Free The Passage by Justin Cronin Page A

we’ll be in it for fifteen more if we’re
lucky
. I won’t kid you. The single biggest challenge the military faces, has always faced, is keeping soldiers on the field. So, let’s say the same GI takes the same piece of shrapnel but within half a day his body’s healed itself and he’s back in his unit, fighting for God and country. You think the military wouldn’t be interested in something like that?”
    Wolgast felt chastened. “I see your point.”
    “Good, because you should.” Sykes’s expression softened; the lecture was over. “So maybe it’s the military who’s picking up the check. I say let them, because frankly, what we’ve spent so far would make your eyes pop out. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to live to meet my great-great-great-grandchildren. Hell, I’d like to hit a golf ball three hundred yards on my hundredth birthday and then go home to make love to my wife until she walks funny for a week. Who wouldn’t?” He looked at Wolgast searchingly. “The side of the angels, Agent. Nothing more or less. Do we have a deal?”
    They shook, and Sykes walked him to the door. Richards was waiting to take him back to the van. “One last question,” Wolgast asked. “Why ‘NOAH’? What’s it stand for?”
    Sykes glanced quickly at Richards. In that moment, Wolgast felt the balance of power shifting in the room; Sykes might have been technically in charge, but in some way, Wolgast felt certain, he also reported to Richards, who was probably the link between the military and whoever was really running the show: USAMRIID, Homeland, maybe NSA.
    Sykes turned back to Wolgast. “It doesn’t stand for anything. Let’s put it this way. You ever read the Bible?”
    “Some.” Wolgast looked at the both of them. “When I was a kid. My mother was a Methodist.”
    Sykes allowed himself a second, final smile. “Go look it up. The story of Noah and the ark. See how long he lived. That’s all I’ll say.”
    That night, back in his Denver apartment, Wolgast did as Sykes had said. He didn’t own a Bible, probably hadn’t laid eyes on one since his wedding day. But he found a concordance online.
    And all the days of Noah were nine hundred and fifty years; and he died
.
    It was then that he realized what the missing piece was, the thing Sykes hadn’t said. It would be in his file, of course. It was the reason, of all the federal agents they might have chosen, that they’d picked him.
    They’d chosen him because of Eva, because he’d had to watch his daughter die.
    In the morning, he awoke to the chirp of his handheld; he was dreaming, and in the dream it was Lila, calling him back to tell him the baby had been born—not hers and David’s baby, but their own. For a moment Wolgast felt happy, but then his mind cleared and he realized where he was—Huntsville, the motel—and his hand found the phone on the nightstand and punched the Receive button without his even looking at the screen tosee who it was. He heard the static of the encryption and then the opening line.
    “All set,” Sykes told him. “Everything should be in hand. Just get Carter to sign. And don’t pack your bags quite yet. We may have another errand for you to run.”
    He looked at the clock: 6:58. Doyle was in the shower. Wolgast heard the faucet shut off with a groan, then the blast of a hair dryer. He had a vague memory of hearing Doyle returning from the bar—a rush of street noise from the open door, a muttered apology, and then the sound of water running—and looking at the clock and seeing it was a little after two A.M .
    Doyle stepped into the room, a towel wrapped at his waist. Steam moistened the air around him. “Good, you’re up.” His eyes were bright, his skin flushed from the heat of the shower. How the guy could stay out half the night drinking and still look like he was ready to run a marathon was beyond Wolgast’s comprehension.
    Wolgast cleared his throat. “How’s the fiber-optic