For what must have been the thousandth time, she studied the sheer drop from the tower they were locked in and for the thousandth time calculated it at just over fifty feet. The nearest building was only about ten feet away, but instead of the empty arched window frames that dominated the village’s architecture, it presented a blank wall. Signs of humanity were fleeting, and over the past few days she’d become convinced that all were men loyal to Sayid Halabi. What had happened to the original inhabitants, she could only imagine.
Schaefer turned and focused her attention on the room that they were imprisoned in. The entire space was no more than fifteen feet square, with rock walls and two heavy wooden doors. One led to the stairway they’d been brought up and the other was a mystery. The ceiling was supported by beams that had been darkened by what she suspected was centuries of cooking fires. Good for hanging yourself from if it became necessary. And it appeared that it might.
Since their star turn in Halabi’s video three days ago, they’d had no contact with anyone. A water jug, now almost empty, had been provided but no food. The bucket they used for a toilet was in the far corner and was in danger of overflowing. She wanted to dump it on an unsuspecting scumbag who wandered beneath their window, but Otto kept stopping her. Always the voice of reason.
The worst, though, were the nights. The cold wind flowed freely through the windows, and the uninsulated stone turned the room into a meat locker. They slept—probably only a few minutes a night—huddled together in a corner. Gabriel Bertrand had finally gotten his chance to grind up against her but didn’t seem to be enjoying it as much as he’d expected.
She turned her attention to the Frenchman, who was sitting with his back against a wall and knees pulled to his chest. She’d been doing her best to ignore him, and he took her flicker of interest as an invitation to speak.
“They’re going to just leave us here to starve.”
He was already cracking. Hunger, lack of sleep, and uncertainty were potent weapons against anyone. But they were particularly potent against a man who had led a charmed life since the day he was born. The only son of a wealthy Parisian family, he’d been gifted with an exceptional mind and spent his entire adult life coddled by top universities. His research in Yemen had been the hardest thing he’d ever done, and he wouldn’t have lasted an hour if he hadn’t been certain it was his path to blazing academic glory.
Otto Vogel, on the other hand, was an almost perfect counterpoint to the French scientist. He was sprawled on the floor, deftly spinning a twig on the tip of his index finger. As always, his armor seemed impenetrable.
“Anthrax isn’t that dangerous,” Bertrand continued as she turned back to the window. “And they filmed us. Why? So they can put the videos out on the Internet to scare people. But that will backfire, yes? People will be frightened, but they’ll also be wary. If they have symptoms, if they come into contact with some unknown substance, they’ll go to the doctor and get antibiotics. And the governments of the world can’t allow the manufacture of weaponized anthrax. They have to come. They have to rescue us.”
The suggestion that they should build a bioweapon to bring about their rescue prompted Victoria to look at him over her shoulder. He averted his eyes.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
Vogel stopped spinning the piece of wood, a rare glimmer of anger crossing his face. He’d had enough of the Frenchman within an hour of their first meeting and now he was reaching his limit.
“The Americans were motivated to find Osama bin Laden, too. How long did that take? And even if they are able find us, what is it you think they’re going to do? Send soldiers to assault this mountain in order to save us? Risk their men’s lives and maybe give Halabi a chance to escape to save three people?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that they’ll blow the entire top of this mountain off. You’ll hear a slight whistle and then you’ll explode into—”
“Otto!” Schaefer interjected. “You’re not helping.”
He frowned and went back to spinning his stick.
“They aren’t going to be satisfied with making movies and they’re not going to give us a choice,” Bertrand said. “How long can we hold out? They’ll starve us. Freeze us. Torture us. And finally, they’ll kill us.”
In truth, none of that would be necessary, Schaefer knew. It wouldn’t take much more than a mild rash to get Bertrand pumping out every dangerous pathogen he knew how to create. Trying to get him to grow a backbone was a waste of time. As she saw it, there were two paths ahead of them. The first was to throw the man out the window and let his incredible knowledge of microbiology die with him. Undoubtedly, Otto would enthusiastically sign on to that strategy, but to her it was just an abstraction. She’d never knowingly harmed anyone in her life.
That left only one option: convincing him to focus that magnificent brain on something other than the hopelessness of their situation.
She sat next to the Frenchman and motioned Vogel over.
“Listen,” she said, speaking quietly in case there were listening devices. “We’re scientists, right? There’s a lot of equipment in that room, and we can probably ask for more if we play our cards right. All we need to do is figure out how we can use it to get ourselves out of here.”
“Agreed,” the German whispered.
“Agreed?” Bertrand said, the volume of his voice high enough that Victoria clamped a hand over his mouth.
“Don’t talk, Gabriel. Think. Gas? Poison? Explosives? You keep telling everyone you’re a genius. Prove it.”
• • •
Sayid Halabi climbed the stairs with Muhammad Attia hovering directly behind. The voices of his prisoners had dipped to below what his microphones could pick up, suggesting that it was time to pay them a visit.
Undoubtedly, they’d begun plotting. They would pretend to cooperate and use the equipment he gave them to create some kind of weapon. Perhaps a disease that they inoculated themselves against. Perhaps a poison. Perhaps even a way to contact the outside world. It was to be expected.
He pulled back the bolt and opened the door, watching the three Westerners leap to their feet as he entered.
“How long will it take to make weaponized anthrax in a quantity sufficient for multiple large-scale attacks?” he said.
They looked at each for a moment before the woman answered. “None of us have ever made anthrax. We have nothing to do with bioweapons research. Do you have an Internet connection? You can look it up and see that I’m telling the truth.”
The Frenchman kept glancing over at her, drawing strength from his unwillingness to look weaker than a woman.
“Dr. Bertrand?” Halabi prompted.
He drew back at the sound of his name. “It’s . . . It’s not as easy as you think. That’s why no one uses those kinds of weapons. It’s not just that you could infect your own troops, it’s that nature tends to take its own path. It’s impossible to control and impossible to predict. And anthrax has its own unique problems that make it hard to weaponize. It—”
“I can assure you that I’m not stupid,” Halabi said, cutting the man off. “We know that anthrax can be weaponized because it’s been done before. By the Russians on a large scale and in 2001 by an American scientist with a background similar to yours. Now tell me how long and what additional equipment you will need.”