The Judas Strain - James Rollins [55]
What was going on here?
Monk crossed back to his room to grab a pair of basketball shoes.
As he pulled them over his bare feet, he spoke to Jessie. “We can’t stay here. Someone will come looking for your sleeping beauty over there. We’ll find you somewhere else to hole up.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going after Lisa.”
“Then I’m coming with you.” Jessie stood up a bit shakily.
The young man tugged his shirt over his head, plainly intending to go in a pirate disguise, too. The young man was all rib bones, but Monk supposed there were some wiry muscles under there, too. Jessie had jumped the man here, taken out someone twice his size.
Still…
“I’m better alone,” Monk said firmly.
Jessie finally got his shirt over his head, mumbling something.
“What?”
The nurse turned to him, exasperated. “I’ve been trained in jujitsu and karate. Fifth-degree black belt in each.”
“I don’t care if you’re India’s answer to Jackie Chan. You’re still not coming.”
A knock at the door startled them both. Someone shouted at them in Malay, plainly a question. Monk didn’t understand a word. He lifted his rifle. He had other means of communication.
Jessie slipped past him, shoving Monk’s rifle barrel down as he passed. The nurse called through the door, sounding irritated, snapping back in Malay. An exchange followed, then whoever was at the door left, plainly satisfied.
Jessie turned back to him, cocking one eyebrow.
“Okay, maybe you could be useful,” Monk admitted.
4:20 P.M.
LISA STOOD WITH the other scientists and Ryder Blunt. The group of captives had been led at gunpoint to the foredeck of the ship. The large helicopter rested on its pad, tethered down now. Its hatches were open and a beehive of activity buzzed around it. Men unloaded heavy crates from its cargo holds.
She noted some of the stamped names and corporate logos: SYNBIOTIC, WELCH sCIENTIFIC, GENECORP. One box bore a stenciled American flag and the letters USAMRIID. The U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases.
It was all medical equipment.
The crates vanished down the throat of an elevator.
She caught Henri Barnhardt’s eye. The toxicologist had also noted the marked crates. One hand absently scratched his bearded chin. Deep frown lines bracketed his lips. Off to the side, Miller and Lindholm simply stood with their eyes glazed over, while Ryder Blunt attempted to light another cigar in the blustering breezes atop the cruise ship.
Standing under the helicopter’s rotors, Dr. Devesh Patanjali continued to oversee the final unloading personally. He had never explained his cryptic statement about saving the world. Instead he had ordered them all up here.
The Maori leader of the gunmen stood to one side, hands free of any weapons, but his palm rested on a holstered horse pistol, a massive sidearm. He stood with squinted eyes, surveying the foredeck’s activity, like a sniper sweeping a killing field. Lisa knew nothing escaped his notice, including the young woman who had accompanied Dr. Devesh Patanjali.
She remained a mystery, having spoken not a single word, her face an unwavering mask. She stood atop the foredeck with her sleek black boots together, her hands folded at her waist, a formal posture of waiting and servitude. And though her face might be unreadable, the shape and curve of her form had fully captured the attention of the Maori gunman.
Lisa had overheard her name when Dr. Patanjali had passed out of the presidential suite below. Surina. The doctor had given her a chaste kiss on the cheek as he left. It had been accepted without a flicker of emotion. The woman appeared to be of mixed Indian blood, dressed in a long sari wrap of muted oranges and rose silk, draped over which was a long ebony braid. If untied, her hair must sweep the floor behind her heels. Marking her heritage, she bore a crimson dot, the traditional bindi, on her forehead.