45
Staropramenná 2, Prague, Czech Republic
November 30
Sobotka stepped around the blood on the floor, the streaks leading to the corner where the body of a badly beaten man lay, propped up against the wall, eyes open and manic. It stunk horribly, and she pulled the strap on her mask tighter, kept from gagging. She moved silently into the hallway beyond, checked up the stairs, the wood scraped and raw.
As she slipped into the living room on the second floor, she loosed her gun from its holster, kept it trained at the floor, but ready, eyes wide open. She paused there, by the entrance, saw the sheets on the ground, the broken window, the spent clothes. A large, open duffel bag, stuffed with food packets, gadgets and blankets.
Just then, Pyotr came shuffling into the room, his beard shaved, clothes fresh, carrying a selection of toiletries in a large biohazard bag. He threw them into the duffel bag, began to turn back, then saw her, froze.
“Hello, Pyotr,” she grinned, aimed at his heart. “Where are you off to?”
His eyes darted, trying to imagine an excuse. She stormed towards him, used a bloodied boot to kick him onto the floor, kept the gun at him.
“Please,” Pyotr pleaded, “I was going to tell you—”
“I’m sure,” Sobotka sneered, and kicked him in the knee. “Where’s your girlfriend, Pyotr? I don’t see her, and I seem to recall telling you not to let her out of your sight.”
“We were kidnapped!” he explained, desperate, and she rolled her eyes. “Well, I mean, she was kidnapped. They let me go.”
“How convenient for you.”
“It’s the truth, I swear! She made them let me go!”
“If she knows about your little scam, why would she cut you any slack? You helped her escape, didn’t you?”
“No! She let me go! She said she’s sick of people dying, told them to kick me out alone!”
Sobotka perfected her aim on his forehead, scowled.
“Too bad for you, I’m still good with the dying.”
He covered his head with his arms, ready for the shot, but just then, Sobotka’s phone rang. She kept the gun at him, reached into her pocket and flipped it open.
“Hold that thought,” she said to Pyotr, then barked into the phone: “I’m busy. What?”
“Did you hear yet?” Crew wheezed. “You know what’s going on?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“There’s an outbreak at the hospital. They’ve shut down the main floor, locked everyone in. They’re already calling it Prague-1, whatever it is.”
Sobotka’s mouth fell open, then curled into a smile.
“Rhodri Tenant’s come to town,” she said.
“Tenant? Hell no! The Healer!”
“Oh for the love of god, Crew. It’s obviously not the Healer. Give it up!”
“That’s what you say, but I’ve got a witness that puts him tight with a doctor at the source of the outbreak.”
“So what, a doctor is working with a Healer to kill us? It kind of goes against both their philosophies, don’t you think?”
“People do stupid things,” Crew said ominously.
“Case in point,” Sobotka cracked.
“So I’m going it alone? You’re not going to give me backup when I take this joker down?”
Sobotka checked Pyotr, the snow-covered city outside, thought a moment.
“No,” she said. “I’ve got enough to cut through here. Waste time if you need to. Let me know how it goes.”
Crew harumphed and hung up on her. She slid the phone back into her pocket, cricked her neck and refocused on Pyotr, who hadn’t found a good alternative to cowering yet.
“So it seems you did your job half-well,” she sighed. “Tenant’s here.”
“He came?” gasped Pyotr. “How do you know?”
“Kicked off a new outbreak. The outbreak. And god knows, he’s probably looking for you now, after what you did to his girlfriend.”
“But she isn’t—”
“I’m pretty sure a homicidal maniac isn’t going to care,” she interrupted, stowing her gun, offering him a hand. He looked at it, apprehensive, then reached out and let himself be pulled to his feet. He watched her, cautious.
“The ones who kidnapped Kolikov, did they seem friend-like, or enemy-like?”
Pyotr thought a moment, tense and spastic.
“I think they knew her. I never found out from where, but—”
“They’re probably friends of Tenant’s then,” she grumbled, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the stairs roughly.
“Where are we going?” he squeaked as he was thrown down the first few steps.
“You’re going to show me exactly where they brought you,” she called down. “And we’re going to turn Mr Tenant’s head into a sieve.”
* * *
Carey put the magazine down atop the pile of seven others, his gloves creaking from the effort, and adjusted the mask on his face to alleviate the pinching on his nose. The goggles fogged briefly, but then a quick hiss later, things went back to normal. He checked his watch again, shook his head.
“I don’t suppose you have any more information…” he began asking one of the dark-suited guards who stood by the door, hands folded neatly, staring at nothing.
The guard continued to ignore him.
Carey picked up another magazine, flipped the first few pages, then checked the date.
“This one is ten years old,” he sighed to no one, certainly not the guard. “Don’t you people recycle anything here?”
He checked his watch yet again, then threw the magazine down, got to his feet. The guard turned slightly, hands ready, stared down and down and down at Carey’s impressively bundled figure.
“I’m sorry,” Carey said, angry but still apologetic. “This just won’t do. I have been waiting here for nearly two hours, and there’s been no indication that anyone even knows I’m here. I am an agent of the British government, and I insist on seeing Mr Daniels right n—”
Mid-word, the doors opened and a thickly-set man with a stubbly jaw and a crisp white mask strode in, hand out; Carey shook it, apprehensive.
“Mr Carey, is it?” the man asked, accent thick. Eastern European.
“Y-y-yes. I’ve been waiting—”
“Yeah, I should apologize for that. My staff ain’t the brightest, got the lines of communication tangled, as it were. I didn’t hear you’d arrived until just a few minutes ago. Did anyone get you something to eat or…” he smiled at the full-head mask, shrugged. “Or not.”
“It’s quite all right. Are you… Mr Daniels?”
The man guffawed loudly, slapped Carey on the back.
“Me? No, I’m his executive assistant, Dmitri.”
“Just ‘Dmitri’?”
“Unless you’re buyin’ drinks,” he smirked, leading Carey into a hallway. A guard stood every few metres, hands posed like the one Carey’d seen, staring past them. Expertly trained.
“I have a warrant here to take Mr Daniels into custody immediately and—”
“Yeah, he’s aware. He wants me to show you in right away. But…”
Dmitri paused them, leaned closer to Carey, confidential, eyes darting around.
“He’s been a bit under the weather lately. Had a bad cold. Prague winters, y’know. So whatever you do, don’t go rushing to conclusions, okay? He’s pretty sensitive to people treating him like he’s diseased and such. Just try and act natural. Pretend he looks fine. Got it?”
Carey nodded tentatively. His body suit made it somewhat difficult, however.
He was led into an ornate bedroom just as a young woman, pale and trembling, shuffled out. She watched him carefully, keeping a broad distance, in complete silence. Carey arrived at the bedside of a frail-looking man, various life-saving machines slid into dark corners of the room, but strikingly present.
Carey cleared his throat, reached out a cordial hand.
“Mr Daniels,” he said, noticing three of the guards in the room stepping forward, ready. “So good to finally meet you.”
Daniels took the hand, nodded as if he were at a dinner party, meeting a random guest.
“Likewise,” he said. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“Oh, William Carey, sir. Special agent for the Containment Office. My Director—”
“I know your Director well, Mr Carey. I trust he’s well?”
“Yes, sir. Actually, he made me promise I would ask how you’re doing, too.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Even the guards looked like they wanted to leave.
“I’m doing fine, thank you,” said Daniels, smiling at the stiffness of the moment. “Tending to business, all that.”
Carey nodded in agreement, big long bobs of his head, and clasped his hands around the heavy metal case that was pulling him downward.
“I don’t mean to impose, sir,” said Carey, jovially. “But I’m afraid I will need to gather a quick blood sample from you, if it’s convenient.”
“Please do,” Daniels smiled, gesturing to his bed. Carey heaved the case up onto the sheets with some effort and popped it open. He worked fast, hands shaking, clicking the syringe together and attaching it to the base of the extraction instrument.
After a moment of work, he had gathered a decent sample of blood from Daniels’ arm, slid the vial into the case’s built-in processor. He pushed the ‘test’ button, sighed a self-satisfied sigh, and nodded to Daniels.
“Won’t be long,” he said, as if he were waiting for dinner to reheat in the microwave.
Daniels put a hand on Carey’s shoulder, causing instant tension. He shifted slightly.
“We are at war, Mr Carey,” came the voice, quiet and confidential.
“Indeed, sir,” he said, not knowing what else to say.
“If these viruses make it into Britain somehow and we could have stopped them…” Daniels said, his voice filling with anger. “I found these diseases, I cured them, and I did it for my country. And I cannot accept that that is somehow wrong.”
Carey nodded.
“I understand, sir. But… one thing at a time, I suppose.”
He motioned down to the computer, still chugging away. Daniels’ eyes were cold.
“You think I’m dying.”
“Well I mean… er…” Carey said, catching a mean glare from Dmitri, who stood to the side with his arms crossed unhappily. “In all honesty, sir, you don’t look healthy, and you’ve been living in a black zone for… well… quite a long time, we think. Certainly a long time to not have picked up something.”
Daniels smiled, and the computer purred softly as it finished its work. Carey looked down at the read-out and frowned. He looked back up at Daniels, cocked his head.
“It… you’re… you’re clean.”
Daniels’ smile seemed relieved at the same time as vindicated. He patted Carey on the shoulder.
“It’s okay, Mr Carey, I know I must not look it.”
Carey nodded blankly, then snapped out of his stupor, shoulders straightening, and he clasped his hands together tightly.
“In that case, sir,” he said, nearly regaining his authoritative footing. “I’m going to have to place you under arrest for violating the National Containment Order.”
Daniels nodded again, this time less happily, but still with confidence. Carey removed a pair of handcuffs from his pack, and the guards in the room began to move again, until Daniels held up a pausing hand. To them, but also to Carey.
“If you would be kind enough to wait a moment, Mr Carey,” said Daniels kindly, stopping Carey dead in his tracks. “I have a favour to ask of you.”