The Judas Strain (Page 34)

He counted the staterooms. He heard someone crying behind one door, but he hurried until he reached their assigned cabins.

He tugged on his own door. Locked. He had left his room’s electronic key card back with his bags in the beached Zodiac. He moved to the next door, Lisa’s cabin. The knob refused to budge—but he heard someone stir behind the door.

It had to be Lisa.

Thank God. . .

He tapped a plastic knuckle lightly on the door and leaned his lips close. Lisa … it’s me.

The peephole in the door darkened as someone shifted to peek through. Monk stepped back and lowered his head scarf, revealing himself. After a breath, the chain scraped on the other side, and the dead bolt released with a click.

Monk pulled up his mask and checked up and down the hall. "Hurry it up," he whistled out.

The door swung open, pulled inward.

Turning back to the door, he stepped forward. "Lisa, we have to—"

Monk immediately recognized his mistake and swung up his gun.

It was not Lisa.

Silhouetted against the brighter sunlight in the cabin, a young man crouched, half hidden by the door. "Don’t. .. please don’t shoot."

Monk held his rifle rock-steady while he scanned the cabin. Someone had ransacked the room: drawers opened and dumped, closets emptied. But his attention quickly fixed on the room’s one other occupant: a dead body, facedown on the bed. It was one of the pirates. From the pool of blood soaked into the bedding, his throat had been slashed.

Eyes widening, Monk turned his attention back to the trespasser.

"Who are you?"

The young man waved an arm to encompass the room. "I came here to find Dr. Cummings. I didn’t know where else to look."

Monk finally recognized the young nurse who had been helping Lisa. He could not recall the man’s name.

"Jesspal, sir .. . Jessie," the young man mumbled, reading his confusion.

Lowering his gun, Monk nodded and pushed inside. "Where’s Lisa?"

"I don’t know. 1 was up in triage," he explained, trembling all over, close to shock. "Then the explosions. . . four of the crew opened fire in the hospital ward. I ran. Dr. Cummings had gone to speak with the toxicologist. I prayed to Vishnu that she had fled back to her cabin."

The young man glanced to the fouled bed, then just as quickly away. "Dr. Cummings had left her bag up in triage. I grabbed it. Found her key. But the man here had already been waiting inside. He got angry when I wasn’t her. Made me kneel on the floor. He had a radio."

Jessie pointed to the portable radio on the floor.

"And what happened to his throat?" Monk asked.

"I couldn’t let him report in. And Dr. Cummings had left more than her key card in her bag." From his waistband, Jessie pulled free a scalpel. "I… I had to . .."

Monk squeezed his upper arm. "You did good, Jessie."

The young man sagged down atop the other bed. "I heard them over shipwide radio. Calling for some of the doctors. Including Dr. Cummings."

"Where did they want them to go?"

"The ship’s bridge."

"Did they repeat the order?"

Jessie stared for a moment, then slowly shook his head.

So Lisa must have obeyed. . .

Monk now had a destination.

He crossed to the door that linked their two rooms. It had been left ajar. A quick peek revealed his room was in no better shape. Someone had cleared his personal gear, including his satellite phone. He searched a bit more to be sure. No luck.

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.