Germ

Gregor sniffed and wiped at his nose. "I was just getting over the last one."

Litt ignored him. "Are you familiar with the Balinese tiger?" he asked.

Gregor shook his head.

"It was a phenomenal creature. Quite similar to Siberians and Bengals. Fewer stripes, darker in color. But the most impressive distinction of the Balinese was the way it dispatched its foes. Not its prey, you understand—its enemies, such as other tigers encroaching on its territory, depleting its food supply, flirting with its ladies, that sort of thing." He tugged away a wrinkle in his pant leg, then began chafing the backs of his hands. "After roaring its displeasure, the thing would attack the intruder. An opponent who fell without inflicting serious injury was allowed to die swiftly, usually by having its throat torn out." He smiled, a lipless upturning of the dark line that was his mouth. "On the other hand, an opponent that fought well, perhaps even injuring the resident tiger but not besting it, was fated to a slow, excruciating death. Purely punitive."

He pushed an errant length of hair back off his face. His narrow fingertips found something on his scalp to scratch at while he talked. "After incapacitating its rival, the victor would back off, sometimes for days. When the loser seemed to gain some strength, the victor swept in, slashed at it, mauled it further—then moved away again. Often, the superior tiger would wait until its foe had recouped most of its strength before moving in to cut it down again. This amusement could last for weeks. The defeated tiger eventually starved or bled to death. Or grew too weak to fight off the scavengers vying for its flesh, and gave itself over to them. An ignominious end to the noblest of creatures."

Gregor frowned at the abrasion Litt's fingers had caused on his scalp. It looked ready to bleed. He patted the pockets of his camo outfit, looking for a cigarette. "Atropos is a Balinese tiger," he said. "Is that it?"

Litt shrugged. "Him, you, me. The desire for revenge is common to man. The harder the payback the better. But for an animal . . . That's what makes the Balinese so fascinating."

Gregor found a nearly empty pack of cigarettes in a pocket by his knee. He fiddled with it, anxious to leave the smoke-free warehouse. "You think Atropos is playing with Parker?"

"Of course. It's what I would do." He looked at his fingers and wiped them on his lab coat, leaving faint red streaks.

"Will we be ready for him?"

"What do you have on Parker?"

Sticking the crumpled pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket, Gregor pulled out his BlackBerry. He tapped the screen and used his thumbs to key something in, then handed it to Litt. Litt looked at it, and together they walked to the woman at the monitor. Litt showed her the screen. She squinted at it, typed, squinted, typed. She waited, then nodded.

"Get it," Litt instructed. To Gregor, he said, "Like ordering up a chocolate malt."

Gregor patted him on the back. "Years of hard work, my friend."

"Who'd have thought, huh?"

"I never doubted."

"Never?"

"Why do you think I gave you my shoes?" He winked and started for the exit, patting his pockets again. Halfway there, he stopped. "Karl . . . why past tense? What became of the Balinese tiger?"

"The last one was shot in 1937."

Gregor was thinking about that when Litt added, "I didn't do it."

sixty-eight

Julia climbed into the back of the van to set up the

satellite-tracking device, and Stephen drove slowly away from the airport. At her direction, he maneuvered the van erratically from lane to lane, down alleyways and in looping patterns around blocks. She called it dry cleaning, designed to spot and shake any tails they may have picked up at the airport.

She let out a heavy groan, and his stomach tightened. "What is it?"

"I was able to tap into a satellite, no problem. But the plane's altitude is throwing everything off. Maps are scrolling into place, but I can't get a lock on the device itself."

"You can't track it?"

"I can, but I'll have only a general idea of where it is until it lands again. My laptop is only loaded with software for land-based operations."

"Is there software for tracking planes? Can you get it?"

"I don't dare try, after what Kendrick Reynolds did. Accessing the Bureau's system might bring half the force down on us."

She made it sound as certain as skipping into the FBI's headquarters in Quantico. It was a different world, when you had to be as cautious electronically as you were physically. Crossing the road without looking could get you killed in either world.

"But you can tell they're moving? What direction?"

"South. Over Florida right now."

Stephen nodded, picturing the plane cutting through the night sky, Allen inside, hurt, scared. The gravity in the van grew heavier, pulling his face down, adding weight to his internal organs. His insides hurt.