Prologue
7:14 pm, Friday, October 10
Boston, Massachusetts
Mario Dublin stumbled along the busy downtown street, a
dollar bill clutched in his shaking hand. With the intense
purpose of a man who knew exactly where he was going, the
homeless derelict swayed as he walked and slapped at his
head with the hand that was not clutching the dollar. He
reeled inside a cut-rate drug store with discount signs
plastered across both front windows.
Shaking, he shoved the dollar across the counter to the
clerk. "Advil. Aspirin kills my stomach. I needs Advil."
The clerk curled his lip at the unshaved man in the ragged
remnants of an army uniform. Still, business was business.
He reached behind to a shelf of analgesics and held out the
smallest box of Advil. "You’d better have three more dollars
to go with that one."
Dublin dropped the single bill onto the counter and reached
for the box.
The clerk pulled it back. "You heard me, buddy. Three more
bucks. No ticky, no shirty."
"On’y got a dollar . . . my head’s breakin’ open." With
amazing speed, Dublin lurched across the counter and grabbed
the small box.
The clerk tried to pull it back, but Dublin hung on. They
struggled, knocking over a jar of candy bars and crashing a
display of vitamins to the floor.
"Let it go, Eddie!" the pharmacist shouted from the rear. He
reached for the telephone. "Let him have it!"
As the pharmacist dialed, the clerk let go.
Frantic, Dublin tore at the sealed cardboard, fumbled with
the safety cap, and dumped the tablets into his hand. Some
flew across the floor. He shoved the tablets into his mouth,
choked as he tried to swallow all at once, and slumped to
the floor, weak from pain. He pressed the heels of his hands
to his temples and sobbed.
Moments later a patrol car pulled up outside the shop. The
pharmacist waved the policemen to come inside. He pointed to
Mario Dublin, curled up on the floor in the old army
uniform. "Get that stinking bum out of here! Look what he
did to my place. I intend to press charges of assault and
robbery!"
The policemen pulled out their night sticks. They noted the
minor damage and the strewn pills, but they smelled alcohol,
too.
The younger one heaved Dublin up to his feet. "Okay, Mario,
let’s take a ride."
The second patrolman took Dublin’s other arm. They walked
the unresisting drunk out to their patrol car. But as the
second officer opened the door, the younger one pushed down
on Dublin’s head to guide him inside.
Dublin screamed and lashed out, twisting away from the hand
on his throbbing head.
"Grab him, Manny!" the younger cop yelled.
Manny tried to grip Dublin, but the drunk wrenched free. The
younger cop tackled him. The older one swung his nightstick
and knocked Dublin down. Dublin screamed. His body shook,
and he rolled on the pavement.
The two policemen blanched and stared at each other.
Manny protested, "I didn’t hit him that hard."
The younger bent to help Dublin up. "Jesus. He’s burning up!"
"Get him in the car!"
Terrified of accusations of excessive force, they picked up
the gasping Dublin and dumped him onto the car’s rear seat.
Manny raced the squad car, its siren wailing, through the
night streets. As soon as he screeched it to a stop at the
emergency room, Manny flung open his door and tore inside
the hospital, shouting for help.
The other officer sprinted around the car to open Dublin’s door.
When the doctors and nurses arrived with a gurney, the
younger cop seemed paralyzed, staring into the car’s rear
where Mario Dublin lay unconscious in blood that had pooled
on the seat and spilled onto the floor.
The doctor inhaled sharply. Then he climbed inside, felt for
a pulse, listened to the man’s chest, and backed outside,
shaking his head.
"He’s dead."
"No way!" The older cop’s voice rose. "We barely touched the
son-of-a-bitch! They ain’t gonna lay this one on us. "
***
Because the police were involved, only four hours later the
medical examiner prepared for the autopsy of the late Mario
Dublin, address unknown, in the morgue on the basement level
of the hospital.
The double doors of the suite flung wide. "Walter! Don’t
open him!"
Dr. Walter Pecjic looked up. "What’s wrong, Andy?"
"Maybe nothing," Dr. Andrew Wilks said nervously, "but all
that blood in the patrol car scares the hell out of me.
Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome shouldn’t lead to blood
from the mouth. I’ve only seen that kind of blood from a
hemorrhagic fever I helped treat when I was in the Peace
Corps in Africa. This guy was carrying a Disabled American
Vets card. Maybe he was stationed in Somalia or somewhere
else in Africa."
Dr. Pecjic stared down at the dead man he was about to cut
open. Then he returned the scalpel to the tray. "Maybe we’d
better call the director."
"And call Infectious Diseases, too," Dr. Wilks said.
Dr. Pecjic nodded, the fear naked in his eyes.
***
7:55 pm, Atlanta, Georgia
Packed inside the high school auditorium, the audience of
parents and friends was hushed. Up on the bright stage, a
beautiful teenage girl stood in front of scenery intended to
depict the restaurant in William Inge’s Bus Stop. Her
movements were awkward, and her words, ordinarily free and
open, were stiff.
None of that bothered the stout, motherly woman in the first
row. She wore a silver-gray dress of the kind the bride’s
mother at a formal wedding would choose, topped by a
celebratory corsage of roses. She beamed up at the girl, and
when the scene ended to polite applause, her clapping rang
resoundingly.
At the final curtain, she leaped to her feet to applaud. She
went around to the stage door to wait as the cast emerged in
twos and threes to meet parents, boyfriends, and
girlfriends. This was the last performance of the annual
school play, and they were flushed with triumph, eager for
the cast party that would last long into the night.
"I wish your father could’ve been here to see you tonight,
Billie Jo," the proud mother said as the high school beauty
climbed into the car.
"So do I, Mom. Let’s go home."
"Home?" The motherly woman was confused.
"I just need to lie down for a while. Then I’ll change for
the party, okay?"
"You sound bad." Her mother studied her then turned the car
into traffic. Billie Jo had been snuffling and coughing for
more than a week but had insisted on performing anyway.
"It’s just a cold, mother," the girl said irritably.
By the time they reached the house, she was rubbing her eyes
and groaning. Two red fever spots showed on her cheeks.
Frantic, her terrified mother unlocked the front door and
raced inside to dial 911. The police told her to leave the
girl in the car and keep her warm and quiet. The paramedics
arrived in three minutes.
In the ambulance, as the siren screamed through the Atlanta
streets, the girl moaned and writhed on the gurney,
struggling for breath. The mother wiped her daughter’s
fevered face and broke into despairing tears.
At the hospital emergency room, a nurse held the mother’s
hand. "We’ll do everything necessary, Mrs. Pickett. I’m sure
she’ll be better soon."
Two hours later, blood gushed from Billie Jo Pickett’s
mouth, and she died.
***
5:15 PM, Fort Irwin, Barstow, California
The California high desert in early October was as uncertain
and changeable as the orders of a new second lieutenant with
his first platoon. This particular day had been clear and
sunny, and by the time Phyllis Anderson began preparing
dinner in the kitchen of their pleasant two-story house in
the best section of the National Training Center’s family
housing, she was feeling optimistic. It had been a hot day
and her husband, Keith, had taken a good nap. He had been
fighting a heavy cold for two weeks, and she hoped the sun
and warmth would clear it up once and for all.
Outside the kitchen windows, the lawn sprinklers were at
work in the afternoon’s long shadows. Her flower beds
bloomed with late summer flowers that defied the harsh
wilderness of thorny gray-green mesquite, yucca, creosote,
and cacti growing among the black rocks of the beige desert.
Mrs. Anderson hummed to herself as she put macaroni into the
microwave. She listened for the footsteps of her husband
coming down the stairs. The major had night operations
tonight. But the stumbling clatter sounded more like Keith,
Jr., sliding and bumping his way down, excited about the
movie she planned to take both children to while their
father was working. After all, it was Friday night.
She shouted, "Jay-Jay, stop that!"
But it was not Keith, Jr. Her husband, partially dressed in
desert camouflage, staggered into the warm kitchen. He was
dripping with sweat, and his hands squeezed his head as if
to keep it from exploding.
He gasped, ". . . hospital . . . help . . . "
In front of her horrified eyes, the major collapsed on the
kitchen floor, his chest heaving as he strained to breathe.
Shocked, Phyllis stared then moved with the speed and
purpose of a soldier’s wife. She tore out of the kitchen.
Without knocking, she yanked open the side door of the house
next to theirs and burst into the kitchen.
Capt. Paul Novak and his wife, Judy, gaped.
"Phyllis?" Novak stood up. "What’s wrong, Phyllis?"
The major’s wife did not waste a word. "Paul, I need you.
Judy, come watch the kids. Hurry!"
She whirled and ran. Captain Novak and his wife were right
behind. When called to action, a soldier learns to ask no
questions. In the kitchen of the Anderson house, the Novaks
took in the scene instantly.
"911?" Judy Novak reached for the telephone.
"No time!" Novak cried.
"Our car!" Phyllis shouted.
Judy Novak ran up the stairs to where the two children were
in their bedrooms getting ready to enjoy an evening out.
Phyllis Anderson and Novak picked up the gasping major.
Blood trickled from his nose. He was semiconscious, moaning,
unable to speak. Carrying him, they rushed across the lawn
to the parked car.
Novak took the wheel, and Phyllis climbed into the rear
beside her husband. Fighting back sobs, she cradled the
major’s head on her shoulder and held him close. His eyes
stared up at her in agony as he fought for air. Novak sped
through the base, blasting the car’s horn. Traffic parted
like an infantry company with the tanks coming through. But
by the time they reached the Weed Army Community Hospital,
Major Keith Anderson was unconscious.
Three hours later he was dead.
In the case of sudden, unexplained death in the State of
California, an autopsy was mandated. Because of the unusual
circumstances of the death, the major was rushed to the
morgue. But as soon as the army pathologist opened the chest
cavity, massive quantities of blood erupted, spraying him.
His face turned chalk white. He jumped to his feet, snapped
off his rubber gloves, and ran out of the autopsy chamber to
his office.
He grabbed the phone. "Get me the Pentagon and USAMRIID.
Now! Priority!"
PART ONE
Chapter One
3:55 pm, Sunday, October 12
London, England
A cold October rain slanted down on Knightsbridge where
Brompton Road intersected Sloan Street. The steady stream of
honking cars, taxis, and red double-decker buses turned
south and made their halting way toward Sloan Square and
Chelsea. Neither the rain nor the fact that business and
government offices were closed for the weekend lessened the
crush. The world economy was good, the shops were full, and
New Labor was rocking no one’s boat. Now the tourists came
to London at all times of the year, and the traffic this
Sunday afternoon continued to move at a snail’s pace.
Impatient, US Army Lt. Col. Jonathan ("Jon") Smith, MD,
stepped lightly from the slow-moving old-style No. 19 bus
two streets before his destination. The rain was letting up
at last. He trotted a few quick steps beside the bus on the
wet pavement then hurried onward, leaving the bus behind.
A tall, trim, athletic man in his early forties, Smith had
dark hair worn smoothly back and a high-planed face with
navy-blue eyes that automatically surveyed vehicles and
pedestrians. There was nothing unusual about him as he
strode along in his tweed jacket, cotton trousers, and
trenchcoat. Still, women turned to look, and he occasionally
noticed and smiled, but continued on his way.
He left the drizzle at Wilbraham Place and entered the foyer
of the genteel Wilbraham Hotel where he took a room every
time USAMRIID sent him to a medical conference in London.
Inside the old hostelry, he climbed the stairs two at a time
to his second-floor room. There he rummaged through his
suitcases, searching for the field reports of an outbreak of
high fever among US troops stationed in Manilla. He had
promised to show it to Dr. Chandra Uttam of the Viral
Diseases Branch of the World Health Organization.
Finally he found it under a pile of dirty clothes tossed
into the larger suitcase. He sighed and grinned at
himself-–he had never lost the messy habits acquired from
his years in the field living in tents, focusing on one
crisis or another.
As he rushed downstairs to return to the WHO epidemiology
conference, the desk clerk called out to him.
"Colonel? There’s a letter for you. It’s marked ‘Urgent.’"
"A letter?" Who would mail him here? He looked at his
wristwatch, which told him not only the hour but reminded
him of the day. "On a Sunday?"
"It came by hand."
Suddenly worried, Smith took the envelope and ripped it
open. It was a single sheet of white printer paper, no
letterhead or return address:
Smithy,
Meet me Rock Creek Park , Pierce Mill picnic grounds,
midnight Monday. Urgent. Tell no one.
Smith’s chest contracted. There was only one person who
called him Smithy–Bill Griffin. He had met Bill in third
grade at Hoover elementary school in Council Bluffs, Iowa.
Fast friends from then on, they’d gone to high school
together, college at the University of Iowa, and on to grad
school at UCLA. Only after Smith had gotten his MD and Bill
his PhD in psychology had they taken different paths. They
had both fulfilled boyhood dreams by joining the military,
with Bill going into military intelligence work. Through all
their distant assignments and postings, they’d kept in
touch, but they hadn’t actually seen one another in more
than a decade.
Frowning, Smith stood motionless in the stately lobby and
stared down at the cryptic words.
"Anything wrong, sir?" the desk clerk inquired politely.
Smith looked around. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Well, better
be on my way if I want to catch the next seminar."
He stuffed the note into his trenchcoat pocket and strode
out into the soggy afternoon. How had Bill known he was in
London? At this particular secluded hotel? And why all the
cloak-and-dagger, even to using Bill’s private boyhood name
for him?
No return address or phone number.
Only an initial to identify the sender.
Why midnight?
Smith liked to think of himself as a simple man, but he knew
the truth was far from that. His career showed the reality.
He had been a military doctor in MASH units and was now a
research scientist. He had also for a short time worked for
military intelligence. And then there was the stint
commanding troops. He wore his restlessness like another man
wore his skin--so much a part of him he hardly noticed.
Yet in the past year he had discovered a happiness that had
given him focus, a concentration he had never before
achieved. Not only did he find his work at USAMRIID
challenging and exciting, the confirmed bachelor was in
love. Really in love. No more of that high-school stuff of
women coming and going through his life in a revolving door
of drama. Sophia Russell was everything to him–fellow
scientist, research partner, and blond beauty.
There were moments when he would take his eyes from his
electron microscope to just stare at her. How all that
fragile loveliness could conceal so much intelligence and
steely will constantly intrigued him. Just thinking about
her made him miss her all over again. He was scheduled to
fly out of Heathrow tomorrow morning, which would give him
just enough time to drive home to Maryland and meet Sophia
for breakfast before they had to go into the lab.
But now he had this disturbing message from Bill Griffin.
All his internal alarms were ringing. At the same time, it
was an opportunity. He smiled wryly at himself. Apparently
his restlessness still was not tamed.
As he hailed a taxi, he made plans.
He would change his flight tickets to Monday night and meet
Bill Griffin at midnight. He and Bill went too far back for
him to do otherwise. This meant he wouldn’t get into work
until Tuesday, a day late. Which would make Kielburger, the
general who directed USAMRIID, see red. To put it mildly,
the general found Smith and his free-wheeling,
field-operations way of doing things aggravating.
Not a problem. Smith would do an end run.
Early yesterday morning he had phoned Sophia just to hear
her voice. But in the middle of their conversation, a
message had cut in ordering her to go immediately to the lab
because some virus had arrived from California to be
identified. She could easily work the next sixteen or
twenty-four hours nonstop. In fact, she might be at the lab
so late tonight she would not even be up tomorrow morning
when he had been planning to share breakfast. He sighed,
disappointed. The only good thing was she would be too busy
to worry about him.
He might as well just leave a message on their answering
machine at home that he would arrive a day late and she
should not be concerned. She could tell General Kielburger
or not, her call.
That was where the payoff came in. Instead of leaving London
tomorrow morning, he would take a night flight. A few hours
difference, but a world to him: Tom Sheringham was leading
the UK Microbiological Research Establishment team that was
working on a potential vaccine against all hantaviruses.
Tonight he would not only be able to attend Tom’s
presentation, he would twist Tom’s arm to join him for a
late dinner and drinks. Then he would pry out all the
inside, cutting-edge details Tom was not ready to make
public, and he would wangle an invitation to visit Porton
Down tomorrow before he had to catch his night flight.
Nodding to himself and almost smiling, Smith leaped over a
puddle and yanked open the back door of the black-beetled
taxi that had stopped in the street. He told the cabbie the
address of the WHO conference.
But as he sank into the seat, his smile disappeared. He
pulled out the letter from Bill Griffin and reread it,
hoping to find some clue he had missed. What was most
noteworthy was what was not said. The furrow between his
brows deepened. He thought back over the years, trying to
figure out what could have happened to make Bill suddenly
contact him this way.
If Bill wanted scientific help or some kind of assistance
from USAMRIID, he would go through official government
channels. Bill was an FBI special agent now and proud of it.
Like any agent, he would request Smith’s services from the
director of USAMRIID.
On the other hand, if it were simply personal, there would
have been no cloak-and-dagger. Instead, a phone message
would have been waiting at the hotel with Bill’s number so
Smith could call back.
In the chilly cab, Smith shrugged uneasily under his
trenchcoat. This meeting was not only unofficial, it was
secret. Very secret. Which meant Bill was going behind the
FBI. Behind USAMRIID. Behind all government entities . . .
all apparently in the hopes of involving him, too, in
something clandestine.
Chapter Two
8:37 am, Sunday, October 12
Fort Detrick, Maryland
Located in Frederick, a small city surrounded by western
Maryland’s green, rolling landscape, Fort Detrick was the
home of the United States Army Medical Research Institute
for Infectious Diseases. Known by its initials, USAMRIID, or
simply as the Institute, it was a magnet for violent protest
in the 1960s when it was an infamous government factory for
developing and testing chemical and biological weapons. When
President Nixon ordered an end to those programs in 1969,
USAMRIID disappeared from the spotlight to become a center
for science and healing.
Then came 1989. The highly communicable Ebola virus appeared
to have infected monkeys dying at a primate quarantine unit
in Reston, Virginia. USAMRIID’s doctors and veterinarians,
both military and civilian, were rushed to contain what
could erupt into a tragic human epidemic.
But better than containment, they proved the Reston virus to
be a genetic millimeter different from the extremely lethal
strains of Ebola Zaire and Ebola Sudan. Most important was
that the virus was harmless to people. That exciting
discovery skyrocketed USAMRIID scientists into headlines
across the nation. Suddenly, Fort Detrick was again on
people’s minds, but this time as America’s foremost military
medical research facility.
In her USAMRIID office, Dr. Sophia Russell was thinking
about these claims to fame, hoping for inspiration, as she
waited impatiently for her telephone call to reach a man who
might have some answers to help resolve a crisis she feared
could erupt into a serious epidemic.
Sophia was a PhD scientist in cell and molecular biology.
She was a leading cog in the worldwide wheels set in motion
by the death of Major Keith Anderson. She had been at
USAMRIID four years, and like the scientists in 1989, she
was fighting a medical emergency involving an unknown virus.
Already she and her contemporaries were in a far more
precarious position: This virus was fatal to humans. There
were three victims–the army major and two civilians–all who
had apparently died abruptly of Acute Respiratory Distress
Syndrome (ARDS) within hours of one another.
It was not the timing of the deaths or the ARDS itself that
had riveted USAMRIID; millions died of ARDS each year around
the planet.
But not young people. Not healthy people. Not without a
history of respiratory problems or other contributing
factors, and not with violent headaches and blood-filled
chest cavities.
Now three cases in a single day had died with identical
symptoms, each in a different part of the country–-the major
in California, a teenage girl in Georgia, and a homeless man
in Massachusetts.
The director of USAMRIID–-Brig. Gen. Calvin Kielburger–-was
reluctant to declare a worldwide alert on the basis of three
cases they had been handed only yesterday. He hated rocking
the boat or sounding like a weak alarmist. Even more, he
hated sharing credit with other Level Four labs, especially
USAMRIID’s biggest rival, Atlanta’s CDC.
Meanwhile, tension at USAMRIID was palpable, and Sophia,
leading a team of scientists, kept working.
She had received the first of the blood samples by 3:00 am
Saturday and had immediately headed to her Level Four lab to
begin testing. In the small locker room, she had removed her
clothes, watch, and the ring Jon Smith gave her when she
agreed to marry him. She paused just a moment to smile down
at the ring and think about Jon. His handsome face flashed
into her mind–the almost American Indian features with the
high cheekbones but very dark blue eyes. Those eyes had
intrigued her from the beginning, and sometimes she had
imagined how much fun it would be to fall into their depths.
She loved the liquid way he moved, like a jungle animal who
was domesticated only by choice. She loved the way he made
love–the fire and excitement. But most of all, she just
simply, irrevocably, passionately loved him.
She had had to interrupt their phone conversation to rush
here. "Darling, I have to go. It was the lab on the other
line. An emergency."
"At this hour? Can’t it wait until morning? You need your rest."
She chuckled. "You called me. I was resting, in fact
sleeping, until the phone rang."
"I knew you’d want to talk to me. You can’t resist me."
She laughed. "Absolutely. I want to talk to you at all hours
of the day and night. I miss you every moment you’re in
London. I’m glad you woke me up out of sound sleep so I
could tell you that."
It was his turn to laugh. "I love you, too, darling."
In the USAMRIID locker room, she sighed. Closed her eyes.
Then she put Jon from her mind. She had work to do. An
emergency.
She quickly dressed in sterile green surgical scrubs.
Barefoot, she labored to open the door to Bio-Safety Level
Two against the negative pressure that kept contaminants
inside Levels Two, Three, and Four. Finally inside, she
trotted past a dry shower stall and into a bathroom where
clean white socks were kept.
Socks on, she hurried into the Level Three staging area. She
snapped on latex rubber surgical gloves then taped the
gloves to the sleeves to create a seal. She repeated the
procedure with her socks and the legs of the scrubs. That
done, she dressed in her personal bright-blue plastic
biological space suit, which smelled faintly like the inside
of a plastic bucket. She carefully checked it for pinholes.
She lowered the flexible plastic helmet over her head,
closed the plastic zipper that ensured her suit and helmet
were sealed, and pulled a yellow air hose from the wall.
She plugged the hose into her suit. With a quiet hiss, the
air adjusted in the massive space suit. Almost finished, she
unplugged the air hose and lumbered through a stainless
steel door into the air lock of Level Four, which was lined
with nozzles for water and chemicals for the decontamination
shower.
At last she pulled open the door into Level Four. The Hot Zone.
There was no way she could rush anything now. As she
advanced each step in the cautious chain of protective
layers, she had to take more care. Her one weapon was
efficient motion. The more efficient she was, the more speed
she could eke out. So instead of struggling into the pair of
heavy yellow rubber boots, she expertly bent first one foot,
angled it just right, and slid it in. Then she did the same
with the other.
She waddled as fast as she could along narrow cinder-block
corridors into her lab. There she slipped on a third pair of
latex gloves, carefully removed the samples of blood and
tissue from the refrigerated container, and went to work
isolating the virus.
Over the next twenty-six hours, she forgot to eat or sleep.
She lived in the lab, studying the virus with the electron
microscope. To her amazement, she and her team ruled out
Ebola, Marburg, and any other filovirus. It had the usual
furry-ball shape of most viruses. Once she had seen it,
given the ARDS cause of death, her first thought was a
hantavirus like the one that had killed the young athletes
on the Navajo reservation in 1993. USAMRIID was expert on
hantaviruses. One of its legends, Karl Johnson, had been a
discoverer of the first hantavirus to be isolated and
identified back in the 1970s.
With that in mind, she had used immunoblotting to test the
unknown pathogen against USAMRIID’s frozen bank of blood
samples of previous victims of various hantaviruses from
around the world. It reacted to none. Puzzled, she ran a
polymerase chain reaction (PCR) to get a bit of DNA sequence
from the virus. It resembled no known hantavirus, but for
future reference she assembled a preliminary restriction map
anyway. That was when she wished most fervently Jon was with
her, not far away at the WHO conference in London.
Frustrated because she still had no definitive answer, she
had forced herself to leave the lab. She had already sent
the team off to sleep, and now she went through the exiting
procedure, too, peeling away her space suit, going through
decontamination procedures, and dressing again in her
civilian clothes.
After a four-hour onsite nap–that was all she needed, she
told herself firmly– she had hurried to her office to study
the tests’ notes. As the other team members awakened, she
sent them back to their labs.
Her head ached, and her throat was dry. She took a bottle of
water from her office mini refrigerator and returned to her
desk. On the wall hung three framed photos. She drank and
leaned forward to contemplate them, drawn like a moth to
comforting light. One showed Jon and herself in bathing
suits last summer in Barbados. What fun they had had on
their one and only vacation. The second was of Jon in his
dress uniform the day he’d made lieutenant colonel. The last
pictured a younger captain with wild black hair, a dirty
face, and piercing blue eyes in a dusty field uniform
outside a Fifth MASH tent somewhere in the Iraqi desert.
Missing him, needing him in the lab with her, she had
reached for the phone to call him in London-–and stopped.
The general had sent him to London. For the general,
everything was by the book, and every assignment had to be
finished. Not a day late, not a day early. Jon was not due
for several hours. Then she realized he was probably aloft
now anyway, but she wouldn’t be at his house, waiting for
him. She dismissed her disappointment.
She had devoted herself to science, and somewhere along the
way she had gotten extremely lucky. She had never expected
to marry. Fall in love, perhaps. But marry? No. Few men
wanted a wife obsessed with her work. But Jon understood. In
fact, it excited him that she could look at a cell and
discuss it in graphic, colorful detail with him. In turn,
she had found his endless curiosity invigorating. Like two
children at a kindergarten party, they had found their
favorite playmates in each other–well suited not only
professionally but temperamentally. Dedicated,
compassionate, and as in love with life as with each other.
She had never known such happiness, and she had Jon to thank
for it.
With an impatient shake of her head, she turned on her
computer to examine the lab notes for anything she might
have missed. She found nothing of any significance.
Then, as more DNA sequence data was arriving, and she
continued to review in her mind all the clinical data so far
on the virus, she had a strange feeling–
She had seen this virus–or one that was incredibly
similar–somewhere.
She wracked her brain. Dug through her memory. Rooted
through her past.
Nothing came to mind. Finally she read a report from one of
her team that suggested the new virus might be related to
Machupo, one of the first discovered hemorrhagic fevers,
again by Karl Johnson.
Africa didn’t push any of her buttons. But Bolivia . . . ?
Peru!
Her student anthropology field trip, and–
Victor Tremont.
Yes, that had been his name. A biologist on a field trip to
Peru to collect plants and dirts for potential medicinals
for . . . what company? A pharmaceutical firm . . .
Blanchard Pharmaceuticals! She turned back to her computer,
quickly entered the Internet , and searched for Blanchard.
She found it almost at once–in Long Lake, N.Y. And Victor
Tremont was President and Chief Operating Officer now! She
reached for her phone and dialed the number.
It was Sunday morning, but giant corporations sometimes kept
their telephones open all weekend for important calls.
Blanchard did. A human voice answered, and when she asked
for Victor Tremont, the voice told her to wait. She drummed
her fingers on the desk, trying to control her worried
impatience.
At last a series of clicks and silences on the far end of
the line were interrupted by another human voice. This time
it was neutral, toneless: "May I ask your name and business
with Doctor Tremont?"
"Sophia Russell. Tell him it’s about a trip to Peru where we
met."
"Please hold." More silence. Then "Mr. Tremont will speak
with you now."
"Ms. . . . Russell?" Obviously he was consulting her name
handed to him on a pad. "What can I do for you?" His voice
was low and pleasant but commanding. A man clearly
accustomed to being in charge.
She said mildly, "Actually, it’s Doctor Russell now. You
don’t remember my name, Doctor Tremont?"
"Can’t say I do. But you mentioned Peru, and I do remember
Peru. Twelve or thirteen years ago, wasn’t it?" He was
acknowledging why he was talking to her, but giving nothing
away in case she was a job seeker or it was all some hoax.
"Thirteen, and I certainly remember you." She was trying to
keep it light. "What I’m interested in is that time on the
Caraibo River. I was with a group of anthropology undergrads
on a field trip from Syracuse while you were collecting
potential medicinal materials. I’m calling to ask about the
virus you found in those remote tribesmen, the natives the
others called the Monkey Blood Drinkers."
In his large corner office at the other end of the line,
Victor Tremont felt a jolt of fear. Just as quickly he
repressed it. He swivelled in his desk chair to stare out at
the lake, which was shimmering like mercury in the early
morning light. On the far side, a thick pine forest
stretched and climbed to the high mountains in the distance.
Annoyed that she had surprised him with such a potentially
devastating memory, Tremont continued to swivel. He kept his
voice friendly. "Now I remember you. The eager blond young
lady dazzled by science. I wondered whether you’d go on to
become an anthropologist. Did you?"
"No, I ended up with a doctorate in cell and molecular
biology. That’s why I need your help. I’m working at the
army’s infectious diseases research center at Fort Detrick.
We’ve come across a virus that sounds a lot like the one in
Peru–an unknown type causing headaches, fever, and acute
respiratory distress syndrome that can kill otherwise
healthy people within hours and produce a violent hemorrhage
in the lungs. Does that ring a bell, Doctor Tremont?"
"Call me Victor, and I seem to recall your first name is
Susan . . . Sally. . . something like . . . ?"
"Sophia."
"Of course. Sophia Russell. Fort Detrick," he said, as if
writing it down. "I’m glad to hear you remained in science.
Sometimes I wish I’d stayed in the lab instead of jumping to
the front office. But that’s water over a long-ago dam, eh?"
He laughed.
She asked, "Do you recall the virus?"
"No. Can’t say I do. I went into sales and management soon
after Peru, and probably that’s why the incident escapes me.
As I said, it was a long time ago. But from what I recall of
my molecular biology, the scenario you suggest is unlikely.
You must be thinking of a series of different viruses we
heard about on that trip. There was no shortage. I remember
that much."
She dug the phone into her ear, frustrated. "No, I’m certain
there was this one single agent that came from working with
the Monkey Blood people. I didn’t pay a lot of attention at
the time. But then, I never expected to end up in biology,
much less cell and molecular. Still, the oddness of it stuck
with me."
"‘The Monkey Blood people?’ How bizarre. I’m sure I’d recall
a tribe with such a colorful name as that."
Urgency filled her voice. "Doctor Tremont, listen. Please.
This is vital. Critical We’ve just received three cases of a
virus that reminds me of it. Those natives had a cure that
worked almost eighty percent of the time-–drinking the blood
of a certain monkey. As I recall, that’s what astonished you."
"And still would," Tremont agreed. The accuracy of her
memory was unnerving. "Primitive Indians with a cure for a
fatal virus? But I know nothing about it," he lied smoothly.
"The way you describe what happened, I’m certain I’d
remember. What do your colleagues say? Surely some worked in
Peru, too."
She sighed. "I wanted to check with you first. We have
enough false alarms, and it’s been a long time since Peru
for me, too. But if you don’t remember . . ." Her voice
trailed off. She was terribly disappointed. "I’m certain
there was a virus. Perhaps I’ll contact Peru. They must have
a record of unusual cures among the Indians."
Victor Tremont’s voice rose slightly. That was not what he
needed. "That may not be necessary. I kept a journal of my
trips back then. Notes on the plants and potential
pharmaceuticals. Perhaps I jotted down something about your
virus as well."
Sophia leaped at the suggestion. "I’d appreciate your
looking. Right away."
"Whoa." Tremont gave a warm chuckle. He had her. "The
notebooks are stored somewhere in my house. Probably the
attic. Maybe the basement. I’ll have to get back to you
tomorrow."
"I owe you, Victor. Maybe the world will. First thing
tomorrow, please. You have no idea how important this could
be." She gave him her phone number.
"Oh, I think I know," Tremont assured her. "Tomorrow morning
at the latest."
He hung up and rotated once more to gaze out at the
brightening lake and the high mountains that suddenly seemed
to loom close and ominous. He stood up and walked to the
window. He was a tall man of medium build, with a
distinctive face on which nature had played one of her more
kindly tricks: From a youth’s oversized nose, gawky ears,
and thin cheeks, he’d grown into a good-looking man. Now in
his fifties, his features had filled out. His face was
aquiline, smooth, and aristocratic. The nose was the perfect
size–straight and strong, a fitting centerpiece for his very
English face. With his tan skin and thick, iron-gray hair,
he drew attention wherever he went. But he knew it was not
his dignity and attractiveness that people found so
appealing. It was his self-confidence. He radiated power,
and less-assured people found that compelling.
Despite what he’d told Sophia Russell, Victor Tremont made
no move to go home to his secluded estate. Instead, he
stared unseeing at the mountains and fought off tension. He
was angry . . . and annoyed.
Sophia Russell. My God, Sophia Russell!
Who would’ve thought? He hadn’t recognized even her name. In
fact, still wouldn’t recognize any of the names of that
insignificant little student group. And he doubted any would
recall his. But Russell had. What kind of brain retained
such detail? Obviously the trivial was too important to her.
He shook his head, disgusted. In truth, she was not a
problem. Just a nuisance. Still, she must be dealt with. He
unlocked the secret drawer in his carved desk and took out a
cell phone and dialed.
An emotionless voice with a faint accent answered. "Yes?"
"I need to talk to you," Victor Tremont ordered. "My office.
Ten minutes." He hung up, returned the cell phone to the
locked drawer, and picked up his regular office phone.
"Muriel? Get me General Caspar in Washington."