46. Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter forty-six
Doctor Kadare took his time putting on the hazmat suit, making sure his boots and gloves were sealed with tape.
At this point it was really unnecessary.
He had control of the virus now. And he’d synthesized more than enough anti-virus.
He carried two ampules in his pocket. Better safe than sorry.
Things were happening quickly now, and he must be ready for any and every eventuality.
When his suit was in place, he pushed through the heavy rubber flaps into the containment area.
Idly he wondered if this would be the last time he’d enter the lab.
He’d spent months here and had started to think of the space as his own, his little sanctuary where he could work, separated from the world.
What was the silly term the weakling young people used now? His safe space. Ah, yes, it was his safe space.
Very soon now, those witless college students the world over would realize there was no such thing as a safe space.
Because a virus can get you anywhere. It was the perfect weapon.
The perfect killer. It didn’t need to eat or sleep.
It never got scared. There was no place it could not go.
And there was only one way to survive it.
One hand went to his breast. He could feel the ampules through the heavy hazmat suit. His little insurance policy.
Oh yes, his enemies would pay. First the Kova? woman and her husband, then the Serbs who had locked him away, and finally the Americans who had the audacity to charge him, the surgeon, with war crimes.
War crimes.
What a ridiculous notion. There was no such thing as a crime in war. War has no rules. You fight to win. And you use any means necessary. The Serbs would soon learn that lesson. So too would the Americans.
Yes, they would all pay.
Kadare stopped at the gurney were Milena Kova? lay naked and shivering.
Her hands and legs were strapped to the bed.
She had dark circles around her eyes and her skin glistened with sweat.
An IV in her arm supplied fluids even as the virus ate away at her insides.
A pink bubble formed in one nostril as her haunted eyes swiveled to face him.
Her tongue touched her lips in an effort to wet them.
She tried to form words. It took her a heroic effort. “Why?”
“For your sins,” Kadare told her. He turned to the heart rate monitor.
Her pulse was weak. She didn’t have much time left.
The second dose of virus was taking longer, but that was to be expected.
She had recently had the antidote. Even that wasn’t enough to save her from a second, more potent injection straight into her bloodstream.
Her husband Bill already lay dead, a lifeless husk on the bed next to her.
Milena shook her head. It was a slow, weak, side to side movement, barely noticeable. “What sins?”
“How quickly we forget,” Kadare said. “You don’t recognize me do you?”
Why would she? It had been thirty years. And since becoming a guest in his facility, she’d never seen him without the hazmat suit.
“Does the name Kadare mean anything to you?”
She convulsed. Whether it was the virus wreaking havoc on her wasted body, causing her exquisite pain, or in recognition, it was hard to say. Kadare enjoyed the reaction nonetheless.
She wheezed. “The Surgeon.”
Kadare wanted to leap up and wrap his fingers around her throat. He wanted to choke the life from her.
The Surgeon was the title sensationalist newspapers had given him during the trial.
That among other things. The Butcher was another of their favorite epithets.
He’d been accused of unnecessary and cruel surgical procedures on Serbians during the war.
He’d denied the charges, of course, though they were all true.
He’d been in a fight for his very survival, and the survival of the Albanian people, and he’d done what needed to be done. Simple as that.
Then the Americans, who were supposed to be backing the Albanians, had turned around and helped put Kadare, along with Major Hoxha and a score of other brave patriots, in jail for war crimes.
“I’m a patriot,” Kadare told her. “I served my nation and my people. And you, you had the audacity to put me in jail for the crime of trying to defend my nation against your overbearing government.”
“You’re… a maniac,” Kova? wheezed, struggling for breath. It would not be long now. Her pulse rate had dipped again and her O2 levels were plummeting. She gasped for air. “You… a murderer.”
“About that you are correct,” Kadare said. “I’ve just murdered you, and your pig husband. And in a few day’s time, I’ll have my revenge on the Serbian people.”
He leaned close. His breath fogged the face plate, but he wanted her to look him in the eyes. “You thought you won when you put me in jail, but all you did was delay the inevitable.”
Her eyes bulged. She looked like she wanted to speak but was incapable of words at this point. The fact that she’d hung on this long was in fact, something quite incredible. Her fat husband had died nearly forty minutes ago.
Kadare couldn’t help himself. One hand came up and gripped her throat. His fingers closed around the sunken flesh. He squeezed tight. “Yes. You are going to die. In the end, I won. Go to your grave knowing I won!”
He was screaming at the end, standing over her, shaking her, shrieking.
But she was already dead. Kadare let go with an impatient snort.
She had paid for her impudence. Now the rest of the Serbians would pay as well.
He stalked back to the heavy rubber flaps, pushed through and mashed the decontamination button.
The vents doused the hazmat suit in a chemical bath, killing any contagions.
Kadare stepped through the next barrier and stripped out of the protective gear.
The slightly musty smell of the old factory filled his lungs as he exited the containment facility. Generators chugged and hummed, occasionally dimming the lights. Kadare plucked at his shirt to get some air across his chest. Those hazmat suits were so confining.
A folding table bowing under a load of equipment held his cellphone.
Kadare powered the device on, and checked for any missed calls from Captain Zeqiri.
The captain had warned the doctor repeatedly not to call him in the field.
And Kadare worked hard to resist that temptation now, although he desperately wanted to know what was going on.
“It’s foolish to wait,” Kadare told him.
Someone had stumbled onto their operation. Whether it was the American FBI, or the CIA, or one of Americas numerous other agencies, didn’t really matter. The fact was, they had been exposed. And time was running short.
Kadare dialed one of his buyers and waited impatiently for an answer.
“It’s me,” he said. “The product is ready. Do you have the money?”
“I’ll have your money next week, as promised.”
“Next week is too late,” Kadare said as he moved around the shadowy factory, making certain all of Captain Zeqiri’s fail-safes were in place. “Others are waiting, and offering just as much. If you want to buy, have the money in twenty-four hours.”
“Your money will be delivered, Doctor. Is the meeting place still the same?”
“Yes,” Kadare said. “Let me know. I can be there in less than seven hours.”
“You’ll hear from me.”