by Matt Miksa
“This will stop the bleeding,” Jo said, winding the strip of cloth around Kipton’s skull. “Head wounds bleed a lot, so it looks worse than it is. You have a minor contusion beside your left ear, but there’s no trauma to the sphenoid or temporal bones.”
“I’ve never seen a virologist shoot like that,” Kipton said. “You’re incredible.”
Jo smiled weakly. “Pathogens aren’t the only hazards of fieldwork.”
The reporter took a deep breath and tried to stand. Jo grabbed his elbow to help the man to his feet. Already he seemed to be bouncing back from the attack.
“We’ve got to go, Doc,” he said. “Dzongsar is a smoke screen.”
“I know,” Jo said with disappointment. She’d reached the same conclusion. The Politburo Standing Committee had never expected her to find anything in the Q-Zone. “But first I need to have a talk with the man pretending to be my ex-husband.”
“That man you operated on wasn’t your ex?” Kipton asked.
Jo shook her head.
“I don’t know what’s going on here, Jo, but that ninja lady almost shattered my face, so I think I deserve some answers.”
“You’re right, Kip. I haven’t been honest with you.”
CHAPTER
37
Dzongsar Village, Tibetan Autonomous Region, People’s Republic of China
THE RATIONAL PARTS of Jo’s brain told her not to trust the foreigner, but she ignored them and decided to go with her gut. The American journalist had saved her life—and then she’d saved his—so that bonded them, in a twisted sort of way. She had no other allies in the Q-Zone. Kipton was it. He sat with a hand pressed to his wound, smiling stupidly, even as a stripe of blood trailed down his cheek. There were worse men to bond with. Yes, it would be better if he knew the truth. At least part of it.
“I work for the Ministry of State Security. The Ministry of Health is my official cover for this mission,” Jo admitted.
“You’re MSS?” Olen asked. “Since when do spies know so much about viruses?”
“I’m a medical officer. My background in microbiology and infectious diseases allows for special access to an array of sensitive information. Medical conferences, leading-edge laboratories, pioneering university research—the scientific community is generally prone to academic openness.”
“So, you use your medical degree and respected credentials to steal technology for the Chinese government,” Kipton said bluntly.
“Not at all. The MSS’s foremost concern is national security, just like the intelligence agencies in your country. We know bioterrorism is an extraordinary threat. Biological weapons are easy to make, difficult to track, and even harder to contain. My job is to investigate the sudden emergence of new diseases and determine if they were introduced deliberately.”
“That sounds reasonable, but why does that have to be secret? Why the MSS?”
“Investigating outbreaks within China is simple. The government has full authority to access whatever it wants. I primarily collect intelligence on overseas epidemics. Even if China isn’t the target of a bioattack, we want to know who has the capability to launch one. We can’t take the risk that China could be the next victim. The American CDC and the World Health Organization are not going to let Chinese intelligence officers just waltz onto their teams, but they are reticent to turn away good civilian doctors when battling a major health crisis.”
“Doesn’t that seem a bit deceptive? Like you’re taking advantage of people when they’re most vulnerable?” Kipton asked.
“I don’t see it that way. I use my skills and training to help determine the cause of an outbreak. I’m good at what I do, and oftentimes my involvement helps to curb the spread of a disease before it decimates a population. In return, my work allows the Chinese government to keep a close eye on dangerous contagions to better safeguard our own public safety. The intelligence I collect saves lives, even if I have to be a little deceptive to get it. There’s no victim in what I do.”
“If the MSS sent you to Dzongsar, they must have suspected foul play,” Kipton said, moving closer. “Do you know where that syringe came from? The one we found in the forest?”
Jo considered telling him about Chang Yingjie. She was now certain patient zero had injected himself with a synthetic virus and buried the evidence in the forest. General Huang had been right. The Taiwanese government had used one if its own spies as a human biological weapon.
Jo nodded in the direction of the assassin’s limp body, still coiled on the floor. “I think it’s fair to say someone doesn’t want us asking that question.”
The reporter’s furrowed brow suggested that he wasn’t satisfied with her vague answers. He could tell she knew more than she was letting on.
“Who’s the man in the clinic, Jo? The one pretending to be your ex-husband?” he pressed.
Jo sighed. Someone wanted her dead, and although she hated to admit it, she needed Kipton’s help. In fact, she wanted it.
“It’s his brother,” she said. “Ru has a twin. His mother underwent an illegal in vitro fertilization procedure in the early 1980s. The method was highly experimental at the time, and a little dangerous, but it was the only way they could have two children and stay in China. Or so they thought. Someone reported the family to the local Party boss. Ru’s parents fled to Taipei to avoid spending the rest of their lives in a work camp.”
“Wait, so Ru is Taiwanese?”
“His mother was six months pregnant when they fled to Taipei. Ru was born in Taiwan, but technically you could call him a political refugee,” Jo explained.
“But Amy said he came to the Q-Zone to investigate the virus. Why would the Chinese government let a Taiwanese doctor into Tibet?”
“Things have changed since the eighties. There’s more political tension between the mainland and Taiwan, but also more cooperation. Cross-strait trade hit a trillion renminbi last year.” Jo paused. Her voice grew softer and more vulnerable. “Besides, this virus is ravaging our country.”
“And governments are reticent to turn away good civilian doctors in a crisis,” Kipton repeated.
Jo nodded. She knew Ru’s brother must’ve entered the Q-Zone before the MSS identified patient zero as a Taiwanese spy. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have gotten past baggage claim at the airport. “A crisis like this can forge unlikely alliances.”
“Amen, Doc,” Kipton said, touching his bandaged scalp. “So why would Ru’s twin show up in Dzongsar, impersonating his brother?”
“I don’t know, but we need to find out,” Jo replied.
“What if he’s dead?”
“Then we may never know …” Jo trailed off.
“Know what?” the reporter asked.
“Kip, listen to me,” Jo said grimly. “That man in the clinic isn’t Ru, but he may be able to help us find him.”
“Why is it so important that we track down your ex-husband?”
“Because I think Ru knows where this disease came from. I examined the biological sample from the syringe. It had … certain characteristics. I recognized the technique used to develop the culture. The cell line—”
“Okay, I believe you.” Kipton cut her off. “How could Ru know where Blood River virus came from when no one else seems to have a clue?”
Jo inhaled deeply. Time to take the plunge. “I believe Ru engineered it,” she answered soberly.
“What?” Kipton recoiled. “You think Ru cooked up this bug as a big ‘eff you’ to the Chinese government? Some kind of twisted revenge for exiling his parents?”
“I don’t know why. Ru’s an ass, but he wouldn’t hurt—”
“What makes you think he’d even have the resources to pull off something this big?” Kipton continued. “He’d need help. A lab, materials, equipment, a staff. Years to conduct research in secret. And a mountain of money, probably.”
“Kip,” Jo said, “there’s something I need to tell you about patient zero.”
* * *
Olen d
igested Jo’s sensational story.
“Just so I’m clear, Blood River virus is the result of a Taiwanese plot to destabilize the Chinese government,” he said slowly. “Your ex-husband is some kind of evil genius who weaponized a synthetic disease for an NSB spy to unleash behind enemy lines.”
“I don’t have proof, but the evidence is starting to look that way. I wanted to think patient zero’s affiliation with the NSB was coincidental, but when we found the hypodermic needle, it became clear that Chang infected himself intentionally.”
“How do you know Ru is involved?”
“The solution in the syringe …” Jo paused, as if searching for a simple way to explain what she’d seen. “The solution contained live virus.”
“I thought you couldn’t see virus particles without an electron microscope.”
“I can’t. The virus itself is too small to see with the equipment we have out here in the field lab, but I can confirm its presence based on the observable damage to the cells.”
“Cells?”
“A virus isn’t like bacteria. It can’t grow on a door handle or spoiled food. A virus can only survive inside a live cell. That’s why growing a viral culture in a laboratory is so difficult. Essentially, we must expose healthy cells to the pathogen and wait for infection to occur. My team in Beijing has tried for days to produce a BRV45 culture in the laboratory with zero success.”
“So, how do the cells point to Ru?” Olen asked.
“Virologists utilize a variety of cell lines to culture viruses, but the most efficient cell lines come from humans.”
“Not just any humans, right?” Olen had learned a thing or two working for VECTOR.
“That’s right. Typically cells from unborn fetuses. Human embryonic stem cells, to be precise.”
“The Blood River virus culture we found in the syringe contained human stem cells. So, what?” Olen shrugged. “The practice may be controversial in the United States, but I know it’s common elsewhere.”
“The stem cells I saw in the syringe weren’t actually embryonic, but they were similar.”
Olen stared, waiting for the punch line. “I’ve just been shot in the face. Please make this easier to follow.”
“In just the last few years, researchers have experimented with ways to artificially generate stem cells,” Jo explained. “The process is extremely difficult and requires incredibly precise timing, but a recent scientific breakthrough proved we can actually reprogram adult human cells to behave like embryonic stem cells.”
“So, the cells you saw in the hypodermic syringe were these—”
“Synthetic stem cells. Yes,” Jo said.
“And what makes you think Ru had the ability to replicate these artificial human stem cells?”
“Because he invented them.”
Olen shut his eyes. His temple pulsed.
Jo’s voice lowered to a whisper. “There’s only one man alive with the scientific expertise to produce the biological material in that syringe, and that man is my ex-husband. I don’t know how or why, but Ru was undeniably involved in this outbreak.”
Olen watched the doctor disintegrate from despair. The revelation had a profound physical effect on her, as if her heart was breaking all over again. She deserved better. How would Jo react if he reached out for her, pulled her in, held her? The idea was ludicrous. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Jo had just revealed that she was MSS—a spy from a rival intelligence service. Olen couldn’t let himself get too close.
The doctor’s moment of vulnerability evaporated, replaced by her usual ironclad resolve. “Ru’s brother knows where my ex-husband is,” Jo hissed. “We’ve got to make him to tell us. No matter what it takes.”
CHAPTER
38
Dzongsar Village, Tibetan Autonomous Region, People’s Republic of China
THE MASS OF bruised flesh rose and fell with a mechanical cadence. Next to the bed, a ventilator clicked in regular intervals. The machine’s rubber hose twitched as it forced each breath through a narrow tube inserted directly to the patient’s windpipe.
Purple contusions blotched the man’s bare chest. His torso was lopsided and doughy, as if his rib cage had collapsed into his body. Two hollow eyes stared blankly from their swollen sockets. Olen could tell the man wasn’t conscious. The putrid stench of urine and decay made him wonder if they’d come too late.
Jo marched across the makeshift clinic toward a medical supply cabinet. She didn’t even glance at the gaunt man before returning to his bedside with an uncomfortably long needle. One quick prick and the lifeless jumble jolted awake.
“Epinephrine,” Jo explained to Olen. The N95 respirator strapped to the doctor’s face muffled her voice. Following the revelation that BRV45 was a genetically engineered killer, Jo had elected for more stringent safety measures. Olen didn’t bother. If BRV45 could be contracted by breathing contaminated air, they were already dead.
The patient instantly reacted to the powerful neurotransmitter coursing through his veins. He thrashed like a fish, tearing at his soiled bedsheets. The ventilator screamed.
Within minutes, the initial shock from the injected hormone began to taper and the patient’s convulsions subsided. He stared at Jo, who loomed over the man’s decrepit form. His glossy eyes now flared with terror.
“Hello, Aiguo,” Jo said.
The man gnawed at the air. His tongue curled and flicked, but only guttural grunts escaped from his bandaged throat.
“How is he supposed to tell us anything?” Olen asked. “I don’t think he can even talk.”
“I don’t need him to talk,” Jo said. She pulled a small whiteboard off the wall. The doctor shoved a dry-erase marker into the sick man’s hand and held the board over his abdomen. “Where’s Ru?” she demanded in English.
The man grimaced and turned his face away. Jo squeezed his chin with a gloved hand and yanked his head toward the whiteboard. “I know Ru had something to do with this outbreak. He sent you here. Why?” she asked.
The man’s neck muscles flexed like those of a crane swallowing a frog. He spat in Jo’s face, sending a glob of black mucus onto the mask of her respirator. Then, in defiance, he hurled the marker to the floor.
Jo twisted the knobs on the ventilator. The clicking and hissing stopped and the machine powered down. The man’s face contorted into grotesque expressions of frenzied desperation. Jo had cut off his oxygen supply. She ignored his gasps and retrieved the dry-erase marker.
“Where’s Ru?” she asked again, holding up the marker within the man’s reach. His face turned blue. The capillaries in his eyelids bulged. He needed air. Suffocation was one of the cruelest forms of torture—something Olen knew from experience.
“What are you doing?” Olen barked, stunned by Jo’s ruthlessness. He doubted the man would write anything. Deprived of oxygen, the mind entered a primitive survival mode, shutting down higher-order cognitive abilities to conserve energy. You started to see crazy shit, like purple elephants on surfboards. Jo wouldn’t learn anything useful this way.
Jo leaned over the bed until her mask nearly touched the patient’s nose.
“You’ll be dead in less than a minute,” she murmured breathily, a glint of raw pleasure in her eyes.
With a trembling hand, the man reached for the marker and scrawled a big circle on the whiteboard, filling it in with thick, black scribbles.
Satisfied, Jo stepped back from the bed. The diseased man shook his head violently as his blood cells swelled with carbon dioxide. Within seconds he’d black out. Jo seemed prepared to let him die.
A moment later she switched on the ventilator. The plastic tube twitched and the patient’s chest heaved with each unnatural breath. Jo turned calmly to Olen. “It’s time to go,” she said, her voice like ice.
CHAPTER
39
Beijing, People’s Republic of China
GENERAL HUANG YIPENG’S heels clicked against the lobby’s marble floor. The commercial high-rise blended into B
eijing’s glistening Haidian District just outside Third Ring Road. Four guards protected the main entrance. They wore generic blue uniforms with white patches on their sleeves that read PINNACLE PROTECTION, but Lieutenant Wang recognized their QSZ-92 semiautomatic pistols—the standard-issue PLA sidearm.
Lieutenant Wang followed the general, flanked by a pair of smooth-skinned infantrymen armed to the teeth. Even Huang, who rarely carried a weapon, had a handgun holstered tightly to his right hip. After the attack on the Great Hall of the People, everyone was on high alert. The city had become unpredictable, dangerous. Even for generals.
The military retinue waited for the elevator doors to open. General Huang turned to his lieutenant. “The time?”
Wang tugged on his sleeve. “It’s eight past eleven, sir.”
“Ah, lucky eight! Good fortune. Remember that, Xiao Wang.” The general patted his subordinate on the shoulder with fatherly affection.
The lieutenant didn’t feel lucky. The general had dragged him from bed for the second night in a row. Wang couldn’t imagine what emergency would require them to visit an empty office building on the other side of the city. When the security guards made no attempt to stop the four armed soldiers barging into their lobby, the picture grew clearer. It was a safe house. Huang was meeting a source. If the general planned to make contact personally, the source must be important. Still, the lieutenant couldn’t recall a time when his boss had met directly with an informant. It was too risky for a man of the general’s stature.
The elevator chimed. The soldiers stepped inside, and they descended to the basement. Seconds later, the doors opened into a wide hallway. It was decidedly less polished than the ultramodern lobby. A cadaverous gray coated the walls. Black scuff marks streaked the linoleum floor. The air tasted thick and stale. The men marched down the corridor behind Huang, who seemed to know where he was going. They passed doors with mundane labels like BUILDING MANAGEMENT and FACILITIES DIRECTOR. The general paused before one marked STORAGE. An electronic key card, like the kind used to enter a hotel room, materialized in his hand. Lieutenant Wang inhaled sharply when the door swung open, revealing a staircase leading down into a subbasement. Ceiling-mounted red lights illuminated the hidden shaft in a hellish glow. The walls were made of reinforced concrete. This was no safe house. It was a bunker.