In Death's Shadow

by Stephen Davidson

  “So we figure there may be more than one source of exposure—where does that leave us?” Cougher strode behind the backs of the men that sat at the table. His hands were clenched behind his back.

  Rendon sat at the far end of the table. The other team leaders sat on the sides. None of the men craned their necks around to watch their supervisor. The room seemed hotter than usual. Sweat soaked the back of Rendon’s shirt, and he lifted up from the chair and pulled his shirt loose. He sat back and then shifted uneasily in the chair. Cougher’s eyes focused on him.

  “Well,” Rendon said, “there was a W. Antony Smith on Gaines’s list and a J. Tony Bordin. The W. Antony was a corporate VP. Probably not the type to have consorted with the case at Grady. Further, Antony was called, and he denies knowing the man. That left the Tony on the list. He’s a structural engineer for a firm out of Savannah. We’ve been trying to reach him, but he was on vacation in Jamaica and then as far as we can tell, he disappeared from the resort where he was staying. No one has seen him since. The resort staff report that he stayed inside for the first days of their visit.”

  “So either this Tony was the contact for the spread of the disease, or there is more than one source?” Cougher asked.

  “Yes,” Rendon said.

  “So we know nothing?”

  Rendon nodded.

  “Have there been any more cases?”

  One after the other, the team leaders shook their heads.

  “Have any of the other people on Gaines’s list shown any symptoms as yet?”

  A gray-haired man at the end of the table shook his head.

  “Has any of that group admitted to using the drug?”

  The same man shook his head again. “No, none of them admit to anything.”

  “Then are there any suggestions for where to go from here?”

  The room grew silent.

  Cougher went to the front of the table and sat down, just stifling a long sigh. “Then I suggest you go back and call anyone you might have had doubts about. Someone out of that group may know the case at Grady, and some of them surely used the drug. Rendon, any luck with the lab searching for an antibody in the living case?”

  Rendon shook his head. He didn’t want to speak. Nobody in the room did.

  “All right. That’s all. Go to your assignments. Check every hospital and doctor again. If worse comes to worse, we’ll double-check with all the people on the lists. Spend some time on this, considering every option again. We have got to think this through some more—find something. Send me your thoughts at the end of the day by e-mail. The president himself is waiting for progress on this.”

  Nineteen

  Andrews used the remote control to turn off the noonday news. Speculations about the rumored cancellation of the Georgia Games were rampant. The anchorwoman had interviewed a reporter who stood in front of the Georgia Games Office. Proximity apparently lent credibility. People on the streets were asked what they thought, as if what they thought had any relevance.

  Glaring at the now black screen, Andrews picked up the phone and dialed Delta Airlines. He chose a luncheon flight that departed around eleven the next day from Hartsfield International and would land in California that afternoon before dinner. Departing tomorrow would give him time to make a few phone calls for arrangements in San Diego and still have time to get a good night’s sleep and morning’s rest before flying. He felt tired and worn. To give himself more time to recover, he’d stay in San Diego for a few days, and then it was on to Hawaii under a different name.

  He deserved a rest. He’d checked with the new controller. The man agreed. Andrews needed a rest, a break from his work. Though, perhaps he might stay on until this was done. Perhaps he’d consider leaving then and retiring when he returned? Andrews frowned with confusion when he heard that. He told the controller he’d consider retirement when he was on the beach.

  The controller kept talking. He laid out the whole story to Andrews. Working with a South American government, a team of agency men had tracked down the probable source of the leak of the virus-laden drug—a drunken bandit in South America who’d killed a scientist at a clandestine lab and then stole the drug. The bandit sold the drug to a risk-taking courier who’d brought the drug to the United States on the side of his normal shipment.

  The courier had talked. He had sold the drug to Susie and knew nothing of what she’d done with it. He’d also sold a little to an old friend. The courier was now under protective custody. That made sense to Andrews, and the rest was pure agency.

  Rapidly, the risk people developed a new cover. The word was that the virus, which had originally been called “Death’s Shadow,” was in fact a wild virus that had mutated in the Amazon jungle, and somehow the drug had been exposed to it. The dealers were under investigation. The virus did not spread by anything but direct contact, so it was not likely to create an instant epidemic.

  This formulation took out the need for terrorists. It took out the need for Ferenzi. What was going on? Why were they keeping Andrews informed? A day before they’d wanted him on a plane out, and earlier Cee had stonewalled him. Now they wanted him to stay. Why? It gave him a dull headache.

  Rubbing his forehead, Andrews left the motel and took a bus to Lenox Mall. People crowded the wide aisles. He mingled among the shoppers, purchased several bright multicolored short-sleeved shirts and a new pair of swimming trunks. The trunks were bright, too. He didn’t care. They’d fit in fine where he was going.

  He took another bus back to his hotel. He saw no one following him. That was good. He had no desire to run into Ferenzi again. That evening he went to sleep early after watching the six o’clock news. Another person had died of the virus. He turned off the television. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t bother to call the other motel to find if there were more messages. There was no one he wanted to hear from that night. His decision was made. He was getting out and getting out soon. He’d risked enough already. Whatever the agency’s new plot, he wanted no part.

  Sweat running down his forehead, Ferenzi struggled to hold the gun away from his body. Though older, the other man was strong. A muffled shot echoed against the wooden wall of the shed. Splinters flew.

  The older man jerked his body to the side, crashing them both into the wall.

  Ferenzi gasped at the impact. Freeing one hand from the man’s wrist, Ferenzi slammed his fist into his assailant’s stomach. For a second, the other’s grasp on the gun weakened. Ferenzi took advantage, suddenly twisting the gun with one hand while he jabbed at the man’s side with the other. The old guy was determined and very strong for his size. He kept his grip on the gun, pulled it downward, and wrenched his body to the side again, flattening them both against the corner and pinning Ferenzi’s free arm between the wall and his own body.

  The gun wavered between the two men, the dark open end pointing first at one and then the other. They battled for control. Adrenaline pumped through Ferenzi as he strained to hold the muzzle away. Another muffled shot.

  Blood, brains, and skull fragments exploded into the air.

  The man fell, gore spurting from the top of his head as Ferenzi backed away cursing. The stupid bastard. Ferenzi wiped blood off his hands and face, reached down, took the gun, and wiped it on his shirt. Then he carefully placed the weapon back in the man’s hand and fired the rest of the clip into the walls. Wooden splinters flew through the air. The fool was dead, not able to resist Ferenzi’s grasp on his trigger finger.

  Ignoring the last convulsions from the body, Ferenzi began to search the shack. First of all were the shelves—nothing but gardening supplies and cobwebs. He pushed the cobwebs out of the way and threw the supplies on the ground. One box broke open, a pile of white powder spilling over the wood. Then, Ferenzi began to look through the bins of fertilizers. Finally, he went over the flooring. In the back, under one of the bags of crabgrass preventer, he found a loose b
oard. He took a rake and pried it up. Under it was a metal box. Ferenzi smiled. With his knife he jammed open the box and inspected its contents. He put the box back under the floor and replaced the board. His breath coming in clouds of cold-condensed moisture, he dragged the now dead body of the Stone Mountain Park assistant administrator for grounds maintenance and design into the back of the room and covered it with bags of fertilizer. Few would be looking in the shed this time of year. A day or two was all he needed. With the cold, there would be little decomposition in that period of time. Ferenzi needed the time.

  When the Andrews woman died, she would need to have no traces of the drugs that had been used to make her talk still in her body. By tomorrow, the plan could be enacted.

  He closed and locked the grounds maintenance shed. He looked carefully in each direction. Not far from him, the Stone Mountain train whistled as it carried a few winter tourists on its route around the mountain, a games-year addition.

  No one in sight, Ferenzi hurried down the gravel road, out to the road and to his car. It started without hesitation. He pulled off his shirt and hid it under the seat. His undershirt had fewer blood stains. Traffic was nonexistent. He drove cautiously and felt his breath quicken as he passed a security car. It would have been safer if there had been a lot of traffic. Now he was conspicuous. The vehicle passed and slowed. The guard turned to look. Ferenzi kept his face forward as if he had not noticed the attention. The cop didn’t turn around. Ferenzi drove through the park, maintaining the twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit, and then headed back to the warehouse on East Ponce de Leon. There were still a few loose ends, and then he would go back to the motel and sleep.

  It was unfortunate about the administrator. The man had apparently been in deep in some fashion to Susie the dancer. Probably he had been one of those many married men who went to a strip joint, had a little money, and found someone to spend it on. He’d made a bad choice when he agreed to hide the computer disks for the dancer and a worse choice when he’d tried to take the gun away from Ferenzi. He would have had to die, but it would have been a much neater operation if he’d died when the woman did.

  Ferenzi shrugged as he pulled into a space outside of the warehouse. The gun was untraceable. The death would be blamed on the Andrews woman.

  Neither Foster nor Jerry were back, so Ferenzi went to the room where they would meet, propped his feet on the table, and enjoyed the irony and his relief at the situation. Two problems would be solved with one quick solution.

  The girl who had almost ruined his career all those years back—the reason he’d had to take so many jobs in dirty small places, far from the international crises and thus far from any chance of making a name for himself—that same girl was now going to make his reputation and finally break that fool, her uncle.

  Ferenzi had actually been tense when Andrews first showed up in Atlanta. He’d wondered if the old agent had remembered a description his niece had given him of a white man who had been where no man should be. But Andrews had shown no sign of recognition. Maybe the girl had never said anything about it.

  It had been days after that murder and the rape of the mother when Ferenzi had learned who the target of the terrorist group he’d been infiltrating had been—the brother and wife of an agency controller. He’d panicked and eliminated each of the terrorists involved. It had ruined his mission. It had kept him out of trouble. He had not been ordered to infiltrate, just to observe. But to him that seemed stupid. He’d infiltrated. And now, the last person who could connect him to his first and worst mission would die. He smiled to himself and closed his eyes. There was some symmetry to the world.

  Harry opened his eyes and blinked. Rigid horizontal planes of invading sunlight shone through the almost-closed venetian blinds. He blinked and looked around.

  He was in his apartment. The place was still a mess. He must have fallen asleep on the couch the night before. He’d been working through all the information he gathered from the maniac and adding it to what little he knew already. He didn’t know enough. Time ran out.

  He stood and paced to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, backed up, and sneezed. It stank. He shoved around old bowls of food covered loosely with aluminum foil—nothing fit to eat. Disgusted, he opened and slammed closed the cabinets above the sink. Finally, he gave up, went upstairs, took a shower, and dressed hurriedly.

  Before leaving the apartment, he called and left a message for Rendon to meet him at the IHOP on North. With luck the message would be delivered. Ten minutes later, he sat in his car in the McDonald’s parking lot and ate a fast breakfast.

  It was another twenty minutes down the Stone Mountain Freeway, Scott Boulevard, and finally Ponce de Leon before he reached his destination. He whirled around the narrow curves on Ponce too fast and often in the other lane. The IHOP’s parking lot was full, but there was hardly anybody inside. Harry took a booth by a window looking out on the medical bookstore and North Avenue. An ambulance drove by without a siren. Harry opened the menu and then ordered coffee and nothing else. He’d eaten already for much less. In the booth across from him sat a woman with bright orange hair and a ring in her nose. The ring was small and appeared to be gold. Harry looked away when the woman caught his stare. She smiled.

  A tall man with blond hair and blue eyes walked into the restaurant and talked to the hostess. Harry waved his hand. The man was too clean-cut and varsity-looking to be anything but a fed. The woman with the ring smiled again.

  Rendon came up and slid into the seat opposite Harry. “You must be Mr. Adams?”

  “Good to meet you, Dr. Rendon,” Harry said and proffered his hand. The doctor took it. His grasp was firm.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you,” Rendon said, “because I thought you might be able to get a message to the girl, Lee Abu. We’d like to have her checked to see if she has any signs of the virus—”

  Harry held up a hand. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. She’s been kidnapped by somebody, and I need some help, thought you might be able to give it.”

  Rendon’s eyes widened momentarily. “I’d hardly think the CDC could be of much help in that. Have you tried the police?”

  “No. I haven’t. I do believe that whoever kidnapped her may have the disease.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” Harry stopped to study Rendon. The eyes carried a great deal of intelligence. Not an easy man to fool into divulging information. But Harry had an ace. “She’s been followed for the last week. I believe the people that followed her are associated with the people who brought in the drug.”

  Rendon’s eyes widened with apparent interest. He leaned forward in his seat, his hands jutting forward. “Who? Who is it? What do you have? If we could find out the source of the drug, we might be able to track down all the people who’ve been exposed to it.”

  Harry leaned back against the plastic-coated seat. Rendon, leaning forward, gave him a clear view of the woman with the ring. She was pouting at him and sticking out her tongue. Harry looked away. Downtown had its distinctive people. “Yes, uh, you might. But I need help, too. Can we make a deal? Information for information.”

  The doctor slumped back and bit in on his lower lip. “I’ll help you in any way I can without violating confidentiality.”

  “That’s not good enough, Doctor.” Harry started to gather his bill. The woman with the ring raised what passed for eyebrows.

  “No, you have to tell us,” Rendon said. “Don’t you understand? People could die.”

  “And somebody very close to me is going to die without your help, Doctor.” Harry held the bill in his hand but did not get up.

  “Look, Mr. Adams, I’ll help you in any way I can, and if there is anything that I can’t release to you—if it’s a criminal matter—I’ll give it to the police.”

  Harry stared at the doctor and then put the bill on the table. The woman with the orange hair, w
ho’d apparently heard part of the conversation, nodded her head to Harry as if to tell him to agree. Harry squeezed his eyes shut a minute.

  “OK,” he said. “Have you got a Joey Bordin on one of your lists of people who are at risk?”

  “Joey…J. Tony Bordin—that’s it!” Rendon exploded, his body lancing forward into the edge of the table. The woman behind him rolled her eyes. Harry tried to ignore her. “Yeah, a Joey from Savannah. He’s a structural engineer, but it’s suspected that he’s also a drug courier. He recently completed a trip to South America.” Rendon had his notebook out and was scribbling.

  “Is that a help?” Harry said after the doctor had finished writing his notes.

  “Yes. Could be very helpful. Do you know where we could contact this person?”

  “Last I knew, he was supposed to be in Jamaica.”

  Rendon nodded.

  “Now, Doctor, what I need to know from you is if there is anybody else involved in investigating this. Anybody that’s contacted you. That shouldn’t violate any confidentialities,” Harry added.

  The doctor frowned and started paging through the same notebook he’d just finished scribbling into. “Yes, there’s a man from the agency named Andrews, and then there’s another group headed by someone named Ferenzi. Neither has contacted me lately. I’ve tried to reach Andrews.” Rendon broke eye contact for a second and then looked back at Harry. “But,” the doctor continued, “I haven’t been able to reach him. Do you want their phone numbers?”

  Harry nodded and took down the numbers. “One last thing, doctor. I understand from reading the newspapers that you have a list of people who might be at risk. I presume that means people who you think have taken the drug.”

  “I…uh…”

  “You don’t have to answer that. I also believe that you have a profile of people based on the cases so far?”

  “Yes, we do. Young—”