“You’re a stubborn bastard,” Tucker said.
“So my mother tells me. Without the bastard reference, of course.”
11:45 A.M.
“How confident are you about your coordinates?” Harper asked.
Tucker stood in the barn next to the Range Rover. He had just finished an inventory check. Everyone else had retired out of the noonday heat for lunch, leaving him alone. He used the private moment to check in with Sigma.
“Ninety percent. It’s as good as it’s going to get, and it puts us ahead of the competition.”
“Speaking of them, a woman matching Felice Nilsson’s description and bearing a Swedish passport arrived in Cape Town this morning. Four men, also with Swedish passports, cleared customs at roughly the same time.”
“Not surprising. But we’ve got a big head start on her. Without Utkin feeding them info, they’re in the dark. And they still have to figure out the Klipkoppie mystery.”
“Hope you’re right. Now one last thing. You know that photo you forwarded us—the one of you in the Internet café in Dimitrovgrad?”
“Yes.”
“There’s something off about it.”
“Define off.”
“Our tech people are concerned about artifacts in the image’s pixel structure. It may be nothing, but we’re dissecting everything you sent—including all of Bukolov’s data.”
“Any verdict in that department?”
“We’ve got a team of biologists, epidemiologists, and botanists looking at everything. There’s not a whole lot of consensus, but they all agree on one thing.”
“That it’s all a hoax. We can turn around and go home.”
“Afraid not,” she replied. “They all agree that LUCA, if it’s the real deal, could have an r-naught that’s off the scale.”
“And that would mean what in English?”
“R-naught is shorthand for basic reproductive ratio. The higher the number, the more infectious and harder an organism is to control. Measles has a known r-naught value between 12 and 18. If Bukolov’s estimates and early experiments are valid, LUCA could clock in at 90 to 100. In practical terms, if a strain of LUCA is introduced into an acre of food crops, that entire plot of land could be contaminated in less than a day, with exponential growth after that.”
Tucker took in a sobering breath.
“Find this thing,” she warned, “and make sure Kharzin never gets his hands on it.”
Tucker pictured the plastic-wrapped blocks of C-4 packed aboard the Rover.
“That I promise.”
After they signed off, Tucker circled around to the front of the Rover and leaned over a topographical map spread across the hood. It depicted the southern Kalahari Desert and eastern Namibia. He ran a finger along the Groot Karas Mountains. He tapped a spot on the map where De Klerk’s cave should be located. Once there, they had to find a feature that looked like a boar’s head. But first the group had to get there.
“I’ve brought you lunch,” Christopher said behind him. “You must eat.”
He came with a platter piled with a spinach-and-beetroot salad and a club sandwich stuffed with steak, chicken, bacon, and a fried egg—the four essential food groups.
Kane—who had been lounging to one side of the Rover—climbed to his legs, sniffing, his nose high in the air. Tucker pinched off a chunk of chicken and fed it to him.
“What is troubling you?” Christopher asked.
Tucker stared at the map. “I’m trying to decide the best place to cross the border into Namibia. With our truckload of weapons and explosives, it’s best we try to sneak across at night.”
“Most correct. It is very illegal to bring such things into Namibia. Long prison sentences. And because of the smuggling operations of guerrillas and bandits, the border is patrolled heavily.”
“So you understand my problem; how about a solution?”
“Hmm.” Christopher elbowed him slightly to the side and pointed to the plate. “You eat. I’ll show you.”
He touched a town not far from the border. “Noenieput is a small agricultural collective. The South African police are lax there. Should be no problem to get through. Might have to pay . . . a tourist surcharge.”
Tucker heard the trip over the last. “In other words, a bribe.”
“Yes. But on the other side of the border, the Namibia police are not lax at all. Bribe or no bribe. All the paved roads are blockaded. We will have to go overland at night, like you said.”
Christopher ran his finger north and tapped a spot. “This is the best place to make a run for the border.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s where the guerrillas most often cross. Very dangerous men.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
Christopher looked at him. “Of course.” He pointed to the plate. “Now eat.”
For some reason, he no longer had an appetite.
32
March 20, 6:55 P.M.
Namibian Border
As Christopher drove, the landscape slowly changed from savannah to a mixture of rust-red sands, stark white salt flats, and scattered, isolated tall hillocks called kopjes. With the sun sitting on the horizon, those stony escarpments cast long shadows across the blasted plains.
Far in the distance, the crinkled dark outline of the Groot Karas Mountains cut across the sky. How were they going to reach those distant peaks? As flat as the terrain was here, a border crossing at night seemed impossible. Confirming this, small black dots buzzed slowly across the skies. They were spotter planes of the Namibian Air Force. By standing orders, they shot smugglers first and asked questions later.
Tucker tried to coax Christopher’s plan out of the man, but he remained reticent. Perhaps out of a secret fear that Tucker might leave him behind once he knew the plan.
“Noenieput,” Christopher announced, pointing ahead to a scatter of whitewashed homes and faded storefronts. “It has the only police station for a hundred miles. If they search our cargo, things will go bad for us.”
Anya slunk lower in the front seat, clutching the door grip.
Bukolov gave off a nervous groan. The doctor shared the backseat with Tucker and Kane.
“DOWN,” Tucker ordered the shepherd.
Kane dropped to the floorboards, and Tucker draped him with a blanket.
Ahead, a white police vehicle partially blocked the road, its nose pointed toward them. As they neared, the rack on top began flashing, plainly a signal.