Rendon looked again at the bill from the Silver Legged Lady Spa. That was where Gaines had died. Was it worth a try? Could she have had a locker? He picked up the white business pages and looked for the number of the spa. A female’s voice answered the phone. Yes, Gaines had a locker. Yes, it had been cleaned out, and the contents would be mailed to…The woman hesitated. The contents would be mailed soon, she finally said.
Could he come over and look, Rendon asked, and the answer took fifteen minutes as the receptionist located the night manager, who called the day manager, who was out, and nobody knew when he would be in again. Rendon wondered why the man would be in during the night if he was the day manager. He didn’t ask.
He packed his notebook and an identification from the CDC and went down to his car. Being turned down over the phone did not make him hesitate. The search for answers had become desperate, and besides, asking in person would be a lot different, a lot more difficult to refuse. He felt his heart starting to race as he fired up the car and pulled out of the lamp-lit parking lot and started to drive northward toward Buckhead.
The traffic lights did not cooperate. It took him half an hour, almost as long as it would have taken if it had been rush hour. He didn’t care. The spa was almost ready to close when he arrived. Still, he managed to go through Gaines’s possessions. It was mostly dirty clothes. He felt embarrassed again. Going through a woman’s dirty clothes wasn’t in the orientation to epidemiology. Worse, he found no codes.
Disgusted, he went back over to the receptionist, who had become very apologetic when she learned that Rendon was working on the dreaded “Stripper’s Death” that occupied so much of the front-page and evening news.
The receptionist couldn’t have been more than eighteen. She was very pregnant. Rendon started asking her about prenatal care. He learned that this was her second child. She was an old-timer. She reached into the drawer to pull out a picture; her face turned red, and she pulled out a small pendant instead. She handed him the jewelry.
Rendon’s eyes rounded. On the pendant were inscribed columns of numbers. The pendant had been found and turned in the night that Gaines had died. He stared at it and turned it over in his hand. It looked to be the key to the code. He thanked the woman and rushed out to his car.
Fifteen
The bathroom was located off the front of the hotel room and was separated into two smaller rooms, the walls covered by a pastel floral wallpaper. The first room held two sinks, a full-length mirror, and the toilet. In the second was a large tub enclosed by sliding glass doors. Framing the bathtub was a small, tiled area to sit.
Her small body submerged except for her face, Ree luxuriated, soaking in the hot water. The air was filled with steam. Only the sound of the vent fan and an occasional splash disturbed the silence.
The morning had been delicious. First, she had woken to find herself in Harry’s arms. She snuggled closer and went back to sleep. When she finally did wake up, they made love again. It was a soft sleepy love.
Then, he held her. She liked that. She hated it when a man got up immediately as if once he was spent, that was it. Lovemaking did not end with a man’s orgasm or the woman’s either. To Ree, that was just the beginning, or maybe it was the middle. With a gurgle of water, she slid up and looked down at her breasts. The nipples were dark and soft. Her skin was tan; everything about her was dark, yet Harry had not seemed to care. Her sex was dark, and Harry had explored that thoroughly. The thought made her nipples go rigid. She giggled. Who would have guessed that there was so much to love about Harry? She would never have thought it that first night when he took her home, though she had appreciated the way he respected her wishes.
That was it. He did respect her. He wanted her, loved her, and respected her. He wasn’t bad in bed either, she decided and giggled again.
The door to the hotel room opened, and she cursed. She hadn’t put the “Do not disturb” sign on the doorknob. It had to be the maid. Harry had left a half hour before to find some information on Susie’s friend Joey. He wouldn’t be back this fast.
She heard the sound of footsteps. They sounded heavy for a woman. She stared at the closed door to the bathroom.
She thought about getting up and wrapping a towel around herself and decided not to. She still had to shave, and besides she was comfortable. The maid would see the closed door, knock, and then leave. Then again, that was odd, she thought and felt a slight shiver run down her back. Usually maids knocked before they came inside. Maybe it was Harry. She liked that thought. She would wait for him in the bathtub.
The door to the bathroom burst open. Her eyes widened in fear.
It was a man. He wore a gray suit. In his hand was a large gun. She crossed her arms over her breasts, covering herself. He stood in the doorway and surveyed the room.
“Get out of the bath and get dried off.” The man motioned with the gun.
She sat frozen in place, her heart pounding.
“Now,” he ordered.
The door closed. Ree tore a towel off the rack and wrapped herself in it. The bathroom had no window. There was no phone. Who would she call? The police—no. Security? She wanted to scream.
The door opened again, and her clothes were thrown at her. She grabbed them with one hand, holding the towel tight with the other. Suddenly, the room seemed small, the walls pulsing closer.
She dried and dressed quickly in fear that the man would come inside the bathroom. When she went out the door, she stopped again. There were two of them. Both seemed tall to medium height, middle-aged. The one with the gun had it pointed at her. The drapes had been closed. The other man sat at the table, staring at a magazine.
“Pack your things.”
“What do you want?” she said, regaining some of her spirit.
He reached forward, grabbed her by the front of her tunic, and then with the other hand slapped her across the face. She stumbled back, regained her balance, and then leaned to the side, pivoted, and kicked him. She landed the kick, and the man doubled over in pain. Before she could spin and kick again, the other man slammed her against the wall. Her breath blew from her chest, and she gasped for air as she slumped down to the floor. Her face stung.
“Get up and pack your clothes.”
Rubbing her cheek, she stood, went to the bureau, took her clothes from the drawer, and shoved them into the pink bag. She left Harry’s dirty clothes in her bag and zipped it up.
“Now write Harry a note,” the man said. “Tell him that you didn’t want to involve him anymore and that you’re leaving to disappear. Tell him not to worry, that you’ll get back with him later. Write it.” He shoved a piece of motel stationery at her.
Ree took the paper and then sat at the desk. Her hand trembled. She could feel the man’s gun behind her. She started to write and then stopped.
“Hurry it,” came the gruff voice behind her.
She scribbled the rest of the note and signed it, “Love, Lee Abu.”
The man grabbed it from her hand and stared at it. “What’s this ‘Lee Abu’ crap. I’m warning you—no tricks. You don’t have to be anything but alive where you’re going.”
Ree controlled her face to a scowl. “That’s the name he knows me by.”
The man glared back at her and then put the note on the bureau and motioned her forward with the gun. The other man, who was slightly taller than the first, led the way. They went out the door and then down the emergency stairs. They saw no one. The men raced down the stairs, dragging her with them. Ree was gasping for breath by the time they reached the parking lot.
In the lot was a large, dark car with deeply tinted windows. Ree was shoved into the backseat. One of her captors sat next to her. He grabbed her arm. She struggled, felt a sting, and moments later she started to feel groggy. Then she couldn’t struggle anymore. The dark window of the car faded. She fought to stay awake, but the drug she’d been
injected with was strong. Darkness took over her mind.
The plane flight had been grueling. Leaving at four in the morning, they arrived in Washington before anybody’s day should have begun. Besides, Andrews always hated the way the planes circled, dove, and then skimmed over the bridge to finally perch down at National. He could easily imagine being in the cold waters of the Potomac instead of the arrivals area.
Now he waited impatiently in a small cafe. The place was in a poor section of town. It smelled of stale beer. The table was covered by a waxy red-and-white checkered tablecloth with burn holes. The wood that divided the booths had been so frequently carved on that there was no finish. Andrews drank his water hesitantly. The glass had stains.
He had made his decision. He would go to the top even if it cost him. The man who was meeting him was high enough up to know what was going on and do something about it. He was no field man—computers were his specialty. He had designed many of the agency’s programs, including the one that protected against entry. The man was a genius, and more important, he owed Andrews a little something. There had once been an indiscretion with a woman who turned out to be working for the Soviets. Andrews had taken care of it. No one had ever learned how close the agency had come to disaster.
“Dr. Cee,” as he was called by agency people, came inside, looked around, and spotting Andrews, approached the table. Cee was small and balding.
Uncharacteristically, his arm and shoulder muscles bulged. He was a weight-lifting fanatic. His eyes were black and constantly shifting. If he had worn a calculator in his jacket, he would have been a perfect computerite caricature, except for the overdeveloped muscles.
Right now, his face was drawn up with tension. He sat opposite Andrews.
“I don’t appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night and threatened, Will.”
Andrews shrugged. “It’s the business you’re in.” He paused to consider his strategy and, throwing out the idea of a subtle approach, decided to dive right into the matter. “Do you know anything about the biological weapon they developed down in South America—the aborted mission?”
Untrained in field work, Cee sat back in the bench, not hiding his consternation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Will. I’m not in projects…as you know.”
“No, you’re not, but you are on damage control, and that’s where this one would be.”
“What do—” Cee stopped as the waitress came by to take their orders.
Andrews ordered a grilled cheese, figuring there was no way it could be bad enough to make him sick. Cee ordered a plate of french fries soaked in turkey gravy. The waitress, an older woman with gray hair and a sharp tongue, left.
Cee started again. “What do you want, Will?”
Andrews sat back and stared at the man across from him. What did he want? An end to this madness, people dying needlessly. That statement would get him nowhere.
“I want you to help the CDC put a stop to the deaths in Atlanta.”
Cee scowled. “That would be admitting our involvement. We can’t do that.”
“Cee, there are people dying down there. You could put an end to those deaths. These aren’t foreign agents; these are citizens of the United States, innocent people.”
“We know that. But if we get involved, the involvement will be noticed. What if they can’t put a stop to it before the games are canceled? Can you see it: ‘Agency Plots to Destroy the Games’? It would play in every newspaper across the world. We’d be destroyed, and the country itself would be seriously hurt.”
“So you’re just gonna let the people die?”
“Look, we don’t have an antidote either. What are we going to do? The CDC has a live case now. I’m told they’ll be able to work from there. They’ve got a list that includes some, if not all, of the people who’ve been exposed. There’s nothing we can do to help them, and if we meddle, we’ll destroy what little luck we’ve had.”
Andrews sat forward, his interest caught. Was there something he didn’t know? “What luck are you talking about?”
“Ferenzi, of course. He’ll find enough evidence to blame it on terrorists. We won’t comment, of course, which will make his case even stronger. It’ll look like we aren’t talking because we’re embarrassed. Any linkage to us will be clouded entirely. He gets the credit. The CDC people count the numbers and take credit for discovering the virus and fighting it, and we disappear in the background. It’s perfect. Leave it alone, Will. OK?”
“That’s crazy. There aren’t any terrorists.”
Cee slid across his seat and stood up. “True. But I’m sure that won’t stop Ferenzi. He’s already had a cop killed, inadvertent though it was. I’m sure a couple more dead bodies—this time identified as terrorists—won’t bother him a bit. He’s already picked up this stripper woman with an Arab name. I’m sure he’ll put her to good use. In the meantime, Will…” His face grew even tenser and then relaxed. “You stay out of it. I don’t care what you tell people about me. This is too big. It’s gone all the way to the top. At this point, in truth, everything is being done that can be done. There may be a few more casualties but nothing like the price that would be paid if the truth were known. Stay out of it. You’ve been a friend to me, and you’ll get nothing but hurt. Do you hear me?”
Andrews cursed under his breath as he watched the narrow back of the agency man disappear through the door. Andrews ate his sandwich in silence and then ate Cee’s french fries. They were soggy with gravy. Andrews paid and went out and walked the street.
Rendon blinked and ran his hand across his forehead. It came away wet. In front of him again was a teaming crowd of media. None of them had seemed to learn the most basic thing that first-grade teachers taught—raise your hand to be recognized. Finally, the large, round-faced reporter from the Atlanta papers raised his hand and managed to hush enough of the others that his voice could be heard.
“Dr. Rendon, are you saying that all the people who have died from this mystery virus were drug addicts?”
Rendon squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten before replying. He peered at the reporters name tag. It said, “Bill Stern.” “No, Mr. Stern, and it is important to be accurate here. What I am saying is that we have reason to believe that some quantity of a pharmaceutically pure cocaine that is being sold in Atlanta has been contaminated by the virus. This may not be the only way that a person could get the virus. For instance, a person might get it by being in close contact with a person who used the drug, or there may be another mode of transmission at work entirely.”
“But you are recommending that anyone exposed to this cocaine should see a doctor immediately.”
“Yes, Mr. Stern. Correct. Anyone who has used or thinks they may have used any cocaine should go to a doctor to be checked. This is not a police matter. The doctors will not notify the police. We just believe that we may be able to prevent people from dying from this virus if we get enough lead time, and we have evidence that the virus has been spread through this drug.”
“Exactly what evidence is that, Doctor?” Stern’s face was turning red, his jaws bulging.
“I am not at liberty to discuss that, Mr. Stern.”
“Is there any truth to the rumor that the drug is being circulated by terrorists in an attempt to have the games canceled and the United States embarrassed.”
Rendon bit down on his tongue. “The CDC is involved in studying the epidemiology of disease. These deaths have apparently been caused by a virus that has been found, at least in one sample of cocaine. Street drugs are often contaminated. We are not in the business of tracking down terrorists. I suggest you check with the FBI or the agency on that.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Doctor.”
“I have no way of knowing the answer to it, Mr. Stern. Are there any other questions?” He turned away from the reporter and looked toward one of the female televis
ion newscasters. It was the blonde again. Rendon suppressed a groan.
“Yes, have you heard that the games committee is canceling the games?”
The room suddenly grew silent. Rendon took another deep breath. “No, I haven’t heard that. I suggest that you call the committee for information on their plans. Are there any other questions on the drug or the virus?”
Another television newscaster raised his hand. Rendon pointed and then grimaced as a new set of lights aimed at his eyes. He blinked—deer in the headlights.
“Doctor, do you have any projections on how many people will die from this disease?”
“No. If people will go to their doctors at the first sign of flu-like symptoms or if they have taken cocaine within the last month, we believe we will be able to greatly reduce the death toll.”
“Have any of the games athletes been involved?”
“We don’t believe so.”
The woman wrinkled her nose. “Are you sure that the drug is the only way that this may be spread?”
“As I said, there may be other mechanisms for its spread. We can’t be sure at this time.”
“So you really have no way to protect anyone.”
Fists clenched tight, Rendon forced himself to not shout at the woman. “We believe that if people will follow our advice and be checked up, if they are in any of the risk groups, that we will reduce any possible death toll substantially.”
“You really still don’t know do you, Doctor?”
He glared at the woman. “We have evi…”
And so it went. An hour later Rendon sat at his desk and cursed. A simple news conference that could have done much to save lives by warning people to be screened had turned into a fiasco that would only create more panic. Whose fault was it? He’d done his best, even Cougher had told him so. Who knew what would be printed? By the time the media got through with it, the doctor’s offices would be swamped, and the CDC would be overwhelmed by calls from angry MDs. Still, he understood the other side of it. He’d heard his father complain often enough about how the government tried to withhold facts and implications from the public and how it was the media’s job to get it all.
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