Dying Breath (Cobra Book 2) Page 13

  There was no one there to meet me. At the intersection of the corridor there were five men. One was sitting down holding his head, one was on his knees, a third was on all fours. The fourth guy was lying facedown with his arms over his head and the fifth was struggling to get to his feet, leaning against the wall. These five had been protected from the main blast, as I had suspected. But they were not protected from me. I moved through them systematically, triple taps. The guy who was standing first, the three rounds exploded into his chest. Then the guy on his knees, his head erupted in an ugly mess across the wall. Then the guy who was sitting, the guy on all fours, and finally the guy who was lying down and had started to weep.

  I turned the corner and saw the horrific carnage. It was impossible to tell how many men there had been. It was just an indescribable mess, a charnel house of blood from floor to ceiling, mixed with tangled camouflage and dismembered bodies.

  At the far end the bulletproof door and walls had been shattered by the blast, and on the floor I could see three bodies; one of them was Rachida’s. I walked back through the office, stepped through the shattered wall and over to Yang Dizhou’s prone body. He was groaning and looked up at me with dull, dilated eyes. I took my knife from my boot and drove it into the side of his neck. He shuddered and jerked, and his eyes dulled.

  Across the floor Heilong Li was groaning too, struggling to lift himself off the floor. Beyond him Rachida was still motionless. I stood and walked over to Heilong Li. I stood over him and stamped hard with my heel on the small of his back. His eyes went wide and he gasped. His arms collapsed under him and his face hit the floor. I knelt on his back and grabbed a fistful of his hair, then leaned down to snarl in his face.

  “You think it’s OK to experiment on people? You think it’s OK to wipe out entire towns and murder children? You think that’s OK because you get rich and become powerful as a result? Is that what you think? Or is it that you believe you are somehow special, above the common mass, Li?”

  His eyes were wild, staring at me sidelong. He was shaking his head. He burbled, “No, no, you’re making a mistake…”

  “I’m not making a mistake, Doctor. You made the mistake. It’s not OK to do what you do.”

  “Wait! Wait, I can tell you…”

  “Tell me what?”

  “You are CIA? Take me with you. I can tell you everything. Everything! Just, don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me! I can tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “It’s not what you think.” He reached for me with claw-like hands. “It’s not a vaccine. It’s not a vaccine! It is an attack! An attack on the Western economy…”

  Death came too fast for him. Faster than he deserved. It spilled from his neck, thick and red, pulsing onto the filthy floor, littered with shattered glass. I wasn’t there to listen to bullshit. I was there to execute a bastard who had massacred tens of thousands of people for the simple reason that they were vulnerable. I didn’t want to hear his bullshit.

  Not then.

  Finally I went over to Rachida. I moved her hair and felt the pulse in her neck. It was strong and steady. I lifted her up in my arms and carried her from that place of carnage and destruction.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I carried her in my arms, back through the shattered office, down the long corridor, back down the stairs to the lobby. I was aware that I was being watched by men and women in white coats. I didn’t care. I knew that everyone who could have hurt me was now dead. Destroyed.

  But I was not done. I had more to do.

  I found Heilong Li’s driver lying beside his SUV. The doors of the car were still open. I laid Rachida on the back seat, then crossed the parking lot to the large, barn-like construction that lay at right angles to the main building. There was a simple padlock on it. I blew it off and dragged open the sliding door. There were strange noises which were at first hard to identify, like moaning animals, whimpering, grunting…

  I used my cell as a flashlight and found a lever-switch beside the door, pushed it to the down position and heard a loud “clack” high in the raftered ceiling. A string of arc lights came on and flooded the vast space with soulless, ochre light. And in that gloom I saw cages, row upon row of cages, each seven or eight feet square, six feet high, six or seven feet apart. There were a hundred or two hundred of them, in ranks across the floor. At the end, at the back of the barn, stairs led up to walkways that ran around the walls, and on these walkways there were more cages. And each cage contained five or six people, men and women, emaciated, drawn, sick. Some were standing, reaching out to me through the bars of the cages; others were seated, keening, rocking back and forth where they sat; others lay dying.

  I took a few steps in and a terrible howl went up and echoed in the high ceiling. My skin went cold as I looked from one tortured face to another, from one hellish prison to another, where a thousand voices cried out in a cacophony of pain and grief, begging for human compassion. My hand went to my Sig, to blow out the nearest lock and release the wretched bastards from their hell. But as my finger touched the trigger I heard another, different howling wail. One that came straight from the gates of Hades. And as it reached my ears, it brought with it a deeper, darker realization. I backed away from the cages, stumbling back, out into the night.

  They came screaming out of the night, five Royal Moroccan Air Force F-16 Fighting Falcons. I sprinted like all the hounds of hell were on my heels. The air was full of the Doppler screech of missiles. Two struck the main building, sending up a swirling black and orange mushroom of fire into the black sky. Two more roared over my head. I hurled myself to the ground and rolled as they smashed through the wall of the barn. The air smacked hard. My head rang like a bell. I scrambled to my feet again, stumbling backwards as the barn walls seemed to expand, the roof danced and a fireball erupted through the doors. I fell back, dizzy and nauseated, sprawling in the dirt. The air was scorching. I struggled to my hands and feet, running like a chimpanzee, trying to get my balance in an inferno that seemed to rock back and forth as I moved.

  Six more missiles streaked past on my left, exploding into the tanks of liquid, sending huge clouds of boiling steam into the air. I scrambled around the hood of the SUV. Kicked the rear door closed, ripped the driver’s keys from his pocket and slid behind the wheel as the F-16s circled around for another strike.

  I slammed in reverse and floored the pedal, spinning the wheel as I went. Then I rammed in first and hit the gas, skidding around the building among towering flames, ramming the stick shift through second, third and into fourth, bounding over small dunes, jarring through dips and potholes, while the jets screamed overhead again and the fire from their rockets lit up the night. Behind me I could hear Rachida yelling at the top of her voice.

  Another series of explosions tore the night in half. I knew that we had been seen and I knew that within seconds they’d be coming after us. I slammed my foot on the brake and kicked open the door. I swung out, ripped open the back door and dragged Rachida out by the scruff of her neck, screaming at her, “Run! Run! Run!”

  I dragged her after me, pushing through the sand, and hurled her over a small dune. I bellowed at her, “Lie flat!” and peppered the gas tank with molten lead from the 416. Through the darkness I heard the diabolical, mournful howl of the fighters circling above us.

  The detonation shook the air. The car jumped as the fireball engulfed it. I grabbed Rachida and hissed in her ear, “Move and I’ll cut your throat!”

  The jets circled a little longer, and after a minute the high wine of their turbines became dim and they vanished into the black, headed back toward their base.

  Rachida said nothing. She just lay staring at me with huge eyes, panting. Finally, quietly, she whispered, “Who the hell are you?”

  I stood, grabbed her by her collar and dragged her to her feet. I thrust my face close up to hers and growled, “Who am I? Who the hell are you?”

  I shoved her ahead of me, north, away from the vast flam
es that were lighting up the night, into the engulfing darkness. She walked in silence for a minute, maybe two, then turned to look at me. Her face was twisted with anger, all her beauty turned sour with rage.

  “I knew you were a goddamn soldier! I knew it! Why didn’t I trust my fucking intuition?”

  “Keep walking, sister.”

  She staggered back a few steps to draw level with me. “You played me, you son of a bitch! You played me!”

  We stood staring at each other, with the dancing orange light of the distant fire playing across her dark skin.

  “What is that…?” I asked, but she interrupted me and half screamed, “You played me! You son of a bitch!”

  “Keep screaming and I’ll knock you cold and carry you. What’s that accent? Yesterday you’d learned your English in London under the tuition of Professor Higgins, with an exotic hint of French Moroccan thrown in. You don’t sound so exotic now, Rachida.”

  “Fuck you!”

  She turned and started walking away from me, with the shadows of the night playing around her. I went after her, insisting, pushing. “I asked you a question. Where is that accent from? I’ll tell you what. To me it sounds like California. Where are you from, Rachida? Is that your name?”

  “Fuck you!” She turned and screamed at me as she walked, “Fuck you!”

  “That won’t get you very far. You have a choice: me or the desert. Choose the desert and I’ll shoot you and leave you for the jackals. Cooperate with me and you stand some kind of chance…”

  She stopped and turned again, snarling at me. “Of what? What the hell do you think you can do to me? I’m a high-class hooker who had a client who was doing shady deals. Show me one high-class hooker who hasn’t got a client involved in shady deals! I gave you everything I had and you screwed me! You son of a bitch!”

  She started walking again and again I went after her. “It’s a good act, Rachida, and an even better recovery. But you don’t stand a chance and you know it. Once the interrogation starts they will strip you naked and the truth will come out.”

  “Fuck you!” This time she muttered it.

  “And you will be a damned sight better off if you have cooperated from the start. Be smart. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  The plane had come into sight and she was making directly for it. She didn’t speak and I knew she was thinking. That was fine by me because I knew she was smart, and I was pretty sure that once she’d thought it through she’d cooperate. I had done my job. My work was finished. But I felt sick and hollow inside.

  The whole issue of the vaccine stunk in my nostrils. It was plain to see this had been no vaccine factory. What they were breeding here, in the tanks and in the cages, was not vaccines. It was also plain to see that Rachida knew more than she was prepared to admit. But getting her to cooperate and talk was not going to be as easy as it was with May Ling.

  Ten minutes later we arrived at the Cessna. She stood, breathing hard, with the cold desert breeze moving her hair and making her shudder. She turned to face me, her jaw clamped shut and her fists clenched. I thought for a moment she was going to stamp her foot.

  “What do you plan to do with me?”

  “That depends on you.”

  “Let me go.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  Now she did stamp her foot. “I am just a whore, for crying out loud! I am no use to you!”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it.” I pointed at her. “With your kind of clients there’s no such thing as ‘just a whore,’ and there are too many unexplained issues around you, sweetheart. Get in the plane, and the sooner you start answering my questions, the easier it is going to be for you.”

  She thought about running. You could see it in her eyes. She glanced around. She took in the barbed wire, the distant glimmer of the burning lab, the gun in my hand. She narrowed her eyes, shaking her head, and asked again, “Who the fuck are you?”

  I didn’t answer and she walked around the plane to climb in the passenger side, slamming the door shut with a force that said she wished she was slamming it on my head.

  I got in beside her. She was staring at me like she was having trouble getting to grips with how stupid I was. She shook her head and looked away. I said:

  “They knew I was coming.” I shook my head. “No, they knew somebody was coming, but they didn’t know who, or what to expect. So they concealed their men and waited to see what happened. Did you tell them?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Did they call you, and ask you about the gift your driver had sent?” She didn’t answer. I went on, “You told them I was a soldier playing at investigative journalism. An amateur. You thought I wasn’t slick enough to be a pro. So the last thing they expected was one man to turn up alone and do this much damage.” I paused. “The last thing they expected, and the last thing you expected.”

  “You’re full of shit. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a damned escort trying to do my job.”

  I didn’t answer until we had jerked, bounced and jolted over the rough desert ground. I had lifted her nose up toward the stars and we were curling away, north, back toward Casablanca. I kept her low, just a few hundred feet above ground level, high enough to clear high buildings and trees, but low enough, I hoped, to avoid radar.

  As we climbed slowly into the highlands, toward Barrage al Massira, the ground was swallowed by blackness and only the altimeter gave me any idea of how far above the desert we were. Through the windshield there was only stygian space, the cold sparkle of the stars above us and the odd, distant wink of a light: a tiny village, a house or a car in the night. We were isolated in the fragile cabin. The darkness robbed the plane of any sense of motion, and the absence of motion robbed us of any sense of time. The only sound was the drone of the single engine, relentless and unchanging, which somehow increased that sense of timelessness. Finally I asked her:

  “How did you know I had a Mercedes?”

  She frowned hard, turned to look at me, the dim light from the control panel on the planes of her face.

  “What?”

  “After dinner, at Rick’s Café, you were drinking cognac and discussing what league you thought I was in. You were trying to make me understand I was not in your league, or Stuart Chen’s…” I paused and looked at her a moment. She was still frowning, but her eyes were no longer narrowed. I went on. “You said I had, and I quote, a ‘…nice suit, well cut, but off the peg, not bespoke.’ My shoes were, ‘…two hundred dollars, two fifty tops.’ I was staying at the Hyatt, a nice hotel, but not the Casa Diamond Suites. And then you said, ‘You drive a Mercedes. Nice car, but it’s not a Ferrari, a Bentley or an Aston Martin.’ Now I am asking you how you knew I drove a Mercedes.”

  She looked away, out of the side window. She didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t think too long, Rachida, or your explanation won’t be worth a damn. And right now, believe me, you need credibility.”

  “Amin told me.”

  “What for? What purpose could Detective Amin have for telling you what car I drove?”

  She still wouldn’t look at me. “I wanted a profile of you.”

  “Yeah? What else did he tell you?”

  She sighed noisily, raised her hands and let them drop heavy in her lap. “Jesus! I don’t know! He said you looked like you had money but you weren’t rich, you had an air of authority about you like you might have been in the Army, you were tough, a hard man…”

  “Bullshit.”

  Now she snapped round and stared at me, hard. “Why?”

  “Because everything you say is bullshit. Because everything you have told me since I first phoned you has been bullshit.”

  “All right!” she screamed. “Fine! I have a very delicate relationship with Amin. He stays off my back and allows me to cultivate my clients. In exchange I give him information I pick up! And sometimes I keep an eye out for him on people he suspects or wants to keep tabs on. He wanted to keep tabs on you an
d asked me to help. I have friends at the Hyatt and I asked them for a heads up! Satisfied?”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Why?” Now she sounded exasperated. “For crying out loud! Why is that bullshit?!”

  “Because Amin knew exactly who I was, and he did not need a high-class whore to tell him. There is more. It does not explain why you only show up in Moroccan official records five years ago, and it does not explain why you have interchangeable English and American accents, or why your French and Arabic are grammatically correct in a way no native speaker ever is. You speak Moroccan French the way Blofeld speaks English.”

  She shook her head, incredulous. “Again, what?”

  “However smart you are, Rachida, I do not buy your story that you were raised in a Casablanca ghetto and were magically transformed, like Elisa Doolittle, after seven years in London with Professor Higgins. You have Ivy League written all over you, and I want to know the true story.”

  She scowled at me and curled her lip. “You’re full of shit.” She turned away and looked out of the side window again. I glanced at her and saw her ghost looking back in from the black world outside.

  “You can talk to me or you can talk to the Agency at Langley.”

  I studied her face with care as I said it. There was no response. I had been wondering if she was with the Firm from the time Amin had first mentioned her to me. Her lack of response confirmed my feeling that she was not. But if not the Firm, who?

  “Is that who you work for?” she asked, finally. “The CIA? You’re about their level.”

  “Who I work for is not the issue here, Rachida. The question is who do you work for? If you’re not CIA, who are you? And why are you interested in me?”

  She closed her eyes and sagged back in her chair. She sounded suddenly weary. “I don’t work for anybody, Guy. I work for me: Rachida Whoring Enterprises Incorporated. I manipulate billionaire clients and I buy and sell information. I work for myself.”