The Genesis Plague - Michael Byrnes [48]
Jason knew he struck a chord, because Crawford’s jaw was jutting out again.
Folding his arms tight across his chest, Crawford shook his head like a disappointed parent. ‘Yeah, the stakes are high. Ten million high for you, isn’t that right? Free agents like you don’t get it, Yaeger,’ he said with venom. ‘True soldiers aren’t motivated by a 401(k) plan and bonuses. And don’t cry to me about your story, ‘cause I’ve already heard it: how your brother died in the Towers and, instead of grieving, you dropped out of Dartmouth and did your time with the marines. This little vendetta of yours’ - he twirled a finger up and down at Yaeger’s outfit - ‘seems too personal. One might say it compromises your objectivity.’
Jason kept his cool, and his distance. ‘Since you’ve done your homework, you should know that my psych examination suggests otherwise,’ he replied levelly. ‘My profile shows that I approach my work quite clearly and without bias. Don’t forget that I have people too. And I’m starting to feel that I need to check your background.’ He saw Crawford’s jaw extend to the max. ‘I called for backup. I didn’t call for a dick-measuring contest. Unless you’d like for me to file a formal complaint with the brigadier general, I suggest you start helping me. Stop talking to me like I’m your bitch.’
Crawford let out an exasperated sigh, flashed a sardonic grin. ‘Until we know what and whom we’re dealing with up there’ - but Stokes had already provided concise details - ‘I’d appreciate it if you could not stir the hornets’ nest, is all I’m saying.’
While staring into the colonel’s shifty eyes, Jason counted to five to decompress. ‘The bot’s prepped and ready,’ he replied calmly. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ He didn’t wait to be dismissed - just sidestepped Crawford and strode to the tent.
26
LAS VEGAS
Randall Stokes stared at the computer screen wondering when Frank Roselli’s elusive e-mail would make an appearance in his inbox.
‘If you have something to say, Frank, let’s get on with it,’ he said to no one.
This morning’s clean-up had Stokes’s lower left eyelid twitching and his neck muscles quaking in spasm - his body’s most recurrent stress valves. Even the skin on his hands was breaking out in an itchy rash. No doubt that was due to the message that had turned up in his inbox: Crawford’s blunt update concerning the botched kill order on the Boston mark. Normally, this wouldn’t overly concern Stokes. Except this time the mysterious white knight who’d thwarted the assassin had been overheard asking the mark probing questions about Iraq. That the guy had a gun and managed to escape with the mark posed some serious questions concerning his motive and his employer.
Three kill confirmations had already arrived: an archaeologist in Geneva, a biocontainment engineer in Munich, a micro-biologist in Moscow. No complications or interference. No interloper. Therefore, the archaeologist was an isolated problem that, in all probability, linked directly to the ID card the deep-cover unit found near the cave. That would soon be remedied too. But for now, Stokes mothballed his concerns.
Turning his attention back to the business at hand, Stokes brought up a new window and entered three pass keys in the software’s prompt boxes. A chequerboard of live video feeds came on line, each shot glowing in eerie green monochrome. In all, sixteen closed-circuit cameras equipped with audio and infrared transmitted interior shots of the labyrinth via an encrypted digital signal bouncing through military