Chapter One

Northwest of Budapest, Hungary

Three weeks earlier, October 1

Viewed from above, the secret complex, tucked into a remote forest in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, looked somewhat like a giant V. One wing contained the research labs and the numerous prison-like cells where the human trials were conducted. The other housed a large kitchen, dining room, and dormitory where many of the employees lived. In the space between the wings was a courtyard, where workers could enjoy some sunshine when the weather cooperated. A high wire fence, surveillance cameras, and a small team of security guards prevented unwanted outsiders from intruding.

The facility, less than two years old, contained a state-of-the-art BioLab, level 4. It was here that research had been conducted on some of the most virulent and incurable biological agents known to humankind, so extraordinary precautions had to be taken. The lab was air-locked and required a palm print and retinal scan to access it, and the scientists who worked inside with the infectious materials wore Hazmat suits with individual oxygen supplies.

The complex had been built for a single purpose: to develop viruses that would kill quickly and spread rapidly. The lab manufactured several biological agents, but concentrated on one in particular; this one contained a stealth component, one that would disappear quickly after infection, so that efforts to isolate and identify it would be time-consuming and almost impossible to achieve.

It took the handpicked team of scientists at the lab four months to develop the formula. The man in charge, Doctor Andor Rozsa, named it the Charon virus, after the mythological ferryman to Hades. A chimera of the H1N1 virus and pneumonic-plague bacteria, it was highly virulent and had a near 100 percent mortality rate.

When the virus was perfected, the team moved on to phase two of the secret project: to develop an antivirus vaccine that would both prevent and cure the lethal contagion. That was more difficult and took them another eight months to perfect.

For the last half year, they’d been conducting human trials at the complex, to both ensure that Charon did its job without mutating and that its cure worked quickly, with 100 percent effectiveness.

On this night, the man behind it all was to evaluate the final results of those trials. If everything was in order, he would finally be able to launch the scheme that would make him a billionaire several times over.

Doctor Andor Rozsa was well positioned to cash in on the windfall without fear of being linked to the pandemic he was about to launch, as long as his meticulous planning went off without a hitch. Charon was his secret pet project; he had a legitimate career as well, as a top virologist with Pharmamediq, Incorporated, a major pharmaceutical company in Budapest. As such, when the time was right he could announce he’d come up with the formula for the antivirus, and no one would suspect him.

As Andor navigated the seventy-minute drive from his office at Pharmamediq to the complex, he reviewed every detail of his plan. He had spent years making it, so he wasn’t worried that he’d missed something. However, he was meticulous and took great satisfaction in recalling how he’d put it all together.

He’d had a few great challenges to overcome. First was where to obtain the numerous individuals needed for the human trials, since none of them could survive to tell about the experiments. He solved that by using orphans, runaways, and homeless adults from the streets of Budapest, lured into social-service vans by promises of food, shelter, and jobs. Also, he bribed a warden at a remote prison to release a number of prisoners to his custody: all forgotten men, lifers with no families who would not be missed.

The other major obstacle was to find the perfect individuals to take Charon out into the world and release it. Andor needed three people capable of killing without hesitation if the price was right and experienced in tracking and isolating their targets. They’d all have fake IDs that would pass close inspection, but one had to have no criminal history that might impede his ability to cross international borders. He’d be bound for the U.S., which now did facial and fingerprint identifications of travelers, often chosen at random. It took time to make the right connections, but Andor was confident he had the people he needed.

He parked beside the wing that housed the human-trial cells, and went inside. His chief aide, Patrik, who oversaw the project while he put in his hours at Pharmamediq, was waiting for him. “Everything in order?” Andor asked.

“Yes, sir,” Patrik replied. “Two more of the virus test group expired overnight, exactly as anticipated.”

“Excellent. Let’s make our final walk-through.”

The two men visited the first of the two dozen rooms that lined the hallway, starting on the left side. This was the Charon group: the men, women, and children who were infected with the virus and closely monitored until they died. Several people had been housed in each room during the six months of trials, the rooms thoroughly disinfected between occupants. The team now had extensive knowledge of what the virus did to the human body and an accurate progression timeline: they knew precisely how long it took from date of infection, to first symptoms, to death.

Only two patients remained in the Charon group. Both had only hours to live, at most. Further viral trials were unnecessary, and it was time to begin eliminating all traces that Charon had been developed here.

Each small room in the hallway looked very much like a prison cell, with a single cot, sink, and toilet. The occupants had no televisions, radios, books, or view to the outside. These were only lab animals to Andor; he viewed them with clinical detachment, as every good scientist should.

The only window in each room was a thick Plexiglas one in the door that allowed the staff to monitor the patient’s condition as he or she deteriorated. Communication was carried on through an intercom, and meals were delivered through a self-contained slot beneath the window. The precautions had been necessary when the complex was built, but weren’t now. Everyone who worked there had been inoculated with the antivirus.

Andor removed the patient’s medical file from a holder beside the first door he came to and scanned it. Group 1 patient #87 was a thirteen-year-old runaway, infected seven days earlier. He stepped in front of the window and peered inside. The girl was hunched in one corner, her eyes closed. She was pale and shaking violently. Spatters of blood and crusted vomit marred most of the room’s beige walls, the bedding on the cot, and the litter of used meal trays and water bottles scattered around the floor. Fetid brown evidence of the girl’s chronic diarrhea could be seen in a wide circle around the toilet.

Andor curled his lips in disgust, imagining the stench in the room, before moving on to the next cell.

The remaining virus patient was a thirty-eight-year-old homeless woman. She was in virtually the same wretched condition as her neighbor, though still conscious. She lay on her cot, soaked with sweat, eyes wide open and mumbling incoherently. Not all of their patients hallucinated before they died, but many did. Her room was only marginally cleaner than the girl’s.

The rest of the rooms on that side were vacant, so Andor moved to the cells that contained the subjects who’d been infected and then injected with the antivirus.

He peered through the first window at the fifty-two-year-old convict inside. When the man—a hulking brute with tattoos on his arms and neck—realized he was being watched, he stormed the door and began to bang on it, screaming obscenities. The doctor pulled the man’s chart from the wall and studied the latest entries. “Remarkable. BP, temp, CBC, Chem 7, U/A, electrolytes—all within normal range. Viral cultures negative. It’s hard to believe he was hours from death just three days ago.”

“All subjects have made the same progression,” Patrik replied.

Andor perfunctorily checked the rest of the patients on that side of the hallway to see for himself. Satisfied that all the subjects had completely recovered, he turned to his aide. “We’ve no further use for them beyond extracting whatever organs we have orders for. I’ll take care of that before I leave. Prep the patients we need and destroy the rest.”

Patrik nodded. “So you concur we can proceed as scheduled?”

“Yes. Give the go-ahead.”

The three emissaries who would unleash Charon had all been injected with the antivirus vaccine two weeks earlier, to ensure they would return for payment without infecting anyone beyond their targets. Of course, Andor didn’t intend to give them anything beyond their travel costs. When their missions were completed, they had to be eliminated, because once the pandemic started spreading, they would realize they hadn’t been after a single target, or two, as they’d been told; they were part of the world’s greatest biological nightmare.

He’d done everything he could to ensure the three would never be able to link him to the pandemic, should they be caught or decide to try to use their knowledge as leverage to demand more money. He never dealt with them directly. And even the intermediary who did, didn’t know who he was. This employee received his instructions from Patrik, who used disposable prepaid cell phones for each communication. The antivirus syringes that the intermediary injected into the trio, as well as the materials they’d need for their missions, were left for him in a train station locker across the border, in Vienna.

Andor had also carefully selected the targets who would be infected. They were a diverse group, seemingly random victims with nothing in common except that all held jobs that put them in daily contact with a large number of people. Authorities would have to work harder to track down the “patient zeros,” who would be infecting many others within a day of being infected themselves.

Andor’s three deadly emissaries had already received detailed files about their targets to memorize, along with fake passports and cash for their plane tickets and other incidentals. They’d also been given stainless-steel capsules containing the deadly virus, which they would swallow before their flights. Once the capsules had been excreted from their intestinal tracts, the contents would be mixed with water and placed in lipstick-sized refillable atomizers. All that remained was for the intermediary to give them the go-ahead.

Later that night, Agent X would drive to Germany for the first part of her assignment, then fly to the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Agent Y had a single target, in China. Agent Z was destined for Colombia and the United States.

Andor headed back to his car for the drive back to Budapest, buoyed by the imminent launch of his long-awaited plan. He had no concern for the millions who had to die to make it happen. After all, he was certainly not alone in his quest to seek profit from genetically manufactured biological agents. Several governments were purportedly concocting bioweapons using the variola virus, the agent of smallpox, including the U.S., Russia, and China. SARS, anthrax, Ebola, and botulinum neurotoxins were other popular pathogens rumored to be in play in labs worldwide, in both the public and private sectors. One lab in the Ukraine had called it an “accident” when it was discovered their seasonal flu vaccine contained a deadly avian-flu virus that killed hundreds. But Andor knew it had been a deliberate act for human trial and profit, just as this was. The difference would be in the planning. No one would be able to connect the upcoming pandemic to him. He would only reap the rewards for having discovered the antivirus.

Within a few weeks, Andor would be heralded as the most brilliant scientist of the century and the savior of humankind. Certainly a Nobel Prize would follow. That prospect was almost as satisfying as the fact that he’d soon be one of the richest men in the world.

Munich, Germany

October 2

“Guten Abend, Professor.”

“You’re early,” the professor mumbled, without looking up from his papers.

“Would you like me to come back later?” Agent X asked.

The man didn’t answer, but waved at her absently to come in, still intent on the pile of student essays he was correcting.

She pushed the cleaning cart into the office, grateful the file she’d been provided had everything she needed to ensure a smooth completion of the first half of her assignment. As expected, Gunther Zimmerman was working late, a reliable habit after his thrice-weekly botany lectures, according to his bio. The file also had all the relevant information she needed about the University of Munich Biocenter, including a complex blueprint that incorporated the location of the janitorial closet, security cameras, and restrooms nearest the target’s office. She’d waited there, dressed in the cleaning coveralls she’d been given, until everyone but Zimmerman had gone home.

She moved about the office with a can of furniture polish and rag, dusting every surface. When she reached the bookcase behind the professor, she pulled the small atomizer from her pocket and sprayed it in his direction. Another minute or two of cleaning and she was done. She smiled to herself as she pushed the cart out of the office. The man had never even looked up.

But she was only a step or two into the hallway when the professor’s voice rang out. “Hey!”

Agent X snapped her head around to look at him as her heart started to pound.

“You forgot to empty the wastebasket,” he said with annoyance.

She went back inside with a look of apology and dumped the overflowing bin into her cart.

Once outside in the parking lot, she fished the prepaid cell phone from her pocket and dialed the number she’d memorized. “Germany complete,” she reported. She removed the SIM card and torched it with a lighter before tossing it into a trash bin, then crushed the phone with her boot before disposing of that as well. She also got rid of the atomizer—it had only contained enough for the single spray. She had a vial to swallow and another atomizer for phase two. Four hours later, she arrived at the airport in Frankfurt to catch her flight to Kinshasa.

When she arrived in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, she was to check into the Hotel Membling, feign illness, and ask to have a doctor sent to her room. The physician on call for the hotel was also on staff at Kinshasa General, one of the largest hospitals in Africa.

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 931