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  “Drop me off and park across the street,” she told Stephen. She took a table by a window looking out on the parking lot and ordered coffee.

  Halfway through her second cup, a red Camaro pulled in, its beige canvas top up. She was out of the restaurant before the car came to a complete stop. An obese man behind the wheel eyed her suspiciously. She squatted by the window and tossed a wad of cash onto his bulbous stomach. He counted it and handed her a plastic grocery bag. She looked inside and nodded, and the car pulled out faster than it had pulled in. Thirty seconds later, Stephen picked her up in the van.

  “I wish everything went that smoothly,” she said, slamming the van’s sliding door. She moved into the captain’s chair behind the driver’s seat and laid a phone down on the table beside the computer. She dumped the rest of the bag’s contents into the chair next to her: three more cell phones and another bag of items from Radio Shack.

  “Where to?” Stephen asked.

  “Take us to an east-west interstate.”

  “Which direction?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Find a rest area or truck stop.”

  He thought about it. “We’re not too far from I-40.”

  “What’s east?”

  “Next big city, Charlotte.”

  “What’s west?”

  “Nashville.”

  “I-40, James.”

  Stephen got the van moving.

  Allen turned around in his seat. “What’s with the phones?”

  “Each one has been reprogrammed with a cell phone number that someone retrieved by monitoring the calls in a congested area, like rush-hour traffic.”

  Allen nodded. “The people looking for us don’t know to monitor the airwaves for these particular numbers. We can use them without the bad guys tracing the signals back to us.”

  “Except that I want them to find these two.” She held up a phone in each hand.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You will. But first, here …” She handed him a minicassette recorder still in a Radio Shack box, two AA batteries, and a cassette tape. She began pulling a second recorder out of its box. When both recorders were ready, she said, “Pretend it’s a phone. Hit the record button when I hit mine and chat with me.”

  “What do I say?”

  “Follow my lead.”

  fifty-three

  “Play it again.”

  Kendrick Reynolds sat in his wheelchair next to a computer workstation, a pair of noise-eliminating headphones clamped over his ears.

  The technician used a trackball to manipulate controls on the monitor. Voices came over the headphones.

  “… killed Goody.” A female voice.

  “Who?” Male.

  “My partner, Goodwin Donnelley. The guy who died on your operating table yesterday.”

  “Right. Who killed him?”

  “I don’t know, but Despesorio Vero died too.” She sounded exasperated. “He was the guy who was trying to get into the Center for Disease Control. They were in some bar in Chattanooga. Goody went to your ER. Vero’s body disappeared.”

  Behind Kendrick, Captain Landon held a single headphone cup to his right ear. He said, “The key-phrase trigger was Karl Litt. When the monitors recognized the phrase, the recorder kicked in.”

  Kendrick moved a cup off one ear. “But we can’t hear it in context?”

  “Key-phrasing entire geographical areas means monitoring every conversation, millions of them. It’s not like monitoring a handful of lines or even every line in an office building. We can’t use record-and-erase technology on geo-keys. Our systems are already taxed—”

  “Just say no, Mike.” Kendrick looked up at him. He was sure what the captain saw when he looked back was a tired old man. He hated that.

  “No, sir. No context on the key phrase Karl Litt.”

  He hated that too: not knowing how much these people knew, how much Vero had told them. He had to find them, interrogate them, and confiscate whatever evidence Vero had passed on to them. There were two issues now: finding Karl and keeping a lid on projects that were never meant for public scrutiny. He hoped catching up with these three would solve both problems.

  The technician at the controls spoke up. “They’re still talking.”

  “What? How long have they kept this connection open?”

  “Twenty-three minutes. I’m streaming it live now. Should I bring the audio current?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “… but that’s impossible. If Despesorio Vero did have information, he would have told Goody.”

  “Donnelley?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about this Karl Litt guy?”

  “I don’t know …”

  Kendrick closed his eyes slowly. He pulled the headphones off and laid them on the workstation. “They’re moving?” he asked with a quiet sigh.

  “Yes,” said the technician. “They’re both on I-40. The woman’s heading west out of Knoxville, toward Nashville. The man’s heading east, between Thorngrove and Danridge.”

  Kendrick shook his head. It wasn’t them. As a federal agent, Matheson would know about key-phrasing. But she wouldn’t know how much more advanced military technology was over what the Justice Department had access to. She would be accustomed to systems that missed more key phrases than they caught. That’s why she repeated the names—Karl Litt, Despesorio Vero, Goodwin Donnelley. Decoys only worked if people went after them.

  “Send one team each to intercept them,” he ordered. He could not risk being wrong. “Tell them to tread lightly; I don’t think it’s them. And, ruling out anything along I-40, try to get a handle on where they’re really heading.”

  “That was fun,” Allen said flatly.

  They had recorded their conversation, duct-taped the recorders to the phones, had one phone call the other, and sent them in different directions—one under the tarp of a ski boat attached to a Suburban and one in the open bed of a pickup truck. Julia had no doubt their pursuers would key in on the signal. Their ability to intercept the SATD and find them in Knoxville told her they had the technology and were actively seeking them. She only hoped it would take them a long time to track down the cell phones. On the recordings, she hadn’t mentioned any possible key phrases for fifteen minutes. That would give them time to distance themselves from the phones. The minicassette tapes were thirty minutes long. After that, the dead air would cause the phones to disconnect. If their pursuers had yet to find the phones, they would not be able to pinpoint the signals—because there would be no signals—and would have to search everywhere along I-40.

  Except, she thought with dismay, if they used an infinity transmitter to call the cell phones and force the lines to stay open until they found them.

  She’d forgotten about that. If it wasn’t one thing, it was twenty.

  “So you think they’re off our tail now?” Allen wanted to know.

  “For a while … I hope.”

  “Now what?”

  “We find out what Vero gave his life to bring to us.”

  She told them about the memory chip, where she’d found it, and how she had to contact a friend to help her access the data.

  “You have this chip, but you can’t read it, and you don’t have the data your friend converted? So what’s your plan?” Allen looked as though he’d been hit with a bat.

  “I’m going to get the data, Allen, all right?” She wanted to smack him. In his smug expression she saw someone used to predictability, someone who didn’t just prefer order over chaos but required it. She saw … She saw someone who was frightened and wanted everything to go back to normal. She realized they were all on edge. His frustration came from the same well as hers.

  “Look, I don’t have all the answers. I don’t have any answers, really. All I know is we have to keep moving, keep looking for reasons why this is happening and how we can put an end to it. We just don’t know enough at this point.”

  She plugged her laptop into a cigarette lighter receptacl
e, then connected the other cell phone she’d purchased to the laptop. Allen watched her.

  “While we’re moving,” she explained, “I can’t use the device that connects me to Wi-Fi, and I don’t want to stay in one place long enough to get the file transfer. So I got a third clone-phone. Bonsai gave me a direct number to his server. It’ll be slow, but it’s secure and we can do it while we’re heading back to Atlanta.”

  “That’s what I don’t understand,” Stephen said from the driver’s seat. They were traveling south on I-75, which would take them through Chattanooga and on to Atlanta. “Why there?”

  “Atlanta? It’s where all this started, for Goody and me anyway. And it’s my home turf; I may be able to tap some resources I couldn’t somewhere else.”

  “Like what?” Allen asked.

  “I don’t know, Allen. Maybe it’s just a comfort factor.”

  Consulting a notepad, she punched a number into the cell phone. A moment later, the laptop indicated that it was connected to a server. She called up Bonsai’s web site and started the transfer of Vero’s data.

  “This is going to take awhile.”

  “What’s awhile?” Allen asked.

  Julia shrugged. “I’ll know in a minute.” She waited for the program to receive enough data to extrapolate an estimated completion time. “I’m hoping we can view it before reaching Atlanta.”

  “That’s about three, three and a half hours,” Stephen informed her.

  Three digits appeared on the screen. She stared at them numbly, then reported, “Six hours and twenty-three minutes.”

  When you start marking time by the number of attempts on your life you’ve survived, six hours seems an eternity.

  She cleared her throat.

  On the way to meet the clone-phoner, they’d stopped by a grocery store for a supply of food and drinks. Now Allen reached into a small Styrofoam ice bucket in the foot well and pulled out a Pepsi. He handed it to Julia.

  She nodded her thanks and took a swig.

  They rode in silence. Stephen clutched the wheel in both hands and checked the side mirrors with obsessive frequency. Allen rolled an unopened Dr Pepper between his palms and stared out the windshield. Julia leaned back, hiked a shoeless foot up onto the chair, and thought about the events since Goody’s phone call yesterday morning. She carefully considered every word she could remember, every move she’d made or seen, searching for a question that needed answering, a clue that needed exploring. They were there, waiting for discovery. They always were.

  fifty-four

  Jorge Prieto watched his blood drop a dozen feet and disappear into the rich, dark soil below. He had long stopped trying to snort back the constant flow that poured from his nostrils, or blot it with the thin cotton sleeves of his khaki coveralls. Cradled in the fork of two limbs in a thirty-meter copaiba tree, he painfully sucked in air through clenched teeth, trying to relieve his burning lungs without making a sound. It had taken all his energy to break away from his captors and make it this far.

  Not far enough! Gotta move! Move …

  But his aching body urged him to wait, just a few more minutes of rest.

  Brought in blindfolded five weeks ago, he had no idea how much farther to the compound’s perimeter. A kilometer? Twenty? No matter, he had to make it, had to.

  Before he could suppress the urge, he coughed, hawking up something from deep inside. Stifling a groan, he listened for pursuers. He heard nothing but the ghostly howl of wind flitting through the treetops. He planted his sweaty face on a forearm and waited for the feeling that his organs were shifting freely within his body to pass.

  What had they done to him? What?

  When the pain had come, cramping his stomach, raising the temperature of his skin, he’d cursed Karai-pyhare, the evil troll whose invisible caress left victims shaken and sick. A silly superstition, he knew, but childhood beliefs die hard. His adult mind recognized the symptoms of influenza. Then the headaches, dizziness, nausea, and perspiration spiraled higher like a brewing storm, and he realized something far more serious had hold of him. Dysentery, he thought when blood showed up in the toilet, maybe jungle fever—malaria.

  He thought of how his captors had seemed obsessively concerned over his condition, attaching a million confusing machines to him and running all sorts of tests. He’d asked about chloramphenicol for dysentery or chloroquine for jungle fever—medicines you learned about growing up poor on the Tropic of Capricorn. They had shook their heads dismissively.

  That’s when I knew you’d done something to me, you devils, you monstruos! I saw it in your faces, and knew I had to get away … had to warn others …

  Most everyone, it seemed—his fellow “prisoners,” the guards, himself—had cold symptoms to greater or lesser degrees. The ones who had complained of cramps or bloody noses disappeared within a few days. If he was going to make a move, it had to be quick.

  The crack of a twig startled him. His face made a sticky suction sound when he raised it to glare into the dense subtropical forest. Pitch-black shadows made darker by irregular spots of bright sunlight—nothing more. Even the contraptions hidden in the trees—the tiny cameras and monstrous machines that defied imagination—were invisible to him now. He turned to face the ground, and a ribbon of blood spiraled down like an eel escaping into the deep.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw Juanita floating up to him as if through water: her cashew-colored skin, mahogany eyes, soft lips …

  No! He must not let his thoughts scurry away; but they were becoming so slippery, so rebellious.

  Concentrate! Escape! You don’t belong here. You are not a prisoner.

  And that was true. He had done nothing wrong, nothing to deserve imprisonment. Jorge Prieto had always accepted personal responsibility, had always tried to do the right thing. When he slipped, he worked hard to make amends. Had he fled when Juanita said she was with child? No. Casper Merez had even pushed a half million guaranis into his hand—a month’s wages!—and told him, “Go, Jorge. Such a burden is not for a seventeen-year-old boy. Go find the man inside first.” But the man was already there, and he had married the girl instead. Now, twelve years later, he and Juanita had not just one but four ninos, three girls darkly pretty like their mother, and a boy strong and forthright like his father.

  And did his family starve when their mouths became too many for their backwater town of Piribebuy to feed? No, he had moved them to Itaipu, where construction on the world’s largest hydroelectric plant paid him for as many hours as his back could bear.

  Always food on the table, shelter from the elements. The minimum a man provides his family.

  Maybe he should have worried more about the many people who vanished from Itaipu. Some said it was the demon Kurupi, who came in the night to feast on human flesh. Others thought those gone had tired of the bone-breaking work and fled back to their poorer but happier villages. He had not known what to think, had not really thought about it at all. Feed his family, be a man—only these things mattered.

  Now Jorge Prieto knew better. The truth had come to him instantly in the form of two men leaping from a slow-moving van, clubbing him, shackling him, dragging him into their metal lair.

  Kurupi, yes—but with the faces of men.

  He pushed into a sitting position, his legs dangling through the fork, his back hard against the massive tree trunk.

  As much as he wanted to provide again for his family, he wanted more to tell them that he had not simply left them. What had his disappearance done to their hearts? It was a twisting knife in his own chest to ponder the question.

  So he had watched for a chance to escape. This morning, it had come.

  Movement in his peripheral vision.

  A guard emerged from the darkness, stepping silently over the muscular roots of a mahogany tree. The man, clad in shades of green, carried an assault rifle, panning its barrel as his eyes scanned the forest before him. He did not look up. When he was directly underneath, Jorge Prieto leaped through th
e fork, aiming his legs on each side of the soldier’s head. They crashed down together, the other man cushioning Prieto’s fall. Still, Prieto rolled away in agony, every organ blazing with its own unique pain. He vomited, crimson streaked with oily black swirls. Dark mist moved through his brain, stripping away rational thought. But he knew he had to get away, as an animal knows when to hide, when to run, when to strike.

  He pulled the weapon out from under the collapsed soldier, staggered away. Unsure of what made him look back, he did—in time to see the soldier on his knees, pulling a pistol from a holster at his hip. Prieto swung the automatic rifle around and squeezed the trigger.

  The sound shattered the calm jungle. Birds of all sizes and colors burst through the leafy canopy, adding their own panicked squawking to the rustling of the countless plants they disturbed. Soldiers instantly hunched lower, pivoting in the direction of the machine-gun fire. Gregor von Papen, nearly invisible among the mottled greens and tans of the forest in his camo, considered drawing his sidearm, decided not to, and marched into the barrage’s dying echo.

  Gregor thought of this as his descabellar, the final kill offered a retiring matador. He wasn’t retiring, of course; he would die commanding security forces. But Litt had proclaimed an end to his need for test subjects.

  “We’ve arrived,” he’d said. “Target practice is over. Let’s get on with the war.” He wanted all the prisoners gone immediately. “Managing them will put a strain on our resources during this critical time,” he’d said.

  So this morning, while loading the prisoners into a truck for

  transportation into the jungle, where the others were buried, Gregor had arranged an opportunity for one of them to “escape.”