Immune (The Rho Agenda #2)(15)

Taking out his pocketknife, Freddy slipped the blade under a fold, slicing a straight, clean cut along the corners of the paper that covered the box. As he pulled the wrapping away, he saw that it did indeed cover a shoe box. Nike. With another couple quick slices, he severed the tape that secured the lid to the shoe box.

The reason for the rattle became immediately apparent as he lifted the lid. The box contained a sealed envelope and a small locked jewelry box. The packing around the jewelry box was insufficient to keep it from sliding back and forth in the shoe box, at least if dropped on the floor.

Freddy Hagerman rubbed his chin. Damn odd. The envelope was a white velum of intermediate quality, the type used for thank you cards. Across the seal, two capital letters had been printed: AA. Freddy slit the envelope along the upper edge, extracting the folded card with two fingers. The pre-printed “thank you” was the only writing on the outside of the card.

His first glance inside startled him so badly that he almost dropped the card. The note was short:

Dear Mr. Hagerman. My name is Abdul Aziz. Since you have received this package, I am already dead.



This means I have failed to deliver my message to the world, so I must rely on you, postmortem. I picked you because you are too talented and have access to too many unusual resources to be where you are today. I need your desperation.



As you are no doubt aware, I have come into some information about the Rho Project. Unfortunately, if I told you what I have learned, you would be obliged to immediately hand over the classified information to your government. Instead, I will provide clues that should allow you to discover the story for yourself.



In the small jewelry case I have placed two items and an address. The first of these items is a specimen slide. Take it to a medical examiner you can trust.



The second item was in the possession of one of the Rho Project’s experimental subjects, a man who called himself Priest Williams. The effects of the Rho Experiment on his mind will become self-evident. Go to the address. There you will find the answers to all your questions. There you will find your Pulitzer Prize. Inshallah.



At the bottom of the note, a small key was taped to the card with a piece of tape. Freddy stared down at the key, his eyes moving to the locked jewelry box, which now sat on the kitchen table. The whole thing was probably a hoax, something designed to humiliate him. Perhaps one of the enemies he had made from his gossip column had come up with an ingenious way for him to make a fool of himself. Of course, he couldn’t really make that judgment unless he looked in the jewelry box, now could he?

Removing the tape that held the key, Freddy slid the key into the small lock and twisted. The catch released with a click. For a moment, he considered the possibility that the box might contain a bomb. But that made no sense. If the sender had wanted to kill him, he could have done so when he opened the outer box. And why take the trouble to write the note?

Despite the logic of the thought, Freddy found his hands shaking as he raised the jewelry box lid. Inside, a scrap of yellow paper wrapped a microscope slide, held in place with a red rubber band. Unwrapping the paper, he noted that it contained a New Mexico address and a set of latitude and longitude coordinates. Although he did not have a microscope to examine the contents, Freddy held the glass slide up to the kitchen light. A thin slice of translucent red material lay sandwiched between the plates.

Disappointed, Freddy turned his attention to the last item in the jewelry case, a black plastic bag, the top tied into a knot. Since the knot seemed unlikely to yield to gentler measures, he grabbed the sides of the plastic bag and pulled, spilling the contents out onto the tabletop as the bag ripped open.

Freddy scrambled backward, knocking over his chair in his sudden panic. There on his kitchen table, sprawled across his white tablecloth, lay a necklace of severed female fingers, the nails all neatly polished in red.





14


"Mr. Vice President. There's something on CNN you will want to see."

Carl Palmer's voice caused George Gordon to glance up from the intelligence briefing papers. His chief of staff rarely interrupted him. The fact that Carl did so now meant George probably wasn't going to like what he was about to see.

As the flat-panel television came to life, the voice of CNN’s Robert Collins provided the running commentary, but the pictures alone were enough to confirm the vice president's premonition. A large crowd of Native Americans had gathered around the front of a small building and appeared to be in an ugly mood. Working to keep them back, a group of FBI agents in stenciled windbreakers blocked the entrance. As Robert Collins continued his report, the reason for the demonstration became clear. The FBI was in the process of searching the Santa Clara Tribal Police Headquarters pursuant to a federal search warrant.

At the moment, Collins was in the midst of an interview with Tribal Police Sergeant Pino.

“Officer Pino, is it true that this raid is related to the fact that you were the first person on the scene of the terrorist attack that took the lives of two Los Alamos Security people two weeks ago?”

The Indian policeman was striking, both in appearance and demeanor. He was dressed in a manner common to local police in the Southwestern United States: black, broad-brimmed cowboy hat, police uniform, and cowboy boots. His long, straight, black hair hung almost to his belt, framing a rugged face, worn by years spent outdoors. Pino's black eyes flashed with a thinly controlled anger.