Germ

"Maybe legend is a better word. The stories about him get wilder every time you hear them. He's killed dictators protected by armies. He's been credited with killing someone in Asia and then, within an hour, killing someone else in America. The story goes, he comes from a long line of assassins. In the eleventh century, an 'Atropos' helped Frederick Barbarossa seize control of the Holy Roman Empire. Six hundred years later, Elizabeth Petrovna of Russia was found dead in her bedchamber; despite the official explanation of a sudden illness, some historians claim she was assassinated by a man named Atropos. During World War II, Atropos claimed Allied spies, politicos, and important industrialists as his victims. Just some spot examples I remember. Besides the name, each succeeding assassin shared one trait: he killed with a spiked gauntlet."

"Oh, man," Stephen said. "You're creeping me out."

"I think that's the idea. He's the boogeyman for historians and CIA types."

She disconnected the phone from the laptop and turned it around in her hand while she talked.

"I guess he's kind of a cult celebrity," she continued. "Look on the Internet. There are fan clubs dedicated to this guy. Some say he was reared from infancy on the skills of his family's tradecraft. At six years old he learned how to pick locks. At eight he learned that severing the spinal cord at the base of the neck prevents targets from getting off one last shot after you've killed them. It's this lifelong training that makes him so good. And some people think his very lineage adds to his prowess, that each generation yields a better assassin than the generation before him—not because of the training, but because it's in his blood."

"Knock it off," Allen said, flashing an unsure smile.

"You asked," she said.

"Maybe there's something to it," Stephen said. "After all, Julia, you saw him come back from the dead."

Her mouth went dry. She had see him slaughtered, only to appear the next day ready for a fight. That was creepy enough, but did it lend credibility to stories about him? To her, it did.

The tinted window next to her hinged at the top. She levered open the bottom to its maximum opening of about four inches. She was about to drop the phone through when it rang.

She looked at Allen, who scowled.

"Private number," she said and answered.

"Touche, Ms. Matheson."

The voice made her think of her great-aunt's letters. The writing was thin and shaky, as though written on a paint mixer.

"I thought you'd like that," she said.

"You're a very capable woman. As I said, I believe we can help each other."

"Without knowing who you are, I don't want your help, and you certainly won't get mine."

Silence.

"At this point," he said, "I must tell you that we are dealing in matters of national security. I must be assured that anything I tell you will be kept in the strictest confidence. This goes for you and Allen and Stephen Parker. I am recording this conversation."

"You're kidding, right?"

"I've very serious. Divulging what we say to anyone—the media, your mother—will result in your arrest and imprisonment. Is that clear?"

Her stomach tightened. Did he say mother simply to stress the comprehensiveness of the prohibition, or was he saying something? Did he know about her mother, her being alone, her illness? Was he threatening her?

"We've got killers after us, and you're telling me you'll throw me in jail for talking?"

"I can't say more without your indicating that you understand the confidential nature of our conversation and the consequences for violating this confidence."

She suspected he was more interested in establishing his credibility with her than binding her to a gag order.

"I understand and agree."

"And what is your whole name?"

She told him.

"Now, please, let me speak to Dr. Parker and his brother."

She hesitated. Was he trying to establish that they were together? Was there any reason to keep it secret? She couldn't think of any. She handed the phone to Allen.

He listened, then said, "Allen Douglas Parker." Listened. "I agree." He handed the phone to Stephen, who went through the process, then held the phone over his shoulder for Julia to take.

"Okay, now—"

"My name is Kendrick Reynolds."

"Kendrick Reynolds?"

Allen's eyes got big. He mouthed the name.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Of course. Former secretary of state. Former director of the CIA. Advisor to, what, eight presidents?"

"Ten," he corrected.

"Billionaire," Allen added.

"I assume," the man claiming to be Kendrick Reynolds said, "you can confirm my identity through the computer files you stole."

"You said you can help us."

"I can protect you."

"The way you protected Goodwin Donnelley and Despesorio Vero?"

"My point exactly. They were on their own, away from my protection. Their fate does not have to be yours."

"And how do we help you?"

"I believe you have something Despesorio Vero was bringing me."

"To you? He showed up at the CDC. I heard tapes of his calls. He never mentioned you."

"I am the only person who can stop Karl Litt."