It was late, but the beer could wait until he'd taken the van to the twenty-four-hour carwash. He climbed back in, drove the three blocks, and told the guys to pay special attention to the alloys: he didn't want a speck of filth left on his van. Then he told them where they could find him, and walked back to the bar for his beer.
The carwash had a reputation for doing a thorough, conscientious job. The slimy gunk on Henson's van was hard to get off, but after prolonged exposure to the jet of hot water, it melted off- like Jell-O in the sun, thought the boy in charge of the pressure-washer. The effluent poured into the drains.
New York had a unique water-supply system. While cars and trains passed beneath the East River at a depth of thirty metres, pipes carrying drinking water and sewage extended 240 metres underground. Engineers with powerful drills were always boring new tunnels to ensure that water flowed freely into and out of the city. Alongside the existing pipes, countless old tunnels were no longer in use. Experts claimed that no one could locate all of the tunnels buried below the streets of New York. There wasn't a single map that showed the entire network. Some tunnels were known only to certain groups of drifters, who kept the secret to themselves. The sewers had inspired directors to make monster movies in which scary creatures were hatched in them. In a sense, everything that flowed into New York's sewers went astray.
In the course of that evening and over the next few days, the carwashes in Brooklyn, Queens, State Island and Manhattan were filled with vehicles that had come from Long Island. The wastewater disappeared into the bowels of the city, flowing along pipelines, mingling with other fluids and entering the recycling stations. Then it was pumped back into the system. Only a few hours after Henson's squeaky-clean van had been dropped off at the bar, the effluent had merged with New York's water.
Within six hours the first ambulances were racing through the streets.
11 May
Chateau Whistler, Canada
There was always a way of coming to terms with change. Or, at least, Johanson had always found one. Much as it had hurt him to lose his house, he knew he could live without it. Even the end of his marriage had been a new beginning. In Trondheim, his short-lived relationships had compounded his solitude – but none of it had bothered him. As far as he was concerned, anything that didn't add to his aesthetic sensibilities or his appreciation of harmony could be consigned to the dustbin. The surface was something he shared with others but the depths he kept for himself. That was his way of getting on with life.
Now, though, in the early hours of the morning, other, more dissonant memories were emerging from the past. He hadn't intended to open his left eye, but now that he had, he examined the world from a cyclopean view, thinking about those in his life who'd been destroyed by change.
His wife.
People grew up thinking that they controlled their lives. But he'd abandoned her, and she'd been forced to see that control was an illusion. She'd argued with him, pleaded with him, shouted, shown compassion, listened patiently, begged for his pity, and been left behind, disenfranchised, bundled out of their shared life. She'd stopped believing in her power to change anything. Life was a gamble, and she'd lost.
Was it his fault that he'd suddenly felt differently? Emotions were beyond innocence and guilt: they were biochemical reactions to the circumstances of life. It wasn't very romantic, he knew, but endorphins meant more than any romance. So what was he guilty of? Of making promises that couldn't be kept…
Johanson opened the other eye.
Change, for him, was the elixir of life. For her it had induced a kind of coma. Years later, when he was in Trondheim, friends had told him that she'd finally got back on her feet, taken charge of her life. After a while she'd found someone new. Johanson and she had chatted on the phone a few times, free from rancour or longing. The bitterness had destroyed itself, and he'd been released from the burden of guilt.
But now it was back.
It followed him around, with Tina Lund's pale, pretty face. By now he had been through all the different scenarios. If they'd slept together at the lake, it would have changed everything. Maybe she would have joined him in the Shetlands. Or maybe it would have ruined everything, and he would have been the last person whose advice she would have taken – like when he'd encouraged her to visit Kare. Either way, she would still be alive.
He kept telling himself it was stupid to think like that.
But the thoughts kept returning.
The first rays of sunshine streamed into the room. He had left the curtains open as he always did: a bedroom with closed curtains was no better than a crypt. He wondered about getting up for breakfast, but he had no desire to move. Lund's death filled him with sorrow. He hadn't been in love with her, but he had loved her. Her restlessness, her need for freedom had drawn them together, as surely as they had kept them apart.
I won't live forever, he thought Ever since Lund had died, he had thought about death. He wasn't used to feeling old, but now it seemed as though Fate had stamped a best-before date on him. He was fifty-six, in excellent shape, and had escaped the statistical threat of untimely death through illness or accident. He'd even survived a tsunami. But there was no doubt that time was running out. Most of his life was in the past, and he was starting to worry that it might all have been a mistake.
Two women in his life had trusted him, and he'd failed to protect them.
Karen Weaver was alive. She reminded him of Lund. She wasn't as hyperactive, as guarded or as moody, but she had Lund's strength, her toughness and impatience. After their escape from the tsunami, he had told her his theory and she'd explained her work for Lukas Bauer. After a while he had flown back to Norway and joined the ranks of the homeless. But the NTNU was still standing. The authorities had besieged him with work, and before he could drive to the lake, the summons had arrived from Canada. It had been his idea for Weaver to join them, ostensibly because she knew more than anyone else about Bauer's work and could take it further. But that wasn't the real reason. If it hadn't been for the helicopter, Weaver wouldn't have survived – so, in a sense, he had saved her. Weaver was absolution for his failure to help Lund, and he'd made up his mind to look out for her. To that end, it was better to have her close.
The memories of the past faded in the sunlight. Johanson got up, showered and arrived at the buffet at half past six to find that he wasn't the only one to have risen so early. The dining hall was filled with soldiers and intelligence agents drinking coffee, eating muesli and fruit and talking in hushed tones. Johanson piled his plate with scrambled eggs and bacon and searched for familiar faces. He would have liked to talk to Bohrmann, but he was nowhere to be seen. General Judith Li was there, though, sitting alone at a table for two. She was leafing through a file. From time to time she took a spoonful of fruit from her bowl.
Something about Li intrigued Johanson. He guessed that she looked younger than she was. He wondered what a man had to do to get her into bed, but decided it was probably unadvisable to try. Li didn't look like someone who would let others take the initiative.
She glanced from her reading and spotted him. 'Good morning, Dr Johanson,' she called. 'Did you sleep well?'
'Like a baby.' He walked over to her table. 'You're not breakfasting alone, are you? I guess it must be lonely at the top.'
'Why don't you join me? I like having people around me who are busy with their thoughts. It concentrates the mind.'
Johanson took a seat 'Who's to say I am?'
'It's obvious.' Li put down her file. 'Coffee?'
'Yes, please.'
'You revealed yourself yesterday. The other scientists here are focused on their fields. Shankar's contending with mysterious deep-sea noises, Anawak's fretting about his whales – although he's got more of an overview than the others – and Bohrmann's terrified that there's going to be a methane disaster. He's juggling variables, trying to prevent another slide.'
'Sounds like they've got their work cut out to me.'
&n
bsp; 'But they haven't come up with a theory to tie it all together.'
'I didn't think we needed one,' Johanson said evenly. 'It's an Arab conspiracy.'
'Do you believe that?'
'No.'
'What do you believe, then?'
'If you want to hear what I think, you're going to have to wait an extra day or so.'
'You haven't convinced yourself yet?'
'Almost.' Johanson sipped his coffee. 'But it's tricky. Your Mr. Vanderbilt is all fired up about terrorism. Before I even voice my suspicions, I'll need someone to cover my back.'
'And who's going to do that?'
Johanson put down his cup. 'You are, General.'
Li didn't seem surprised. 'If you're going to try to convince me of something, maybe you should tell me what it is.'
'Absolutely,' smiled Johanson. 'All in good time.'
Li pushed the file across the table. Inside the plastic wallet was a collection of faxes. 'Maybe this will speed up your decision, Dr Johanson. I received these at five o'clock this morning. No one seems able to tell us exactly what happened, and we're still awaiting a full report, but I had to make a quick decision. In a few hours' time, New York and the surrounding area will be under martial law. Peak's there already to set things in motion.'
Johanson saw the spectre of another wave. 'But why?'
'What if I told you that billions of white crabs were rising from the sea along the coast of Long Island?'
'I'd say they were on a team-building exercise.'
'Uh-huh. But for which team?'
'Tell me more about these crabs,' he said. 'What are they doing there?'
'We're not sure. But we think it's something similar to those Brittany lobsters. They're importing a plague. How does that fit with your theory?'
Johanson thought it over. 'Is there a biohazard facility where we could examine them?'
'We've set one up in Nanaimo. A consignment of crabs is being sent there.'
'Live ones?'
'They were alive when they were caught. Plenty of people are dead, though. The poison seems to work faster than the toxins in Europe.'
Johanson said nothing for a while. 'I'll fly over,' he said.
'And when do you plan to tell me what you're thinking?'
'Give me twenty-four hours.'
Li pursed her lips. 'Twenty-four hours it is,' she said. 'But not a minute longer.'
NANAIMO, Vancouver Island
Anawak was sitting with Ray Fenwick, John Ford and Sue Oliviera in the institute's capacious projection room. The projector was showing 3-D models of whale brains. Oliviera had designed them on the computer, and had marked the places where the jelly had been found. You could navigate around the insides of the brains and slice them lengthways with a virtual knife. They'd already watched three simulations, and now they were viewing the fourth, which showed how the substance wound its way through the gyri towards the centre of the brain.
'OK, here's the theory,' said Anawak. 'Imagine you're a cockroach.'
'Gee, thanks, Leon.' Oliviera raised her eyebrows, which made her horsy face seem even longer. 'You know how to flatter a lady.'
'A cockroach incapable of intelligent thought.'
'I never knew you felt that way.'
Fenwick laughed and scratched the tip of his nose.
'Everything you do is merely a reflex,' Anawak continued, unabashed, 'so if I were a neurophysiology, I could steer your behaviour with no trouble at all. I'd only have to control your reflexes and trigger them as required. You'd be like an artificial limb. I'd just have to push the right buttons.'
'Wasn't there an experiment where they beheaded a beetle and sewed on another one's head?' said Ford. 'If I remember rightly, it could walk.'
'Almost. They decapitated one cockroach, and chopped the legs off another. Then they joined the central nervous systems. The cockroach with the head took control of the legs as though they were its own. That's what I'm getting at: simple processes for simple creatures. There was another experiment where they tried something similar with mice. They took a mouse and grafted a second head on to its body. It lived a surprisingly long time – a few hours or days, I think. In any case, both heads seemed to function normally, but the mouse had trouble coordinating its movement. It was able to walk, but not always in the direction it intended, so it mostly fell over after a few steps.'
'Appalling,' muttered Oliviera.
'So, it's technically possible to gain control of any organism, but the more complex it is, the more difficult that becomes. Imagine dealing with a complex organism that's also conscious, intelligent, creative and self-aware. It's pretty darned hard to make it do your bidding, so what do you do?'
'You break its will and reduce it to the level of a cockroach. With men, you just flash your naked butt.'
'Exactly.' Anawak grinned. 'Because people and cockroaches aren't so very different.'
'Some people,' Oliviera corrected him.
'No, everyone. Free will's a wonderful thing, but it's only free until you flip a few switches. Like pain, for example.'
'So whoever made the jelly knows how a whale brain works,' said Fenwick. 'That's what you're saying, isn't it? That the substance stimulates specific neural centres.'
'Yes.'
'And to do that, you have to know which.'
'It's not too hard to find out,' said Oliviera. 'Think of John Lilly.'
'Exactly.' Anawak nodded. 'Lilly was the first to experiment with implanting electrodes in animal brains to stimulate pleasure or pain. He proved that by manipulating areas of the brain it's possible to cause an animal to feel pleasure, gratification, pain, anger or fear. That was with apes, remember, and apes are close to whales and dolphins in terms of complexity and intelligence. It worked. He could bring the animals under his control by using electrodes to trigger different sensations as punishment or reward. And that was back in the sixties.'
'Still, Fenwick's right,' said Ford. 'That's all well and good if you've got an ape on your operating-table and you can tinker around in its head. But the jelly must have entered through the ears or the jaw, and for that it would have to change shape. Even if you managed to get the stuff inside the brain, how could you be sure that it would redistribute itself correctly and then, um, press the right buttons?'
Anawak was convinced that the jelly inside the whales was doing just that, but he didn't have the faintest idea how. 'Maybe there aren't many buttons that need pressing,' he said. 'Maybe it's enough to-'
The door opened.
'Dr Oliviera?' A lab technician poked her head into the room. 'I'm sorry to disturb you but you're wanted in the containment lab. It's urgent.'
Oliviera looked at the others. 'This kind of thing never used to happen,' she said. 'Only a few weeks ago we could sit down comfortably and have a civilised conversation about all sorts of nonsense without anyone interrupting. Now I feel like I'm in a Bond film. Would Dr Oliviera please make her way immediately to the containment lab!' She got up and clapped her hands. 'OK then. Vamos, muchachos. Does anyone want to come? You won't get anywhere in this building without me anyway.'
BIOHAZARD CONTAINMENT FACILITY
Moments after the crabs had arrived, Johanson's helicopter touched down next to the institute. A lab technician accompanied him to the elevators. They descended two floors, got out and walked down a stark, neon-lit corridor. The technician opened a heavy door, and they entered a room filled with monitors. The biohazard sign above the steel door at the back was the only indication that death lurked beyond. Johanson spotted Roche, Anawak and Ford, talking quietly together. Oliviera and Fenwick were in conversation with Rubin and Vanderbilt. Rubin caught sight of Johanson and came over to shake hands. 'Never a dull moment, is there?' He gave a frenzied laugh.
'I suppose not.'
'We haven't had a chance to talk yet,' said Rubin. 'You must tell me about the worms. It's a shame we had to meet in such circumstances, but you can't say it's not thrilling… Have you heard the latest ne
ws?'
'I guess that's why I'm here.'
Rubin pointed to the steel door. 'Unbelievable, isn't it? These used to be storerooms, but the army had then turned them into a hermetically sealed laboratory. I know it sounds a bit makeshift, but there's nothing to worry about – the whole thing conforms to Biosafety Level 4. We can examine the organisms without putting anyone at risk.'
BSL-4 was the highest level of containment.
'Will you be joining us inside?' asked Johanson.
'It'll be me and Dr Oliviera.'
'I thought Roche was the expert on crustaceans.'
'Everyone's an expert on everything here.' Vanderbilt and Oliviera had joined them. The CIA agent smelt faintly of sweat. He thumped Johanson jovially on the shoulder. 'We picked our boffins very carefully – it takes a mix of flavours to make a good pizza. But Li's got a thing about you, Dr Johanson. I bet she can't stand letting you out of her sight. She'd love to know what's going on inside your head.' He guffawed. 'Unless it's something else she's after… What do you reckon?'
Johanson smiled distantly. 'Maybe you should ask her.'
'Oh, I have,' said Vanderbilt, serenely. 'I hate to disappoint you, but she's only interested in your brain. She thinks you know something.'
'Really? Like what?'
'You tell me.'
'I don't know anything.'
Vanderbilt looked at him disparagingly. 'No neat theory?'
'I thought yours was neat enough.'
'Well, so long as you haven't got any better ideas. And while you're in there, Dr Johanson, here's something for you to think about. We call it Gulf War Syndrome. Back in 1991, America kept her losses to a minimum on the ground in Kuwait, but guess what? Nearly a quarter of our veterans developed a weird bunch of symptoms. Looking back on it, their complaints were like a mild version of the damage caused by Pfiesteria - memory loss, concentration difficulties, damage to internal organs… We think they were exposed to some chemical. After all, our men were in the vicinity when the Iraqi weapons depots were blown up. At the time we suspected it was sarin, but maybe the Iraqis were developing a biological agent as well. Half the Islamic world has a stockpile of pathogens. It's not difficult to genetically modify harmless bacteria or viruses and turn them into killers.'
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