From the reports he was receiving, the Janus strain was becoming even more deadly. The bacteria, which before required a deep wound to take root, could now enter the bodies of its victims through even a tiny cut. Epidemiologically, the Doomsday Germ was spreading with increasing speed, and in some hospitals had already breached containment protocols. Before long, Kazimi feared, the devastation could become unparalleled.

Chilled as much by the terrifying prospects of a pandemic as he was by the stone walls, Kazimi knew that the persistent failure of his research made it even more critical that he escape. If One Hundred Neighbors did not carry out their threat to kill every person he held dear, Janus might eventually do the job for them. He had to be fearless. He had to warn the people in Washington of the looming crisis. The time for his secret lab was over. He had given it his best shot, and he was failing.

It was nearing Asr—midafternoon prayers. As he was doing more and more, Kazimi was staying in the lab to pray. He forced himself to his feet, crossed to the massive windows, gazed down the nearly sheer cliff at the craggy shoreline, and reviewed what he had learned about Red Cliff. The wing housing the lab and the great room was attached to the massive main structure by the winding corridor that was constantly guarded. As far as Kazimi could tell, there was no other way in or out.

Jutting into the sea below, arising from the rocky base of the cliff, was a wooden dock, next to which was a well-maintained boathouse. Several times, he had seen a cigar-shaped motorboat with powerful twin engines bringing in supplies. What he could not figure out was how those supplies were transported up and into the castle. Some of them, at least, had to be destined for his lab. There were no stairs or pathways from the ocean—none that he could see, anyway. There had to be some way to the boathouse that didn’t require scaling a one-hundred-foot cliff.

But where?

Kazimi became aware of a shift in the atmosphere of the lounge. He turned to see that Doug Bacon had entered from the corridor and was approaching him. The mogul’s cane snapped against the stone floor like the popper of a bullwhip. Kazimi thought Bacon’s limp seemed more pronounced. Perhaps it was the chill. His face appeared pale and drawn. Stress. Janus was getting to its creator as well as to its pursuer.

With a subtle nod, Bacon dismissed the huge African American guard he called Drake, who had followed him in. Kazimi’s stomach soured at the thought of being alone with the man. For a moment he contemplated taking Bacon hostage, and using him to barter his way out. Bad idea. He needed the space that trust was giving him. Escape seemed nearly impossible as it was.