They were advancing in a wide line. The SUV was behind, its headlights outlining the bloody fools. He needed them closer together. So when they were still some fifteen yards away, he opened fire with both guns, moving quickly from side to side to simulate shooting by more than one person.
They zeroed in on him and returned fire. He fell back, as if retreating. Encouraged, they ran toward him in a tighter semicircle, while he grabbed the canisters and shimmied toward them on his belly. As soon as they were just thirty feet away, he lifted his shoulder and hurled the first canister. The magnesium-based stun grenade exploded with a great flash and bang directly in the center of their semicircle, only a foot or two from most of them.
All went down. Some screamed and clutched their heads. Others were simply stunned and momentarily out of action. Which was all Peter needed.
He was up instantly, speeding around their left flank. The thousands of rounds fired in the SAS Close Quarters Battle House, perfecting the skill to rapidly score head hits while running at full speed, never left you. He squeezed off two fast shots, easily destroying the SUV’s headlights, and then he threw the second stun grenade. It landed in their midst. Since they still had not recovered from the first, it was not only physically but psychologically devastating. Within minutes, as they still tried to gather their wits, Peter was a hundred yards off in the distance, trotting softly but swiftly away toward the highway and Syracuse.
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As he closed in on the city, Marty slowed the RV, looking for somewhere to hide it and himself. He was beginning to think this time he had outsmarted himself. Where could you hide something as big and obvious as a recreational vehicle, especially one in which many of the windows had been destroyed and bullet holes had battered the sides? Behind him on the state highway a line of cars was piling up. Horns honked, making him nervous as he anxiously scanned all around for safety.
Finally, he pulled onto the shoulder so the backed-up cars and trucks could rush past in an angry roar. Worried, he drove back onto the highway and resumed his search. Then he saw an intriguing sight: On either side of the highway were car dealerships with brightly lighted showrooms and lots full of vehicles. There was everything from inexpensive compacts to luxury sedans and sports cars. Miles of them. It was giving him an idea. He craned to look ahead. Would he find—?
Yes! Like a miracle, a vast, lighted open area stretched off to the right. It was a new and used recreational vehicle sales lot and repair facility.
He thought of the old children’s riddle: Where do you hide an elephant?
The answer, of course, was in a herd of elephants.
Chortling with glee, Marty turned into the main gate and drove to the back until he found an empty space. He pulled in and turned off his motor. It was late, so the dealer would have to close soon. With luck, no one would find him here at night.
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10:27 P.M.
Syracuse, New York
Professor Emeritus Richard Johns lived in a restored old Victorian on South Crouse Avenue below the university’s hill. In his living room, lovingly furnished by his wife with antiques of the same period as the house, he studied the man who had knocked on his door so late and wanted to know about Sophia Russell. There was something about the stranger that frightened Johns. An intensity. A suppressed violence. He wished he had never allowed him inside.
“I’m not sure what more I can tell you, Mr.—?”
“Louden. Gregory Louden.” Peter Howell offered a smile as he reminded the professor of the false name he had given on the doorstep. Then: “Dr. Russell thought highly of you.” He was dressed in coveralls and a trench coat he had bought from a curious trucker who had given him a ride into Syracuse. From there, he had caught a taxi to the professor’s house near the university, which had so far turned out to be a waste of time. The man was nervous and had been able to remember only that Sophia had been an excellent student and had a few close friends, but he could name none.
Johns reiterated, “I was simply chair of her major department and had her in a few classes. That’s all. I heard she switched her field of study in grad school.”
“She was studying anthropology with you, wasn’t she?”
“Yes. An enthusiastic student. We were surprised that she left the major.
“Why did she?”
“I have no idea.” Johns knitted his brows. “Although I do recall that in her senior year she took the absolute minimum requirements for anthro. She studied a lot of biology instead. Too late to declare a different major by then, of course, unless she planned to stay on another year or two.”
Peter stopped pacing. “What happened in her junior year to interest her in biology?”
“I have no idea about that either.”
He remembered the Prince Leopold report had mentioned Bolivia and Peru. “What about field trips?”
The professor frowned. “A field trip?” His gaze focused on Peter as if he had suddenly remembered something. “Of course. We have a summer departmental trip for majors between their junior and senior years.
“Where did Sophia go?”
The professor’s frown deepened. He leaned back, thinking. At last, he decided, “Peru.”
Excitement made Peter’s pale blue eyes luminous. “Did she talk about it when she got back?”
Johns shook his head. “Not that I remember. But everyone who goes has to write a report.” He stood up. “I should have it here.” And just like that he casually walked out of the room.
Peter’s heart thudded against his chest excitedly. At last, he had gotten what seemed to be a break. He moved to the edge of his chair as the professor talked to himself in the next room. Drawers opened and slammed closed.
Then a triumphant “Ah-ha!”
Peter jumped to his feet, as Johns returned, thumbing through a stapled document. “When I was chairman, I kept them all. They are a useful body of work to draw from for motivating the lower-year classes.”
“Thank you.” The words were inadequate. Barely suppressing his eagerness, Peter took the undergraduate paper and sat in the closest chair. He read through it, and… there it was. He blinked, not quite believing his eyes. Then he read again, memorizing each word: “I encountered a fascinating group of natives called the Monkey Blood People. Some biologists from the States were studying them when we passed through. It seems like a fascinating field. There are so many illnesses in the tropics that it could be a life’s work to help cure them.”
No names. Nothing specific about the virus. But had she remembered Peru when she was given the unknown virus to work with?
Peter stood up. “Thank you, Professor Johns.”
“Is that what you wanted?”
“It just might be,” Peter said. “May I keep it?”
“Sorry. Part of my archives, you know.”
Peter nodded. It did not matter; he had committed it to memory. He said a quick good-bye and headed out into the dark, cold night, which for the first time seemed friendlier. He trotted uphill toward the university, where he knew he would find a pay phone.
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CHAPTER
THIRTY SEVEN
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12:06 A.M., Thursday, October 23
Wadi al-Fayi, Iraq
The Syrian Desert was cold and silent, and the stink of diesel seemed oppressive inside the canvas-covered truck. Next to the tailgate, Jon and Randi listened for more gunfire. Behind them lay the two unconscious policemen who had been guarding them, while outside some new, unknown force besieged them.
Tense and alert, Smith dropped into a crouch, cradling his confiscated AK-47. He pulled Randi down next to him. She swung her Kalashnikov around so she was ready to shoot, too. They peered outside through cracks where the canvas flap closed against the sides of the truck.
“All I can see are streaks of fire and moving silhouettes,” he said, disgusted. Sweat coated his face. Time seemed to pass with aching slowness.
“That’s what I see, too. The light from the other truck’s too glaring.”
“Damn!”
They dropped the flap. Abruptly, the noise of fighting ceased. The cold night was menacingly quiet. The only sound was the raspy breathing of the two Iraqi guards lying unconscious on the floor in the eerie glow from the headlamps of the other vehicle.
Jon looked at Randi, who turned just at that moment. He frowned. She shook her head. Her face was pinched. He saw fear in her eyes, then she moved her gaze.
His chest tightened. Only the truck’s canvas walls and their confiscated Kalashnikov rifles stood between them and whatever peril waited outside.
He told her, “We’ll open fire. We’ve got no choice.”