Frankie grinned almost maniacally through her pain. “He was always so goddamned corny.”
“Tell me.”
“Amnesty. A plane ticket. Mon—”
Jack leaned forward and rested his hand on her shattered shoulder. He could feel bones and meat move unstably beneath the bandages. She gasped wordlessly and shuddered uncontrollably. Jack leaned in again, but this time he noticed something at the edge of her bandages. He’d thought it was a laceration of some kind, but it wasn’t. It was purple, like a bruise, but raised and spotted like a weird rash. Or a lesion.
Oh shit, Jack thought. He backed away. Frankie’s shuddering did not stop. She doubled over and dry-heaved. Jack took another step backward. The lesion on Frankie’s shoulder split open and bloody pus trickled out. At the same time, Frankie heaved again, and this time blood poured out of her mouth like water from a faucet.
She coughed. “The fast strain,” she sputtered.
“Jack!” came over a hidden loudspeaker.
He didn’t need to be told. He was already halfway out. Jack slammed the door behind him and checked his arms and hands. No blood. Was the virus airborne from inside a human body?
Jack hurried around to the observation room where he found several CTU agents, including Nina, Tony, and Christopher Henderson, along with Mercy Bennet, watching Frankie decompose. That was the word for it. Her skin seemed to simply split open as though invisible claws had torn at her shoulders and neck. She vomited blood two or three more times.
“Get NHS here immediately,” Henderson ordered. “Get plastic over that door.”
Jack looked at Mercy and knew what she was thinking. This was going to happen to her. And he felt a hand squeeze his heart when he knew that the same thing would happen to Kim if he failed.
Ayman al-Libbi lay on the couch of the safe apartment. Despite the best efforts of the U.S. government, he had maintained a few friendships in America over the years— maintained them mostly because he did not ask favors of them. Until now. But now was a critical moment for him, a make-or-break moment as they said in the United States. So he had called in a very old debt from years ago in Jordan, and now he and Abbas were settled into a condominium that could not possibly appear on even the longest security watch list.
Abbas brought him a cup of tea. Ayman nodded. What would he have done all these years without Muhammad? Tonight was only one of a dozen times over the years that Ay-man had survived because Muhammad was at his side. His devotion was absolute.
As he placed the tea on the coffee table, Muhammad slid his eyes over Ayman’s face and body. It was not the first time Ayman had noticed this, nor was it the first time he wondered if the source of Muhammad’s devotion was something more than mere friendship. Such things were abhorred in fundamentalist Islam, of course, but one heard whispers of it. Many young men who had spent their youth studying in a madrassa had experienced the subtle approach, the too-long lingering look of another youth who could not or would not give voice to his urges. Ayman, who had long ago turned secular and cynical, now recognized such urges as the inevitable result of the separation of the sexes.
Ayman waited until Muhammad’s eyes had slid off his body, then he said, “I’m going to call them.”
Muhammad stopped, halfway into the seat across from the couch. “Are you sure? It’s almost as risky as dealing with the Americans.”
“This is a time for risks,” Ayman said. He propped himself up as Muhammad handed him the phone. Ayman entered a long distance number he thought he’d never use again.
A gruff voice answered, and the terrorist said in Arabic, “This is Ayman al-Libbi. Let me speak to him.”
There was a pause.
“Not too long,” Muhammad warned. “The Americans will hear.”
Another voice got on the line, a voice Ayman had not heard in many years. It was a powerful voice in the Iranian Ministry of Defense. “This is not Ayman al-Libbi speaking,” the man said. “Ayman al-Libbi is a dead man.”
“Inshallah,” al-Libbi said, falling back on the religious expressions of his youth, “you will find it in your heart to breathe life back into me.”
“You are an infidel now,” the Iranian said.
“I am an infidel who holds the life of the President of the United States in his hands.”
“You are a fool to say these things on the telephone.”
“We are two fools then, because you will listen.” Quickly, Ayman summed up his situation. “I have the Cat’s Claw virus. I have the Dragon’s Blood vaccine. I can save or destroy the American President. I can deliver the virus and the vaccine to you. In return, I need support here in Los Angeles.
I know you have people here, even if the Americans don’t know it.”
“Do others know how to create the vaccine?” asked the Iranian man.
“Three others.”
There was a long pause. “You have our interest. But we must consider this. Wait for our call.”
Ten fewer minutes that Kim had to live. Ten fewer minutes that the leaders of two of the great powers had to live. Ten minutes closer to the violent, hemorrhagic death for Mercy Bennet.
Jack forced such thoughts from his mind as he stood in CTU’s conference room with Mercy Bennet. CTU staff had covered the door to the holding room, sealing in the gruesome scene, and NHS would arrive any minute. In the meantime, CTU had been locked down in case the virus had some spread outside the room. Jack didn’t think how he’d caught the virus, but he’d voluntarily locked himself into the conference room. Mercy, without explaining herself to anyone, had joined him.
“We need to figure out what those clues mean,” Jack said. “Copeland may have been insane, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what he was doing when he left them.”
Mercy nodded, her face settling into a calm, distant look as her detective’s mind began sorting through facts. “He was trying to help. He didn’t want the virus spread randomly. Whatever those clues mean, they have something to do with stopping the virus.”
Jack wrote them down on the dry erase board. “Thirteen, forty-eight, fifty-seven. Is there anything in common?”
Mercy considered. “They’re not prime numbers. There’s no even spacing between them. They’re all double digits.” She wasn’t forming a theory, just listing observations.
Jack rubbed his temples. He felt himself starting to wear down, but he’d been here before. His will was strong even when his body was not. “Frankie said something. Something about Copeland being ‘corny.’ ”
“He was,” Mercy said. “That whole Monkey Wrench Gang thing is corny. So is Seldom Seen Smith…”
They looked at each other. Jack voiced their mutual thoughts. “Is there a connection? You did all the research on this Monkey Wrench thing. Is there a connection between those numbers and that whole story?”
“Not that I know of,” Mercy admitted. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not there. I bet it’s worth searching Copeland’s house again.”
Jack nodded. “We need to go there right now.”
“But CTU’s locked down.”
Jack gave her a look of disappointment. As though a little thing like a lockdown was going to stop him.
15. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 P.M. AND 10 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
President Barnes watched his Chinese counterpart closely as Xu, in turn, watched the doctors and technicians from National Health Services at work. From the moment they’d arrived, the NHS personnel had been hard at work constructing an airlock made of plastic tenting over one of the two Plexiglas barricades. Now, as the airlocks were finished, four doctors dressed in full biohazard gear entered and the barricade slid up to allow them entry.