Page 25 of Stars
They’d gotten everyone else. Every other black-market arms dealer, terrorist, international criminal, or world leader with an ax to grind who had helped Madigan build his army against Jack. The CIA, Russia’s FSB, or Jack and Ethan themselves had crossed each one off the list. He slept better knowing the men and women who’d tried to rip Jack away from him—tried to murder the love of his life—were wiped off the board. Some of them permanently.
But, damn it, he couldn’t touch Siddiqi. Siddiqi was going to get away with what he’d done.
And worse, he was going to flirt with Jack, when years before he’d helped Madigan try to murder him.
Ethan closed his eyes and tried to breathe as Welby followed the soft-spoken directions read out from the GPS. Madigan was gone. Everyone who had hurt Jack wasgone.
When they arrived at Siddiqi’s home, Ethan clambered out of the SUV first, replaying his old role as Jack’s protective shadow as he held open the passenger door and waited for Jack to slide out after Pete and Blake.
“Hey,” Ethan said, tugging on Jack’s hand and pulling him close. He kissed him gently and squeezed his fingers. “I’m with you.”
Jack smiled. “All the way.”
An MI6 officer waited for them, nodding a hello as he unlocked Siddiqi’s electronically bolted front door from the outside. “We’d like to keep this to under an hour, if you please. He’s waiting for you in the parlor.”
Welby went in first, followed by Ethan and then Jack. Pete brought up the rear. Blake had volunteered to wait outside, and Ethan caught the start of Blake striking up a conversation with the MI6 officer.
“As-salamu alaykum!” Siddiqi cried, rising from his plush velvet wingback chair in the Victorian parlor. “Sowonderfulto see you again, Jack.”
Ethan’s molars scraped. He stayed inside Jack’s personal bubble, half an inch behind his right shoulder, as Siddiqi leaned in for a hug and dropped three kisses on Jack’s cheeks. Jack gripped Siddiqi’s elbows but didn’t return the kisses.
Siddiqi made a show of offering Jack—and Jack alone—a seat on the settee. Offering him tea—from a set he’d bought from the London Metropolitan Museum of Art; though they were loath to sell, he gave them a price they couldn’t refuse—and then winking as he boasted that he remembered how Jack liked his tea. “Cream and two sugar cubes. I never forget a thing.” He sat beside Jack, far too close, and grinned.
It was like a shark smiling at a tuna. Ethan struggled to remain still, standing guard behind them.
Welby cleared his throat. Ethan’s gaze flicked his way. Welby shifted closer to the settee, close enough to tackle Siddiqi if he made any sudden moves. He nodded.
Ethan let one vertebra relax.
“Tell me, Jack, what brings you back to see me?” Siddiqi purred. “How can I be of service to you?”
“I’d like your expert opinion on something.”
“Which expertise are you referring to? I have so many that could be of use.”
“Your biological warfare expertise.”
“Oh, that.” Siddiqi sipped his tea as if he hadn’t been responsible for the murders of tens of thousands. “I’m retired.”
“You’re still the global expert on bioweapons. If something exists, you’d know. Or, at least, that’s what people say. You’re saying that’s not true?”
“Of course it’s true,” Siddiqi said. “Every weapon you have nightmares about comes from me. I had my hands in everyone’s business, if you know what I mean.” Another grin, and his gaze roamed down Jack’s body. “Not a program exists in the world today that I don’t know everything about. Which is why I am here. And why you are here, apparently.”
Jack flipped open his padfolio and passed Siddiqi two of the photos Dr. Mendoza sent: the corpse lying in the dirt road, enucleated and exsanguinated. “Can you tell me anything about what killed this man?”
Siddiqi went still. He stared at the photos, seeming to take in every trickle of spilled blood, each of the empty eye sockets in a slow, careful study. He didn’t bother flirting with Jack as he studied the corpse, or make a show of accidentally touching Jack’s hand or wrist. Or thigh. “Where are these from?”
Jack stayed quiet.
“This is… very interesting,” Siddiqi said softly. “I can see potential elements of several strains of virus here. The aggressive hemorrhaging, that is weaponized hemorrhagic fever. The self-mutilation, the gouging on the chest and neck and around the eyes. That is the end result a virologist hopes for when they try to weaponize strands of rabies. But that’s not all. Do you see how the skin is… almost caved in…” He squinted, peering at the photo. “There’s more. This is notonlya weaponized form of hemorrhagic fever or rabies. There’s much more going on. What else do you have?” He held out his hand.
Jack didn’t move. He stared at Siddiqi.
“You wanted my help,” Siddiqi snapped. “How can I help you if you refuse to give me information?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have much. That’s why we’re here. What programs were working on weaponizing hemorrhagic fever?”
“Almost all of them, but they were only in conceptual stages.” Siddiqi returned to the photo. “Weaponizing hemorrhagics, your Ebolas and Crimean-Congo fevers, is notoriously difficult. The virus is too hot. It burns out its food—its hosts—far too fast. One village can be annihilated in a matter of days.”
