Smith frowned and considered. “If it were the plague or smallpox, we’d likely have nothing to worry about. The pathogens would probably be long inert by now. Besides, why lie about it? All three of the alternatives would have been equally nasty, and once we reach the crash site we’d know anyway.”
“Exactly.” Valentina gave an acknowledging tilt of her head. “That’s why it can’t just be the presence of the bioagent alone. They’ve already confessed to it. There must be some X factor involved that we don’t understand. Beyond that, the present deponent knoweth not. But I can be reasonably certain about one other thing.”
“What would that be?”
She took another sip of her coffee. “Something damn peculiar is going to happen when we get inside that airplane.”
Chapter Twelve
Anchorage, Alaska
Three hours out of Seattle the 737 popped its flaps and airbrakes and began its descent into the Anchorage bowl. Snowcapped ridgelines and the steel blue waters of Cook’s Inlet panned past the liner’s windows as it spiraled down into the contradiction of a twenty-first-century American city set in the heart of an essential wilderness.
Settling on its landing gear, the little Boeing taxied to the south terminal of Ted Stevens International Airport. A uniformed Alaska State Policeman from the airport security detail stood waiting for Smith and his people at the head of the Jetway.
“Welcome to Alaska, Colonel Smith,” the state trooper said gravely. “We’ve got a vehicle waiting for you out in the police lot.” He passed Smith a set of car keys. “It’s a white unmarked Crown Vic. Just leave it at Merrill Field. We’ll send someone to collect it.”
It was obvious that Director Klein’s invisible but potent presence had passed this way, smoothing their path. “Thank you, Sergeant,” Smith replied, accepting the keys. “It’s appreciated.”
The trooper also handed over a small, heavy case of black pebbled plastic. “This was also sent over for you, Colonel. Somebody seems to think you might need it.”
Smith matched the trooper’s rather pointed smile. “They could be wrong.”
They had limited themselves to carry-on luggage, so there was no need to join in the battle around the baggage carousels. Smith led his team out of the terminal building and into the crisp Alaskan noon. The oddly angled sun was warm, but the air was cool in the shadows, and the surrounding peaks of the great Chugach range were dusted with fresh snow-pointed hints that time was running out in the North.
As promised, a mud-streaked Ford with Alaskan state plates was waiting for them. After stowing their luggage in the sedan’s commodious trunk, Smith tossed the keys over to Randi. She slid in behind the wheel, with Smith taking the front passenger seat and Valentina the back. Automatically they paused to arm up.
Taking the pistol case onto his lap, Smith popped the slide catches and flipped open the lid.
Since joining the profession Smith had developed a theorem about weapons preference. It was a profound personality statement about the individual and the way they related to a potentially hostile world. It was also an absolute truth because it was something one was entrusting one’s life to.
He passed a black leather and nylon fanny pack across to Randi and watched as she ripped open the heavy Velcro fasteners and flipped the pouch section down and off the concealed crossdraw holster. Revealed also were the rosewood grips and stainless steel finish of a Smith and Wesson model 60, the Lady Magnum variant ergonomically optimized for a female shooter. With deft, practiced movements she dunked a speedloader of.357 hollowpoint into the revolver’s chambers.
Point proven. Randi Russell was a lady, and she carried a lady’s gun. But as she was a very serious lady, it was a very serious lady’s gun.
For himself, there was simple mil-spec practicality, a Department of Defense alternate-issue SIG-Sauer P-226 with a stack of 9mm clips and a Bianchi shoulder holster and clip carrier. The armed forces had expended a great deal of time and effort proving up the SIG as an effective and efficient personal firearm. Smith found no reason to argue with their decision.
Finally there was a small, elongated bundle wrapped in soft black cloth. “What’s that?” Randi asked as Smith lifted it from the case.
“Those are mine,” Valentina replied, resting her chin on her crossed hands atop the seat back. “Have a look.”
Smith opened the bundle. It contained a brace of throwing knives, but knives such as he had never seen before. Intrigued, he drew one from its nylon slip sheath.
Only eight inches long and barely the width of his ring finger, it was half haft, half blade. The blade itself was almost spikelike, with a flattened, diamond-shaped cross-section, the junctures of all four oiled facets honed to a shimmering edge. Both the doctor and the warrior within Smith were impressed. Like a rapier or one of the old triangular-bladed trench knives, it would produce a wound channel that would be a perfect horror to try and close.
There was no guard, but an indented thumb brace circled the top of the checkered hilt. And the knife hadn’t been assembled; it had been carved, expertly cold-machined out of a single bar of some exceptionally heavy metal.
The knife bore a certain family resemblance to the tonki throwing darts used in Japanese martial arts, and when Smith laid it across his extended finger to test its balance he found it perfect. Except for the blade edges and a minute silver “VM” scripted on one blade facet, it was finished in jet black.
“It’s beautiful,” Randi whispered in honest appreciation. And it was. There was a sense of design and proportion to the little knife that made it a work of art beyond the weapon.
“Thank you,” Valentina Metrace replied. “That’s DY-100 steel-hellish stuff to work but incredibly strong, and if you can get an edge on it, it lasts forever.”
Smith glanced back at her. “You made these?”
Valentina gave a modestly acknowledging tilt of her head. “A hobby.”
Randi smiled indulgently as she buckled the belt of the fanny pack/ holster around her waist. “They’re pretty, Professor, but if a situation develops you might want something a little more substantial.”
“Never underestimate the point and the edge, darling.” Valentina accepted the knives from Smith. “Blades have killed more people than all of the bombs and bullets ever created, and they continue to do so with undiminished efficiency.”
One of the throwing knives vanished up the historian’s left sweater sleeve, the other into a boot top. “My little pets are silent, jamproof, and far easier to conceal than a gun. You never have to worry about running out of ammunition, and they can punch through soft body armor that would stop a conventional pistol round cold.”
Randi gave her gun belt a final settling tug and cranked over the Crown Victoria’s ignition. “I’ll stick with a gun, thanks.”
“Hopefully we won’t need either flavor of ordnance on this job, ladies.”
“Hopefully, Jon?” Randi replied, backing the car out of its slot.
“Well, let’s call it a nice thought.”
The next step was a call to a number he’d committed to memory before leaving Seattle that morning. As they worked their way out of the airport lot Smith keyed his cell phone. A deep voice speaking a mildly accented but excellent English replied, “This is Major Smyslov.”
“Good afternoon, Major, this is Colonel Smith. We will be picking you up in front of your hotel in about fifteen minutes. A white Ford sedan, Alaska license, Sierra…Tango…Tango…three…four…seven, one man, two women. Civilian clothes.”
“Very good, Colonel, I will be waiting.”
Smith flipped the phone shut. This would be his next critical unknown. There had already been a couple of interesting turns in his team’s makeup. What would this last member add to the already exotic brew?