Sea of Greed

“I can’t tell you that,” Kurt said. “But I can tell you he’s partially responsible for dozens of fatalities and that he may have the knowledge we need to avert a worldwide crisis. So, treat him well, but don’t forget whose side he’s on.”

The doctor said nothing in return and Kurt walked out, his mind already focused on finding a genetics lab in Dakar.

46

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“THERE’S NO SIGN of a genetics lab in Dakar.”

These were the first words Kurt heard upon waking up from several hours of desperately needed sleep.

After leaving Bethesda, he’d returned to his boathouse on the Potomac and fallen onto his couch. He’d closed his eyes, intending only to rest for a moment, but surrounded by the familiar scents and sounds of his own home — the aroma of varnish that wafted up from the workshop below, the hum of the oversized filter in the tropical fish tank — he was asleep before he knew it.

The phone call from Rudi had shocked him back to consciousness several hours later.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Millard was pretty clear about the location.”

Rudi didn’t waver. “Both the CIA and NSA insist there is zero possibility of a genetics lab in Dakar. I had a search run for anything that would indicate Tessa’s company or any subsidiaries acting in the region, but there’s nothing to suggest she’s ever been connected to that part of the world, let alone Dakar itself.”

“What about Millard or any of his known associates?”

“Nothing there either,” Rudi said.

Kurt could hardly believe what he was hearing. “What’s the confidence level on this?”

“High,” Rudi said. “There’s a CIA unit specifically tasked with tracking genetic threats. Millard has been on their watch list for years. He’s split his time between France, Bermuda and the UK. He’s never set foot on African soil.”

“What about other places named Dakar?” Kurt asked.

“Plenty of them,” Rudi said. “One in Syria, three others in Africa, one in India. There’s even a small city in the heart of Russia named Dakar. But there’s nothing to indicate Tessa, or Millard, has ever been to any of them.”

Kurt stared at the ceiling. There was no point arguing. “What about the French language portion of the recording? Have the interpreters come up with anything from it?”

“Most of it was unintelligible,” Rudi said, “though Millard’s voice was clear when insisting that he didn’t create the bacteria and when he offered a statement near the end, stating, ‘the French were there also.’”

“Is it possible to wake him up again?” Kurt asked.

“I checked on that,” Rudi replied. “He’s gone into a deeper coma. The doctors said trying to wake him now would probably kill him. And considering the head trauma, they’re not sure what his cognitive state will be when he finally does wake up. It’s a miracle you got from him what you did.”

“Then, we’ll just have to listen some more and figure out what he meant,” Kurt said. “Not to change the subject, but what about the Monarch?”

“If we’d found it,” Rudi said, “I’d have told you already.”

“Sorry,” Kurt said. “Keep me posted.”

Rudi promised to do just that and hung up.

Kurt stood and walked to the kitchen. He switched the coffeepot on and left the lights off. Waiting for the coffee to brew, he went over Millard’s words in his head.

Millard had been utterly clear about Dakar. He’d even mentioned that the French were there — and the French had controlled Dakar, and the region of Senegal where it is located, for centuries.

Picking up the recorder, he listened to Millard’s words again, playing it section by section, stopping and rewinding repeatedly, until he’d gone through it several times.

Between the weakness of Millard’s voice, his labored breathing and the background noise of the hospital room, it was hard to make out everything, but after listening to the same words over and over Kurt realized something small that he’d overlooked.

“Le Dakar,” he said, speaking Millard’s words. “The… Dakar.”

Millard was referring not to a place but to a thing — and when he heard Millard mention that the poor souls had drowned, Kurt became certain just what that thing was.

He sat at his computer and checked the NUMA database, quickly finding what he was looking for. But the information was cursory, not much better than what was available publicly.

Rarely was that the case.

If he wanted anyone to take his theory seriously, he was going to need more. And if the information wasn’t going to be found in the computers of the world, he’d have to seek out a different storehouse of knowledge. One made of flesh and blood.

Grabbing his keys, Kurt ran out the front door. He climbed into his Jeep and sped off toward Georgetown, heading for St. Julien’s.

47

GEORGETOWN