His cell buzzed slightly. Starr had replied, "?"
Styles texted back, "CIA. Coming back up." He finished his coffee and went back up the stairs. He entered the room, with the three looking at him with concern.
Starr spoke. "You say the CIA is downstairs?"
"No doubt."
"What are they doing here?"
"I think I can answer that," Phillips interjected. "Look, the CIA isn't completely stupid. My guess is they connected Northern Hunting Expeditions, had the place under surveillance, and followed J. C. and me back here."
Starr said, with a hint of sarcasm, "And you were followed?"
"It's a strong possibility," Phillips stated.
Styles interceded. "To be fair, they wouldn't have had a reason to think they might have been. This is not on them."
Starr continued, "Well, how did they get out here so fast? I mean, we just got here."
Phillips answered, "Starr, the CIA was already here. Even our jet can't go as fast as a phone call."
"How did they know to follow us?" Starr asked.
Phillips spoke again. "Another guess, but I'd say facial recognition on J. C. or me. We know the CIA is doing a search on me; it only stands to reason. Styles is the only one of us who is pretty much safe from facial recognition. The rest of us have photos on file somewhere. Even I can't delete all of them, though I'm trying."
"So what do we do?" J. C. asked.
Styles declared, "We get out of here. Phillips, can you delete all photos of us from the hotel's security systems? For the next fifteen minutes would also be good."
"Yes. It will take me about five minutes, maybe less."
"Do it," Styles directed. "We're going to leave the Yukon that J. C. and Phillips were driving here. We'll all go back in ours. Starr, you and J. C. get all our gear together on one of those hotel carts. Starr, find a hotel jacket, put it on, and then take everything to the Yukon and stow it. J. C., you and Phillips get ready to move the second she's finished. Take the stairs; there's two agents watching the elevators. Open the door, find me, and when I nod, you guys move to the Yukon. Don't stop, no matter what!"
Starr looked at Styles. "What are you going to do?"
"Make sure we get out of here without the CIA up our ass."
"Three minutes and I'm finished," Phillips informed them.
"Good. Starr, go find your jacket and get the gear to the Yukon. J. C., you and Phillips go down the stairs in six minutes. Wait for my signal." Then Styles was out the door and headed for the stairs. Silent as a ghost, he opened the door and stepped out into the concrete landing.
Director Lang called the president. He waited only twenty seconds before the president picked up.
"Yes, Michael. What have you found out?" President Williams demanded.
"As we suspected, it's synthetic. Man-made. Somehow water seems to activate this agent. It coagulates the blood, rendering it useless. Death is probably rather quick. The shelf life on this new toxin appears to be short, but the effect is devastating. Any living organism that has blood in its system is susceptible. Nothing can survive its onslaught. The ramifications are unimaginable. Presently, once this agent has started, it's unknown if it can be stopped, so the key is prevention." Lang held his breath, waiting for the president to explode.
"Nice job on the report, Michael. Short and to the point, just how I like them. So where do you go from here?"
"We continue to study it, sir. Honestly, though, I don't know just how much more we can find out. We really need a live sample, and that won't be easy to procure."
"No, Michael, it won't. Keep me posted." The conversation ended.
The president thought for a moment, and then grabbing a secure phone, he called Starr.
"Sir?"
"Richard, I just wanted to bring you up to speed on the latest from the CDC."
"Ah, sir, would it be permissible to call you back? We're in a bit of a bind at the moment."
"What's the problem?"
"CIA."
"How in the hell is the CIA giving you a problem?" President Williams exploded.
"Mr. President, it would really be helpful if I could get back with you," Starr implored.
"All right, Richard, but don't take long. Backersley is already getting on my nerves. I want to know what he's up to."
"ASAP, sir. Thank you." Starr hung up quickly.
The president immediately called Coverley Merritt. Upon answering, the president inquired with fervor, "Has the CIA been keeping you in the loop?"
"Difficult to say, Mr. President. We get pieces of information from them but, curiously, nothing about this latest toxic threat. That seems rather odd. Far as I'm concerned, there's no way Backersley is keeping his nose out of this. Yet we've heard nothing."
"I'm not surprised, and I tend to agree. I'll handle Backersley. Keep me informed every step of the way. How are the others doing?" he asked, referring to the directors of the other agencies.
"Fine as far as I can tell. I suspect they keep a little to themselves, but nothing that concerns me, at least not at the moment. If that moment comes, I'll be on the horn to you immediately."
"Good to hear," the president replied, ending the call.
The elderly gentleman, who appeared to be in his late sixties, was disembarking at Baltimore-Washington International Airport. He had spoken very little during the flight that originated in Miami, Florida. He had one of those grandfatherly smiles, one that would instantly make anyone feel comfortable. His eyes twinkled with innocence. The flight attendants immediately took a strong liking to him, giving him special attention. They brought him a blanket without being asked, along with a bottle of water, free of charge, which was unusual considering the state of the airline industry. A mere "Thank you," along with a nod of his head, was all that he offered in return. A young female attendant had assisted him to the restroom once during the flight. He walked with a pronounced limp, using a cane to compensate. As he reached the exit door of the plane, two of the flight attendants made a concerted effort to say good-bye and for him to be careful. The gentleman paused, and one at a time, he grasped their hands softly and said, "Bless you." Then he slowly walked away. He had brought no luggage, so he made his way to the shuttle that would carry him to the main terminal. Upon arriving, he made his way outside to the taxi stand. He easily hailed a taxi.
"Please take me to the Quality Suites motel near Halethorpe," he instructed pleasantly.
"Yes, sir. Do you have any luggage?" the taxi driver asked.
"No, young man, I'm much too old to bother with luggage. My son is meeting me, and he will have clothing for me."
"What brings you to Baltimore?" the driver asked.
"My grandson is getting married," he lied.
"Well, we are certainly having beautiful weather for a wedding."
"Yes. The weather is beautiful for anything. Anything at all."
Styles had just silently closed the door behind him, standing on the concrete landing on the fifth floor, when he heard the lobby door, five floors down, open and then close. Then a voice that said, "I'm in position," filtered up. Jeez, where do they get these guys? He was dressed in what had become his usual attire. Stretch blue jeans for ease of movement, dark T-shirt (this one black), with black sneakers. Silently, he made his way down the stairs, taking care to pay attention to any shadows the stairway lighting might create. Reaching the fourth floor, Styles was appreciative that the lighting threw the shadows back toward the railing and the rear of the stairwell, meaning behind his back.