Read Online Biowar by Stephen Coonts - Free Book Online Page B

microscopic lens located at the back of the glasses, allowing Dean to see the woman who was tailing him without actually turning around. She looked as surprised as any of the other passengers. He tapped the feed off and craned his head to the left, looking through to the next car. A conductor and two policemen were moving through the car, glancing at the passengers. Dean slid back in his seat.
    “Your passport, sir,” said one of the policemen after Dean presented his ticket.
    “Sure,” said Dean. He took out his passport and gave it to the policeman.
    “You just landed in London?”
    “Yes,” said Dean.
    “Where are you staying?” asked the bobby.
    “Go ahead and tell him,” whispered Rockman.
    “Renaissance Hotel,” said Dean. “What’s going on?”
    “Official business,” said the officer, handing the passport back. He pointed ahead and they moved on, stopping near the end of the car and questioning another man.
    “They seem to be looking for someone,” Dean told Rockman after they left the car.
    “We figured that. Not clear what they’re doing. May have nothing to do with us.”
    “The woman you said was tailing me is getting up,” said Dean, watching her. “She’s going after them. Should I trail her?”
    “Negative,” said Rockman. “You’re just Kegan’s assistant, remember? Stay where you are.”
    It was nearly twenty minutes before the train started moving again. Rockman had tapped into the local radio network in the meantime and determined that the police were looking for a man they called Sand. The name did not appear to correspond to any of the outstanding notices or warrants, but in one of the transmissions they mentioned an MI-5 operative; the operation appeared unrelated. Sylvia Reynolds, meanwhile, had gone back to her seat.
    “It’s possible they think you’re Sand,” said Rockman. “Might be a terrorist thing.”
    “If so, why didn’t they arrest me?”
    “If they really are looking for someone who’s a terrorist, odds are he won’t look like you. Relax. We’re working on it.”
    Dean slid back in the seat. The Art Room was always working on it. In his experience, they had a tendency to figure out things about five minutes after they’d be truly useful to know.
    “Your tail only went to the ladies’ room,” Rockman told him. “Lia doesn’t think she spoke to the police.”
    “But we’re not sure.”
    “No. Was she close enough to hear you when you told the policeman where you were staying?”
    “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
    “Okay, don’t sweat it.”
    Once the train resumed moving, the ride into Paddington took only another twelve minutes. Dean got out and, directed by Rockman, tucked around to the right to the outdoor cab stand. Sylvia Reynolds no longer appeared to be following him. Lia had been spotted by Reynolds—it had been impossible to hide when the police came through—and she stopped trailing Dean, though Rockman assured him she was close enough to back him up if something happened.
    “Who’s backing her up?” said Dean.
    “She can take care of herself,” said the runner. Then he added, “Not that you can’t.”
    “Thanks.”
    There were members of at least two different intelligence agencies in the giant train station—British and Russian. Guided by Rockman, Dean steered a seemingly haphazard path away from them, heading toward the taxi queue outside. There he joined the line, pulling his bag up as the line moved steadily. It was just after morning rush, and there was a steady flow of large black cabs, punctuated by newer models in green, blue, and red. Dean got into a black one in the far lane, swatting the car on the rear window before getting in. He told the driver his destination only after he was inside, then settled back as they waded into traffic.
    His swat on the window had not been for good luck. The Desk Three op had placed a penny-sized wide-angle cam on top of the chrome. He took out his handheld computer and turned on the