The Judas Strain (Page 105)

Lisa quickly related all that had happened, speaking tersely, as if reporting a terminal diagnosis to a patient, sticking to the facts. Still, Painter recognized a tremble behind her voice. He wanted to reach through the phone and hold her, to squeeze her fear away, to clutch her to him.

Still, as she related an account of disease, madness, and cannibalism, he sank into his seat. His back bowed. He asked questions, filled in some blanks. She gave coordinates to an island. Pusat. He slid the notes to his aide, to fax to his superior, Sean McKnight. A team of Aussie commandos from the Counterterrorism and Special Recovery Team were already awaiting a target, stationed in Darwin, ready to coordinate a rescue operation. Before Painter finished this conversation, jets would be in the air.

But the danger was larger than a single hijacked cruise ship.

"The Judas Strain?" Lisa asked. "Has the disease spread?"

Painter only had bad news there. Early word had cases already being reported in Perth, in London, in Bombay. More would surely come in.

"We need that woman," Painter finished. "Jennings in research believes such a survivor is the key to a cure."

Lisa agreed. "She is the key, but she’s not the cure . . . not yet."

"What do you mean?"

Painter heard her sigh from halfway around the world.

"We’re missing something. Something tied to a region in Cambodia."

Painter straightened again. "Are you talking about Angkor?"

A long pause followed. "Yes." He heard the surprise in her voice. "How did you—?

Painter told her all about the Guild’s search along the historical trail and where it ended.

"And Gray is already there?" Lisa asked, sounding suddenly frantic. He heard her mumble, as if quoting someone. "They must not go there." Her voice grew firmer. "Painter, is there anyway to call Gray off?"

"Why?"

"I don’t know." Her voice had begun to cut in and out. Her phone was losing power. "The bacteria are doing something to Susan’s brain. Energizing it in some manner, using sunlight. She has this strong urge to get to Angkor."

Painter recognized what she was implying. "Like the crabs."

"What?"

Painter related what he knew about the Christmas Island crabs.

Lisa understood immediately. "Susan must have been rewired in the same way. A chemically induced migratory impulse."

"If that’s so, then maybe she’s mistaken about the necessity to go there. It might just be a blind drive. There’s no reason to risk going there yourselves. Not until things quiet down. Let Gray play out his game."

Lisa was not convinced. "I think you’re right about an underlying biological drive. And in a lower life-form, like a crab, it might be nothing more than blind instinct. Crabs, like all arthropods, have only rudimentary—"

She stopped talking. Painter feared he’d lost the connection. But sometimes Lisa did that when she had a sudden insight. She would just switch off, using her full faculties to pursue some angle of thought.

"Lisa?"

It took another moment for her to respond.

"Susan could be right," she mumbled—then louder, firmer: "I have to get her there."

Painter spoke rapidly, knowing that they were about to lose the connection. He heard the resolve in Lisa’s voice and feared he would not have time to dissuade her. If she was going to Angkor, he wanted her somewhere out of harm’s way.

"Then land at the large lake near the ruins," he said. "Tonle Sap Lake. There’s a floating village there. Find a phone, contact me again, but stay hidden there. I have a campaign being organized in the area."

He barely made out her next words, something about doing her best.

Painter attempted one last exchange. "Lisa, what did you figure out?"

Her words cut in and out. "Not sure . . . liver flukes. . . virus must—"

Then the call fully died away. Painter called out a few more times, but he failed to raise her again.

A knock at his door drew his eyes up.

Kat rushed in, eyes sparkling, cheeks bright. "I heard! About Dr. Cummings! Is it true?"

Painter stared up at Kat. He read the question in Kat’s expression, in her whole body, a yearning to know. Lisa had told him. First thing. She had spoken in a rush, needing to unburden herself. Afterward, Painter had compartmentalized it away.

But confronted by Kat, by her hope, by her love, the truth struck him hard.

He stood and stepped around the table.

Kat saw it in his face.

She backed away from him, as if she could escape what was coming.

"Oh, no . . ." She grabbed a chair arm, but it failed to hold her. She went down to a knee, then collapsed to the other, covering her face with her hands. "No . . ."

Painter joined her on the floor.

He had no words to offer her, only his arms.

It wasn’t enough.

He pulled her against him, wondering how many more would die before this was over.

8:55 P.M.

They were running out of places to retreat.

Harriet waited for her husband at the foot of the stairs that led up to the top floor. She stood in the stairwell doorway. Jack had gone out to leave more false trails for the hunting dogs. She had already stripped her husband’s shirt and helped him hide pieces of it across the lower two floors: tossed into boarded-up offices, shoved into piles of refuse, hung from the metal drawer in a maze of secretarial cubicles. They did their best to confound the pursuers.

Jack had been hunting all his life. Duck, pheasant, quail, deer. He’d had his share of retrievers before the oil-rig accident required amputating his leg below the knee. He knew dogs.

And he still had three rounds left in the pistol he had stolen from the guard. Harriet sought any measure of hope. But she heard the dogs barking below. Annishen had been systematically clearing each level. She knew they were up here, periodically calling out to them, taunting them.

All the exits were well guarded. Even the fire escapes. No neighboring buildings were close enough to reach. And the entire district looked long abandoned. Not a light shone, except far off in the distance. There was no one to hear a call for help. They’d tried a few dusty wall phones, but they were all dead.

Like the desperate fleeing a high-rise fire, they had nowhere to go but up. And only one last floor remained. That and the roof.

Harriet heard a scuffle, and her husband appeared out of the gloom, dressed only in his boxers, carrying the pistol. He limped up to her.

"What are you still doing here?" he whispered in a hard voice. His face shone with sweat. She recognized his angry tone only masked his fear for her. "I told you to get up there."