Germ

Litt nodded and stepped up to a metal door and absently passed his face before a square panel of black glass set in the wall. Behind the glass, an infrared camera scanned his physiognomy, creating a pattern of the invisible heat generated by the blood vessels under the skin. The scanner compared this thermal image with ones filed in its hard drive. Finding a match, it disengaged the door's lock.

When Gregor had first heard of a foolproof identification system that recognized individuals' unique thermal facial patterns—distinguishing even between identical twins—despite aging, cosmetic surgery, and the total absence of light, he had lobbied Litt to get the compound's security doors retrofitted for it. Years earlier, they had agreed to spend the bulk of the organization's financial resources on research and security, and because Litt had recently landed a lucrative contract to supply a Middle Eastern dictator with biochemicals, he had consented to Gregor's request.

They stepped into another corridor, this one much dimmer than the one that serviced the labs. Only one in three fluorescent tubes worked, and many of those sputtered on the brink of death. A dank odor filled the air. In some sections, the "corridors" were nothing more than large, corrugated-metal tubes, dripping water from the rivets and buckling and splitting like overstuffed sausages where earth pushed through. The military base had been abandoned over forty years before and wasn't in the best condition when new. Now it threatened to disintegrate back into the surrounding land, though Gregor knew Litt had done his best to keep it operational.

Falling in step beside the other man, Gregor continued. "The transaction-monitoring people have an affinity agreement with an organization that intercepts telephone transmissions. So, say your subject's away from his usual Internet service provider and uses a credit card number to temporarily tap into a new provider—something that happens frequently, I take it, if the subject suspects his lines are bugged. The transaction-monitoring guys pick up the credit card sale, which includes the new IP address he's using, and that, in turn, is associated with a phone or data line. The phone guys step in and bam, instant bug."

"Parker accessed the Internet?" Litt asked.

"No, he called the female federal agent, Matheson. He's not stupid, he watches TV, so he goes to a pay phone—and uses his credit card to make the call." Gregor grinned.

"Ahh," Litt said, appreciating the irony.

"So the phone bug kicks in—it's all automatic. Now we not only know which phone booth the guy is using—we got his conversation too."

"We got it?"

"MP3. I had it in my BlackBerry two minutes after he hung up. I forwarded it to Atropos."

"What'd he say?"

"No response yet."

They reached the break room, saw a biologist with a magazine and a mug seated at the only table, and stepped back into the corridor.

"Our accountant called this morning," Litt said quietly.

"Atropos doesn't come cheap."

"He mentioned another offshore transfer. Twenty thousand."

Gregor nodded. "That was to the service that gave us the lead on Parker."

"Doesn't matter. Soon enough, we'll be able to buy Anderson's entire firm." He scanned the dilapidated corridor. "And get this place fixed up."

The biologist exited the break room, greeted Litt and Gregor, and headed toward the labs. The two men went in. Gregor poured them each a cup of coffee, and they sat at the table. Gregor stared into the liquid's shiny black surface.

"Something else?" Litt asked.

Gregor shrugged, sipped from the cup. "It's just . . ."

"What?"

"So close to fulfilling the dream, Karl. I'm just thinking—" He looked into the black orbs of Litt's glasses, saw himself reflected in each lens. "Look, I don't have a problem with killing kids, as a means to an end."

"You don't believe it's necessary?"

He shrugged. "Strategically, I think it's a mistake."

"Our experts disagree. The plan was maximum impact. The public has to feel it, Gregor. It has to hurt."

"I just think there will be a backlash where children are involved."

"We want a backlash—against Kendrick, against his deceit, against his government's complicity."

"But is the list about getting attention or . . ." He tried to find the word.

Litt beat him to it. "Vengeance?"

"Your family . . . Who wouldn't want revenge? I'm just wondering if putting so many children on the list . . . I know it will wrench people out of their complacency, but might they not want your head instead of listening to the reasons you are striking back at them?"

"At first, maybe. Then they will say, 'Who has brought this on us? Who has awakened this monster?' And they will find Kendrick and their own government. They will bring down their own house from their grief and anger."

"I hope you're right."

Litt pushed back from the table, his chair screeching against the tile. He stood. "Either way, Gregor," he said, "it's too late now." He picked up his cup and left.