“I assume this meeting is about the files Lisa transmitted from Christmas Island,” Painter began.

Jennings nodded and opened the folder. He slid over two photographs, gruesome shots of some man’s legs, riddled with what appeared to be gangrene. “I’ve gone through both the toxicologist’s and the bacteriologist’s notes. Here is a patient whose skin bacteria suddenly turned virulent, consuming the soft tissues of his own legs. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Painter studied the pictures, but before he could even ask a question, the doctor was back up on his feet, pacing.

“I know we initially classified the Indonesian disaster as a low-level priority, merely a fact-gathering operation. But after these findings, we need to upgrade. Immediately. I came here in person to petition for a promotion of the scenario to Status Critical Level Two.”

Painter sat straighter. Such a classification would mean diverting massive resources.

“We need more than two people poking around,” Jennings continued. “I want a full forensic team on the ground as soon as possible, even if we have to outsource with the general military.”

“And you don’t think this is jumping the gun? Monk and Lisa are due to touch base in”—Painter checked his watch—“in a little over three hours. We can strategize then, when we have more data.”

Jennings took off his glasses and rubbed a knuckle into an eye. “I don’t think you understand. If the preliminary conjectures by the toxicologist prove to be true, we may be facing an ecological disaster, one with the potential to alter the entire earth’s biosphere.”

“Malcolm, don’t you think you’re overstating your case? These results are preliminary. Most of it mere conjecture.” Painter waved to the photographs. “All this could just be a onetime toxic event.”

“Even if that were the case, I’d recommend firebombing that island and cordoning off the surrounding seas for several years.” He faced Painter. “And if this threat proves in any way transmissible, we’re talking about the potential for a global environmental meltdown.”

Painter gaped at the pathologist. Jennings was not one to cry wolf.

The doctor continued. “I’ve compiled all the necessary data and written a brief abstract to summarize. Read it and get back to me. The sooner the better.”

Jennings left his folder on Painter’s desk.

Painter placed a palm atop it and pulled it toward him. “I’ll do it now and get back to you in the next half hour.”

Jennings nodded, grateful and relieved. He turned to leave, but not before adding one last warning. “Keep in mind…we still don’t know for sure what killed the dinosaurs.”

With that sobering thought, the pathologist left his office. Painter’s eyes settled to the gruesome photographs still on his desk. He prayed Jennings was wrong. In all the commotion of the past hours, he had almost forgotten about the situation out in the Indonesian islands.

Almost.

All night long, Lisa had never been far from his mind.

But now new worries flared, ignited by the pathologist’s urgency. He tried not to let it rule him. Over the course of the morning, Lisa had not reported in again. Apparently nothing had escalated over there enough to warrant another emergency call.

Still…

Painter tapped the intercom button. “Brant, can you ring up Lisa’s satellite phone?”

“Right away.”

Painter opened the file folder. As he began to read the report inside, a cold dread edged up his spine.

Brant came back on the intercom. “Director, it just keeps ringing through to voice mail. Do you want me to leave a message?”

Painter turned his wrist, checking his watch. His call was hours early. Lisa could be involved in any number of duties. Still, he had to force down a rising panic.

“Just ask Dr. Cummings to call in as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Brant, check in with the cruise ship’s switchboard.”

He knew he was being paranoid. He attempted to return to the folder, but he found it hard to concentrate.

“Sir…” Brant’s voice returned a moment later. “I’ve reached the sea-band operator. They’re reporting communication troubles shipwide, drops in satellite feed. They’re still working out some of the bugs in the new ship.”

Painter nodded. The Mistress of the Seas had been on its maiden voyage, also known as a shakedown cruise, when it had been commandeered for this medical emergency.

“They report no other major problems,” Brant finished.

Painter sighed. So he was indeed being too paranoid. He was letting his feelings for Lisa cloud his judgment. If this had been any other operative, would he have even called?

He returned to his reading.

Lisa was fine.

And besides, Monk was with her. He would keep her safe.

6

Pestilence

What the hell was going on?

Lisa stood with the other three scientists. They were all gathered in the ship’s presidential suite. A uniformed butler poured single-malt whiskey into a row of tulip-shaped snifters, lined atop a silver tray. As a result of Painter’s appreciation for malt whiskey, Lisa recognized the bottle’s label: a rare sixty-year-old Macallan. The butler’s hands trembled, jostling his aim, splashing the expensive whiskey.

The butler’s poor stewardship could be blamed on the pair of masked gunmen, armed with assault rifles. They stood guard at the double doors that led into the suite. Across the room, French doors opened onto a balcony wide enough to park a municipal bus, where another gunman patrolled.

Inside, teak cabinetry and leather furniture appointed the grand suite. Vases of miniature island roses decorated the room, while a Mozart sonata whispered softly from hidden speakers. The scientists clustered in the room’s center. It could have been the beginning of any university cocktail party.

Except for the raw fear in everyone’s faces.

Earlier, Lisa and Henri Barnhardt had obeyed the summons to climb to the ship’s bridge. What else could they do? Up in the bridge, they found the WHO leader, Dr. Lindholm, already there, wiping blood from his nose, plainly clubbed in the face. Benjamin Miller, the infectious-disease expert, arrived shortly thereafter.

They had been met by a towering figure, the leader of the pirates. He was the size of a linebacker, heavily muscled, with thick, cruel hands. He wore a khaki uniform, jungle-camouflaged pants tucked into black boots. He did not bother with a mask. His hair was the color of wet mud, clipped short, his skin polished bronze, except for a green-and-black tattoo across the left side of his face. It was of a Maori design known as Moko, all swirls and windblown lines.

He had ordered them to this suite, to wait in seclusion.

Lisa had been happy to abandon the bridge. A pitched battle must have been waged atop the ship, evidenced from the bullet-pocked windows and equipment. She had also noted the wide smear of blood across the bridge’s floor, where a body had been dragged away.

Herded over to the presidential suite, Lisa had been surprised to discover one last captive caught in the net.

The owner of the cruise line, Ryder Blunt, stood beside his butler and gathered up a handful of the crystal snifters. Dressed in jeans and a rugby shirt, he looked like a young, sun-bleached Sean Connery.

He crossed over and passed around the snifters of whiskey. “I think we can all use a little of this Macallan heat,” he said, puffing around the smoldering stump of a cigar. “If only to steady our nerves. And if not that, at least we’ll drink through my best stores before the bloody bastards discover it.”

Like most people, Lisa knew Ryder’s story. Only forty-eight, the Aussie had earned his fortune during the silicon boom, developing encryption software for downloading copyrighted material. He then parlayed his profits into a series of wildly successful real estate and commercial ventures, including the cruise line. A lifetime bachelor, he was also renowned for his maverick ways: swimming with great whites, helo-skiing to remote parts of the world, base-jumping off buildings in Kuala Lumpur and Hong Kong. Yet he also had a reputation for generosity, joint-venturing a slew of philanthropic pursuits.