shema put her hand to her mouth and tears filled her eyes. "Nadine," she said in a strangled whisper. "Nadine..."
Chernow allowed the taped message demanding France release the Feydeheen to come to an end.
"Oh, Nadine," said Shema again, and hugged her knees.
"Listen to me, very carefully," said Chernow, leaning forward. He stared into her face. "Listen to me. That tape was also discovered in Athens yesterday. Raza was there. Your sister was with him, for sure."
"You will kill her?"
"I know of no reason to kill your sister."
"She is not like Lila. Lila is a hard woman. She has killed many people."
"Murdered," corrected Chernow quietly.
"Yes, yes, murdered. She often worked with Al-Najaf. You know him?"
"I know him. But he will kill no more."
She looked at him quickly. "What do you want of me?"
He closed the file. "Shema, I am here because I need your help. Raza has once more disappeared. We are looking everywhere. But there is no trace. I must stop him from carrying out his threat. I have now less than three full days to do so."
She spoke at once. "If my sister is with him, she could be killed as well?"
"There is always that risk, but there is a way to reduce it."
"How?"
"By having you there with me."
Shema gasped as if she had been struck. "You are crazy! They will never let me go from here." Her voice became hard. "You are trying to trick me into helping you." She stood up. "I wish to return to my cell."
"Sit down," he said firmly. "Sit down and listen to me. I don't have the time to argue." He opened the file. "Here, read," he commanded. "You will be released to my care if you agree to help. These are your release papers." He thrust the file at her. "Read!"
Shema took the file. Her hands began to tremble as she turned the pages. She sat down, hardly believing. "How?" she whispered. "How could you arrange this?"
"Because Raza must be stopped. And I need you to help me do that."
She handed back the file. "But Nadine, what will happen to her?"
"Nothing. Afterward, she will be free to go with you."
She nodded at the file. "It does not say so there."
"No. But you have my word."
Shema began to pace. "You are asking me to betray those who were once my comrades. Some of them are with Raza only because they still believe his is the only way to achieve justice..."
"Shema, we have very little time," Chernow broke in.
She stopped and looked at him. "They could all be killed. You must give me time to think."
Chernow spoke very slowly. "How much time do you need, Shema?" He stood up, holding the file in one hand. "A couple of hours --- I can't give you more."
She studied his face. "Very well."
He looked at his watch. "Two hours," he repeated. Leaving the room, he found Tyreen waiting in the corridor with a mobile phone in her hand. Dr. Schmeissner and the guard were a discreet distance down the corridor.
"... a second," Tyreen was saying into the phone. "Here he is." She thrust the phone at him and stood up, moving close enough to hear.
The ACC was on the line. "Jacob, we've got three confirmed cases. A couple of schoolgirls and their mother. They're all in the National Infectious, and they're all in a bad way."
"Have you discovered a source?"
"The father brought back three of those bottles from Athens. Customs took two..."
"Why not all three?" snapped Chernow.
"The Customs officer was one of those silly buggers who've become bolshie over the whole thing. He's..."
"What happened to the two bottles?"
"That's the other reason for calling. We've picked up the bloke we're almost certain stole them. A Lebanese named Arish. His flat is like an Aladdin's cave of stuff nicked from the airport. But we've got nothing on file about him. I've already faxed Finel his bare details in the hope his computers show something. My bet is Arish was chosen because he's clean. We've started contact tracing and squeezing him hard."
"Good. How'd the father get those bottles?"
The ACC told him.
"Get on to Zak Constantine in Athens, Harry, and have him pull the airport apart. Tell him you want the name of every passenger who flew out of Athens at about the same time as the girls' father. I take it he's in the clear?"
"Salt-of-the-earth type. He's done everything he can to help us. We've got good descriptions of the salesgirls."
Chernow described Nadine.
"That's one of them," confirmed the ACC. "How'd you know?"
Chernow told him Shema had identified her sister in the photo. Then he continued, "Arish will have had a contact man. Could be somebody in one of the Arab embassies. He may be an Arab businessman, or just someone whom Raza has an armlock on. When you've squeezed all you can out of Arish, let him go. With a bit of luck, he'll take us where we want to go."
The ACC hesitated. "Supposing he bolts?"
"Have Wolfie and Michelle waiting outside when you're ready. They'll know what to do. And tell Percy West I don't expect to hear any more objections from him," he added, ending the call.
He and Tyreen made no effort to encourage Dr. Schmeissner's attempts at conversation as they walked back to the Director's office to await Shema's decision.
Matti Talim came out of the safe room with a photograph of Muktar Sayeed. It had been enlarged by one of Danny Nagier's technicians in the portable darkroom he'd set up in Talim's bathroom. The man had worked from an original provided by the New York City bureau of the Department of Immigration. Its file contained the routine paperwork granting Muktar a work permit to drive for the Day-Nite Cab Company. It was the only official paperwork in the United States on him.
A copy of the file had been transmitted to Tel Aviv. Lester Finel had identified Muktar as a bomb thrower of long standing in southern Lebanon. He had dropped out of sight two years ago.
The knowledge of who he was had triggered intensive inquiries. The FBI was contact-tracing Muktar. Agents had visited his Queens apartment; nothing suspicious had been found. The freeway accident was being reviewed. The CIA had started the painstaking process of backtracking Muktar's movements from the time he arrived in the United States. The New York Police Department had deployed several teams of its best detectives to probe the city's Arab neighborhoods about him.
From Washington, Gates had asked for every scrap of information that would help him go back to the Federal judges and persuade them to grant a surveillance order on Harmoos. In the meantime, Nagier's specialists had the watch.
When Talim had told them how Muktar could be linked to the investigation, the news had brought quick knowing smiles to the faces of the sixteen men and women in the apartment. Their long journey from Tel Aviv would not have been in vain. In their quiet determined way over, they had continued their business of casting an electronic net over everything Rachid Harmoos possessed in the United States.
This included his holdings on the West Coast --- two companies in Silicon Valley making various kinds of microchips and a lens-grinding firm in Los Angeles --- his oil refinery in Houston, a meat-packaging plant in Chicago, and a paint manufacturer in Detroit. Surveillance teams were now parked outside each factory and office block.
For hours now, the apartment had begun to fill with the murmured language of inputs and outputs, bytes and optimum cycles, of speech strength and voice enhancers.
In the center of the living room, a technician on a headset with one earpiece and a throat pad microphone tested a circuit to a Swift Renovations van positioned near Harmoos Holdings, the world headquarters of the millionaire's operations, on Eightieth Street. Similarly equipped technicians were talking to teams outside Harmoos Trucking at Trenton, New Jersey; at Harmoos Foods in the Bronx; at Harmoos Air Charter at La Guardia; at the Harmoos Brokerage on Wall Street; and at the Bank of Arab States on Fifth Avenue, in which Harmoos was the principal shareholder.
Two teams had been positioned near Sweetmont to begin in-depth surveillance on the Harmoos estate. The Swift's crew chief had called Talim an hour earlier and said it was turning out harder than he had foreseen to find a suitable base in the area.
Continuous satellite telephone links had been opened with the Concorde on the ground at Frankfurt, with Danny Nagier in Tel Aviv, and with the safe house in London.
In booths along the wall, technicians were beginning to spin the first intercepts back and forth. Promising snatches of conversation were being isolated and fed to their computer. It was programmed to select and determine what should be transmitted to Lester Finel's computers.
The fax machines continually received updates from the CIA, FBI, Scotland Yard, and Interpol. Most of the traffic was divided between the hunt for the hotel bombers and the bottles of Grecian Nights. There had been no signs of either.
From Athens, Zak Constantine had reported that his forensic scientists had established that the glass was of a type commonly produced in Hong Kong. There, police had started checking every one of the colony's glassmakers. Similar inquiries were underway around the Pacific Basin. There were over twenty thousand manufacturers to check.
Despite all their efforts, Constantine's men had failed to discover any trace of Raza.
An hour ago, Miriam Cantwell had telephoned Talim from City Center. Nancy Carson's skin had begun to darken and the blisterlike ulcers were spreading on her body. Miriam had sounded not only desperately tired but deeply apprehensive as she'd admitted she'd been wrong over Nancy's diagnosis Miriam had started treating Nancy with the hospital's minute supply of PEG-enzyme. That would soon be gone and she was hunting for more.
Manufacturers of the drug had started a crash program, but it would still be several days before the first supplies were available.
Talim had suggested she call the Pentagon. After the Gulf, they'd probably have a stockpile somewhere. He'd also asked again if he could speak to Nancy, and Miriam had said she'd call him back in an hour. By then, Nancy should be responding to the drug.
Talim had also phoned the Concorde, leaving a message with the CCO to inform Chernow about Nancy now being a confirmed case of Anthrax-B-C.
The diagnosis of her condition had triggered a new hunt. Police and FBI teams tracked down every passenger on Nancy's flight. Her widowed traveling companion remembered Nancy opening one of her perfume bottles. Shown a photocopy of the label, she'd immediately recognized it.
More detectives and agents had followed up travelers at JFK who'd seen Nancy attacked. There, the trail had gone cold. No one could describe her attacker. Talim had gone on applying the art of informed conjecture.
Had it been no more than coincidence that her bag had been snatched or was the theft deliberate? And how had the thief made good his escape? He could have lain low in one of the other terminals until the hunt was abandoned, but that seemed unlikely; snatchers liked to put as much distance as they could between their crime and pursuit. He might have had an accomplice waiting to drive him away. But the airport had responded quickly to search outgoing vehicles; Talim had checked. Only cabs had not been stopped. Suppose the thief had gotten into a cab? Or suppose the thief was a cab driver? Muktar? The Connecticut Expressway was not far from JFK. But Muktar had been coming from the opposite direction when he was killed...
Talim was still speculating when Miriam phoned back to tell him to come over to the hospital. Slipping Muktar's print into his wallet, he told the chief technician where he could be reached.
Twenty minutes later, a cab dropped him off at the Emergency Room entrance to City Center. Inside, the early morning rush was winding down; staff were preparing for a new day. He could see Miriam in her office in the center of the treatment area. The glass-walled booth gave her a commanding view. She was hunched over a phone, listening and running her hand through her hair. He'd only seen her do that when she was really angry.
As Talim reached the door, Miriam stood up and began to wander around the booth, holding the receiver with one hand, continuing to ruffle her hair with the other. "No!" she suddenly exploded. "You listen to me, General! Our labs have confirmed the diagnosis! To hell with whether she's a civilian! Or your damned procedures. I just want more of this drug!"
Talim watched Miriam pause, then once more boil over.
"That's your final word, General?" she fumed. She listened for a moment longer, then hung up.
She turned to Talim, her eyes smoldering. "Damn him and his procedures," she said, dropping into her chair. "The army's got a supply of PEG-enzyme stashed away in Maryland. But this knee-jerk general says the stuff can't be released to any old civilian doctor, treating any old civilian..."
"Whom were you talking to?"
She glanced at a pad on her desk. "General Oliver Tuttle, Director Medical Supplies at the Pentagon. He's the top honcho..."
"Give me his number," said Talim, reaching for the phone.
She hesitated for a moment, then called out the number for him to dial.
The voice that answered sounded like a foghorn. "General Tuttle, Director..."
"I know who you are, General. My name is Matti Talim," said Talim.
There was a moment's hesitation. Then the horn was back. "Who? Give me your rank and unit..."
"I'm a civilian, General. But I outrank you right now."
"What?"
There was a sudden steel to Talim's voice that Miriam had never heard before. "You're on the distribution list for the procedural memo outlining the chain of field command in the present crisis. You will know I'm in command of the US end for Colonel Chenow."
"Wait!"
Talim heard the phone being put down, then the rustle of papers.
The horn was back. "I have you. So why are you calling me?"
"A few minutes ago, you received a call from the Emergency Room Deputy Director at City Center asking for some of your PEG..."
"I told her what I'll tell you. We've got procedures."
"This is a crisis, general."
"In a crisis, it's more important than ever to follow procedure!"
Talim preserved a moment of silence. When he spoke next, his voice was almost sad. "General, you ever hear of Operation Kick-Ass?"
The horn blared. "No. It sounds like something only a goddamned civilian would invent."
"I just did. And you're just about to become the first to get his butt kicked out of his comfy little seat and sent to a place you never knew existed unless you get that PEG-enzyme down here!"
"Listen, you goddamned civilian! You're talking to a four-star general. In war, I could have you taken out and..."
"We are at war, Tuttle," said Talim with savage quietness. "And you have just ten seconds to tell me you're sending that stuff, or I put down this phone. The next call you get will be your marching orders."
"Talim! Damn you!" roared the horn.
Talim glanced at his watch. "Eight seconds, General."
Miriam stared at him wordlessly.
There was a strangled noise in hi ear. "The stuff will be there by noon..."
"Not good enough, General. Have it here by midmorning."
"Goddamn..."
"Five seconds, General."
"Midmorning," conceded the horn.
"Thank you, General," acknowledged Talim, putting down the phone.
Miriam continued to stare at him wordlessly. "Jesus," she finally said. "Jesus Holy Christ." For the first time since he'd come into her office, she smiled.
"How is Nancy?" asked Talim.
Miriam reached for the phone and dialed an internal number. She asked for a status report, listened, put down the phone, and stood up. "She's conscious again. Let's go."
As they made their way to the highly restricted Medical Intensive Care Unit, Miriam explained, "Once Nancy was rediagnosed, we cleared everyone out of the MICU. Luckily, we've got another two on the surgical floor, so we can manage. We're also running maximum contagion procedures."
"I want to show her a photo," said Talim, fishing out Muktar's print. "If she recognizes this as the guy who mugged her, we can cut a lot of corners."
She glanced at the print as she pushed open the double-swing doors leading to the MICU. "We'll have to wrap it in sterilized plastic."
They passed through a second set of doors into the MICU's changing area. She handed him a sealed plastic bucket and broke open a second one for herself. She wrapped the photo in the plastic, and quickly put on the surgical gown, cap, mask, and overshoes, then helped him don his. She took down two face masks from a shelf.
When she had checked that his was secured, she led him into the MICU proper. He carried the print in his hand.
Halfway along the corridor was a red-paneled surgical trolley. Its lower shelf was filled with equipment. "Our crash cart. It contains everything we'll ever need to deal with cardiac arrest," she explained as they passed. Ahead was a horseshoe-shaped desk in the center of the treatment area. It had a clear view of all the cubicles. A monitoring system built into the desk enabled the two nurses on duty to see immediately the vital functions of any patient in the MICU.
Nancy occupied a cubicle to the left.
"After you've shown her the photo, keep your questions to the absolute minimum," murmured Miriam as they moved toward it.
"Understood."
Reaching the opening to the cubicle, they paused for a moment.
From one of the wall outlets extended a rubber pipe ending in plastic prongs taped to Nancy's nose, providing a controlled flow of oxygen. Electrodes ran from her chest to a heartbeat monitor on a stand beside the bed. The trace was weak but steady. Towering over the bed was a drip stand. A clear liquid trickled from a suspended plastic bag down a tube into a vein in Nancy's right arm.
"The last of the PEG-enzyme. Given like this, it's supposed to have a better chance," explained Miriam, walking to the bed. "You're hanging in there, Nancy," she told her patient.
Nancy's ribcage rose and fell under the surgical gown. A cough racked her.
Talim stood at the foot of the bed. The physical change in Nancy was frightening. Her skin was the color of charcoal, covered with weeping blisters. One had spread across her left eye, another grew out of a corner of her mouth. There was a necklace of blister on her neck. Others were visible on her arms.
Miriam nodded for Talim to come forward. When he was standing beside her, she turned to Nancy. "Nancy, Matti wants to show you a photo, okay?"
There was an almost imperceptible movement from Nancy's lips.
Talim held the print in front of Nancy's face. "Do you recognize this man, Nancy?"
She stared at the photo.
"Is he the man who robbed you?" Talim asked. "Just nod if he was, Nancy."
Another cough racked her body.
Suddenly, as Nancy was about to speak, Miriam pulled Talim back. "Code One!" she yelled. "Get out of the way, Matti!"
He saw the trace on the heart monitor was skipping beats and faltering. Code One was cardiac arrest.
Even as he stepped out of the cubicle, one of the nurses ran in to help Miriam. Moments later, the other one arrived with the crash cart.
The first nurse pressed a red button in the wall above the bed. It triggered a prepared tape to override all other announcements on the hospital's internal broadcast system. The announcement called for all available doctors to attend the medical emergency and gave its location.
Miriam had already disconnected Nancy from the monitoring equipment and was at the crash cart with the nurse. They were working swiftly and calmly. The other nurse had produced a stopwatch and had started to count aloud.
"Thirty seconds," she called out, giving the elapsed time since the emergency had been declared. There were perhaps four minutes left, no more than six, in which Nancy could be resuscitated without permanent brain damage.
A second doctor had arrived and was inserting an airway deep down in Nancy's throat. The nurse with the stopwatch fitted a baglike mask over Nancy's mouth and began to squeeze, forcing oxygen into Nancy.
"Forty-five seconds," she reported.
Miriam scissored open Nancy's gown. The second doctor was at the crash cart, coating with contact paste the two paddle-shaped electrodes attached to the defibrillator. Then Miriam placed them on Nancy's chest, one just to the left of her right nipple, the other slightly above her left.
"Clear!" ordered Miriam, glancing to check the defibrillator was at maximum voltage.
As everyone around the bed stepped back, Miriam pressed down on both electrodes, touching a button on each. A measured shock passed through Nancy's heart. Miriam lifted the paddles clear. The defibrillator would require nine seconds to recharge itself.
Nancy' muscles went into spasm, her spine arched, and her legs stiffened as the shock coursed through her body.
"One minute," the nurse called out.
"Let's go again!" called Miriam. She gave Nancy a second electrical shock, waited another nine seconds, then delivered a third.
Nancy spasmed, then sank back, limp and lifeless. A fourth shock. No change.
"Again!" ordered Miriam.
No change.
"Again!"
Still no change.
Two more shocks. Then Miriam turned to the others. "We've lost her." She gently pressed closed Nancy's eyes.
The other doctors followed her out of the cubicle. They looked curiously at Talim.
Miriam picked up a phone on the desk and called the hospital pathologist. Then she walked over to Talim. "We'll run an autopsy at once," she said. "It'll give us a better idea how this thing breaks down the body's defenses."
In the cubicle, the nurse finished reloading the crash cart. They wheeled it away, then returned to the cubicle with a sheet, which they draped over Nancy. They wheeled the bed out of the cubicle to a side room near the changing area.
Miriam and Talim stripped off their protective clothing in silence and left the MICU.
Nancy was always going to be a tough call," he said as they walked toward the door of the Emergency Room.
She shook her head. "I should have started her earlier on the PEG-enzyme."
He took her by the shoulders. "You're too hard on yourself."
She looked at him. He held her close to him and buried his face in her hair.
"I really love you," she murmured.
"Love you too."
She pulled away. "I'd better get that autopsy moving."
"Talk to you later."
"Call me at home." She walked down a corridor. She raised a hand but didn't look back. He watched her go, then he too left the Emergency Room. He decided to pick up his car and ride out to JFK to pick up Lou Panchez, who was due from Washington. Afterward, he would show Muktar's photo around the airport. He knew that realistically he'd have as much hope of turning up someone who'd recognize the face as Nancy had had of living.