East London, South Africa
November 12, 10:18 A.M.
There was no mistaking the target. It was a woman, speeding, with a large platform mounted to the back of her scooter. It was probably there to hold mineral samples. At the moment, it had what appeared to be a cylinder on the back. From about 150 feet up, it conformed to the size and shape of what appeared to have been in Claude Foster’s backpack.
The scooter was on Esplanade Street, right along the seashore. The rider did not seem to be aware of the helicopter about an eighth of a mile behind her. Or if she was, she probably assumed it was part of the entourage of law enforcement and press that were the only people driving, boating, or flying.
“Up ahead,” Breen said to Williams, pointing.
“What am I looking at?”
“Big, long, rectangular building right on the expressway. The East London Police Station.”
“Where that team originated?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ve got to warn them,” Williams said.
“She may be going there to turn the sample in. They may not give her the chance.”
“We’ll tell them that,” Williams said. “Major, that’s an urban center—churches, six-lane highway, offices, schools—”
“Which is why they may shoot first.”
Williams was experiencing a sharp sense of déjà vu. Once again, they had a terrorist in their sights. Last time, Williams had learned something about his priorities when he pulled the trigger. He went to confession after that—and didn’t bother mentioning it.
He had a similar feeling now.
“Whichever side street she takes, she has to turn onto the expressway to go inside.” Breen folded Illing into the conversation. “Vic, big favor.”
“Go!”
“I want you to land on the R72. Not a lot of traffic—I think you can scare them away.”
“Sir, uh—I could lose my license and spend a very long time in prison.”
“You could also be a hero. The lady below has the last container of bacteria. I want to stop her from opening it in the police station and keep her from being shot.”
“Hold on,” Williams said. He regarded Breen. “You drop down like God Almighty, how do you know you won’t scare her into opening the damn thing right there?”
He took the gun from his pocket. “If she tries, I’ll shoot her. No hesitation.”
“I like that idea,” Illing said.
“Will you do this, Vic?” Breen asked him.
“I’m not a hero, gentlemen, but I am crazy. I guess—I guess I can tell them I had engine trouble.”
“Good man,” Breen said.
Plunging toward the largely deserted expressway, Illing came in west of the police station. He hovered some fifty feet above the street as the scooter was making a left turn from Buffalo Street to the east.
“In front of her,” Breen said as Katinka raced forward.
Two cars had already rushed to switch lanes as the helicopter dropped. It came down right in front of the police station, causing Katinka to swerve and officers to rush out—though all but two armed police stayed inside. The pair had handguns. They were on Williams’s side of the helicopter.
“I’ll deal with those two,” Williams said as the aircraft set down.
“Vic, kill the engine,” Breen said.
“Long as that’s all that gets killed, like you promised,” the pilot reminded Williams—only partly joking.
“Stay cool,” Breen cautioned, his own voice calm.
“Sure, sure, I’ll just wait here, then. Right behind this big glass bubble that isn’t bulletproof.”
Breen was not listening. Each man got out from his own side—without having coordinated it. Breen had his weapon tucked in his belt, in back, out of sight. Williams left his gun in its holster. Neither wanted to antagonize the objectives. Breen hesitated then placed his gun back on the seat.
“Major?” Williams cautioned.
“If she opens it, bullets won’t help,” Breen said. But it was more than that. He believed in a process and gunfire was not a part of that.
Either you believe in it or you don’t, he thought.
Breen raised his empty hands and walked toward Katinka. His dark eyes were fixed on the woman’s face, the way they had locked on the expressions of countless plaintiffs and defendants in depositions. He had learned to read the truth before he heard a lie, a confession, or a half-truth.
The woman who was still astride the partly turned scooter was homicidal. Not by nature but by circumstance. He had seen that in killers talking about their crimes of passion: planned, committed, and regretted in under five minutes.
“Katinka, I’m the man who was at the house before the shooters arrived,” he said, choosing his words carefully as he continued to approach. He wanted her to understand that he was on her side.
“Did you betray us?” she asked, dismounting and throwing the kickstand. She walked around to the back.
“No!” Breen assured her. The tail rotor stopped and it was suddenly funereally silent. There were no distractions. He lowered his hands and held them imploringly before him. Every word, every gesture carried the future on its back. “I did not approve of what Mr. Foster did. But I did not want to harm him.”
“He was driven to this terrible thing!” she shouted. “More than I understood … more than I wanted to believe.”
“Katinka, you were not responsible for his actions. You don’t have to answer for them—”
“I should never have turned those samples over,” she said, sobbing now. She stood beside the canister. “I thought … he would see what I could do. He would be pleased.”
“You did nothing wrong,” Breen said. “Do you hear me? I know what happened at Prince Edward, on the Teri Wheel. It was all an accident. Don’t do anything now that you know will harm others. I saw in the van—that isn’t you, Katinka.”
Her strong fingers and tearful eyes came to rest on the canister. The two armed police were moving to be clear of the helicopter where they would have a clear shot.
Breen saw them. He continued to approach and began to move so he was between the officers and their target. Williams had the same idea and had moved forward, toward Katinka and Breen.
“Sir, step back!” one of the officers said.
“I’m SANDF Intelligence and you will stand down!” Williams ordered without turning.
The police hesitated then continued forward silently.
“Katinka, take my hands,” Breen said. “Let me help you.”
“I thought he would,” she muttered as she removed the straps from the core sample.
“He did. He gave you time to get away.”
“He did that,” she agreed, nodding, then crying. “Everything is lost, gone.”
“Only the past, not your future.” He was nearly opposite her. “Come with me, please.”
“Where? I want to be with Claude.”
Uncertain what Katinka would do, what the police would do, Breen threw himself over the container, pushing her back with his right shoulder. She stumbled, fell, and clutching the sample like a football, he turned away.
“Go!” the police yelled as they ran forward.
Williams was ahead of them, preventing them from firing, and was the first to throw himself on top of Katinka.
He half turned toward the police, who were now approaching in a flood. “All of you get back! I am in charge here!”
With their focus on Katinka—and this was, Breen realized, part of Williams’s ploy—the major was able to reach the helicopter.
“Start her up, Vic.”
“That was … amazing, sir!”
“Rotors—now!”
“Yes, sir.”
The helicopter hummed to life and Breen watched through the bubble window as Williams stood and helped Katinka Kettle to her feet. His arm around her shoulder, he walked her back toward the helicopter. He spoke to a woman in a sharp uniform and cap who had come through the crowd of police. He handed Katinka to her and the woman waved everyone else away as she walked her toward the police station.
Williams turned, then, and ran to the helicopter.
“Let’s get out of here,” Williams said, slamming the door.
The commander’s eyes fell on the container that Breen was examining. He had not expected to find any breaches. If there were, they’d be dead.
“I take back what I said about accomplishing nothing,” Williams said quietly as they rose.
Below, officers were swarming the scooter, realizing, as they searched, that the men in the helicopter had not just the toxin but their evidence.
“What did you tell her, the arresting officer?” Breen asked.
“I told her not to cuff the woman or she would answer to General Krummeck of Intelligence,” Williams said.
Breen smiled thinly. “Thank you.”
“No. Thank you. If I had been in command—”
“Yeah. Way to go Black Wasp,” Breen said dryly.
“Speaking of way to go—?” Illing said.
“You got enough fuel to get us back where we started?”
“Just about. If not, you got guns—we’ll score some on the road.” He half turned. “Kidding. Gentlemen, you got me pumped. I will never have a day like this again if I live to be a great-great-great-grandfather.”
“I hope you do,” Williams said.
“I hope we all do,” Breen replied, looking at the canister as they turned toward the sea.