“Normally I’d agree with you, but we don’t have that luxury,” said Christopher. “As you’ve reminded me recently, we can’t afford luxuries anymore.”
“Well, we can’t kidnap him,” she said.
“You know the FBI, Secret Service, everyone will be after him now,” said Christopher. “If the Secret Service gets him, he’ll disappear. He may have just blown the lid off everything, but come on—that was going to happen anyway. He just did it before someone else did. We have to get him back here. If not for us, then for his own safety. You know he’s one of us.”
Freda turned to look at him. That was never in question.
“Of course he’s one of us,” she said. “Always has been.”
“We just can’t abandon him for a momentary lapse in faith,” said Christopher.
“We’ve all made mistakes, Freda.”
“What are you suggesting?” she asked.
“Let me go and get him before the Secret Service does. I’ll bring him home, and he can get back to work. We need our best human scientist on the problem.”
“If the president discovers this…” she said.
“He won’t. I promise,” said Christopher. “Now, will you give me the chance … or not?”
She watched, his eyebrow arching upwards as he waited for her answer. At least he still wanted her permission; the fear of Section 51 crumbling into the mist of history was powerful in her of late.
“You’re just going to give me another worry, but do it,” she said, handing him her brooch for transport. If she didn’t allow him to go, he probably would anyway. She knew him too well. If they got Peter back, at least then there would be someone to vet the Bernay. “Quietly, discreetly, but do it.”
“Thank you.”
He sped off quickly. In some ways, she wanted to follow hot on his heels, joining him. But she couldn’t.
Her battle was with the Council.
Chapter 30
“CIM.”
“Yes, Christopher.”
“We need to find Dr. Peter Roberts. He is in the United States … somewhere.”
“Searching.”
His computer screen expanded around him, showing CIM searching city after city, going through security cameras and satellite pictures. Everything was analyzed. The city of Denver came up in a passing scan, and he found his thoughts drifting to his family. He felt a pang of guilt—they hadn’t been in his thoughts recently.
“CIM, how long until the scan is complete?” he asked, not letting himself lament anymore.
“Fourteen minutes.”
“That’s too long. Dr. Roberts took a flight from Las Vegas to New York. Investigate.”
“Investigating.”
“Freda, I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Do you need anything before I go?” asked Christopher on the phone.
“No, I’m heading up to the starship to see what’s taking them so long with this vaccine,” said Freda. He could hear her shuffling about her office.
“Good luck.”
“To both of us,” she said, hanging up.
He watched as each section of New York was intensely scanned by CIM, with live information being updated on the screen, including the four employees they had stationed there already. No Roberts.
“CIM, what flight did Dr. Roberts depart on for New York?” said Christopher.
“Flight number 435 to New York with two stops.”
“Which two?”
“Denver and Chicago.”
“Search those two cities for Dr. Roberts.”
“Searching.”
“Enter,” he said, watching the screen as Dr. Roberts’ deputy, Gabriel Quinn, entered.
“Christopher, can I have a word?”
“Of course,” he said kindly. The younger employee took a seat in one of the modern armchairs. “What’s wrong?”
“We need direction. The team’s all over the place since Peter left. We don’t know what to concentrate our efforts on now.”
“The virus,” said Christopher. That was a bit obvious, he thought.
“It’s impossible. This virus is indecipherable. We’ve tried contacting the Bernay virologists, but they aren’t returning our calls. They send us the occasional data file, but…”
“It’s okay to say you don’t understand it,” said Christopher. “Peter was adept in this field.”
“Is there any hope of him coming back?”
“There’s always hope,” replied Christopher, paying more attention to his computer display. Books, reports, and dirty cups littered his office, and Gabriel had noticed. It was well known Christopher was usually fastidious about keeping a clean office. Gabriel shuffled out of the office.
CIM zoomed into an area beside the Chicago airport.
The Millerton Airport Hotel. He uploaded the coordinates and tapped Freda’s brooch, appearing in the men’s room of the hotel. Tidying his gray suit up, he set off for reception. Hopefully he was ahead of the Secret Service.
“I’m here to see Dr. Peter Roberts,” he said to the receptionist of the glitzy five-star hotel.
“Is he expecting you?” she asked politely, checking their computer system.
“No, but please tell him Christopher is here.”
“One moment.” She lifted the telephone. “I’m sorry, sir, but there is no answer. It’s against hotel policy for me to give out his room number.”
“Okay, could you book me a hotel room on the same floor perhaps?” he asked coyly, sliding a few hundred-dollar bills across the desk. With the hotel half-empty due to flight restrictions, he suspected she’d take it.
“Welcome to the Millerton, Mr. Henderson. You have room 543 on the fifth floor.”
“Thank you,” he said, glad to see the old art of bribery was still effective. Where she had gotten the name Henderson from, he didn’t know. Arriving on the fifth floor, he activated the locator device on his watch, which provided a simple arrow in the direction of Roberts. It could only be used at close range. Coming to door 553, he banged it loudly. After a few more tries, he scanned the lock with his watch, and it clicked open. Hotel security systems were so simple to crack. He was hit immediately by the stale stench of pizza and booze. It’d been a long time since he’d partied like this.
“Oh, Peter,” he said, as his friend lay face down in a drunken sleep on the bed. “Peter,” he said loudly but got only murmurs in reply. He had been there less than five minutes when he heard the elevator door ping open, a barrage of shoes clapping against wooden floors. They had arrived.
“Oh crap,” cursed Christopher, dragging Peter off the bed and trying, in vain, to hold him up steady.
“Did you see that?” asked Agent Wilson to his team as they entered room 553.
“See what?”
“I thought I saw a flash of white light. I could have sworn two people just vanish.”
“I hope you’re not going to put that in the report,” said another, concerned.
“Obviously not,” replied Wilson. It was hard enough to get into the Secret Service, and staying in was even more difficult. Any sign of delusion, mental fatigue, or anything else in the lengthy list was reason enough for expulsion.
“Inform command that Roberts may have been here, but he’s not anymore.”
Chapter 31
“No,” shouted Oran Killies, a fat, smelly old man who was also owner and editor-in-chief of the Chicago National.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Donna Parker, equally as loud. She was a pretty blonde with a fierce appetite to make it in the reporting world. Her late father was the famed Paul Parker, who broke dozens of exclusives through his career. She wanted out of that shadow.
“No one will believe us,” said Oran. His paper was renowned for prin
ting scoops, but this was too far. The legal department would be swamped, and his wallet emptied.
“We have a cult following, Oran,” said Donna. “People will follow us. Have I ever let you down?”
“Yes,” he said. “Many times! And cost this paper a fortune.”
“But I’m still your best reporter,” said Donna. “Print this piece, and we’ll overtake every other competitor before the close of business today. You’ll get your Rolls Royce then.”
“We’ll become the laughingstock of the country,” he said. His chair squeaked and creaked. “He’s the head of the CDC, Donna. Drunk, yes, but that’s not a crime. Besides, it’s hardly true.”
“The fact that he is head of the CDC makes it true,” said Donna. “He’s hardly a misinformed drunk.”
“Which makes it worse. I don’t want government officers knocking down my front door tonight!” Killies had been paid a visit more than once by government “representatives” for blowing the lid off issues sensitive to national security.
“As if that happens.”
“You don’t know the government,” said Oran. “Any government.” He’d heard more than a few stories about government threats, and the threats he himself had received over the years seemed mild compared to what would happen if they released this story.
“That’s why I have this. Our insurance policy.” She handed him a simple black flip-up mobile phone with the number 51 engraved in white on it. Oran opened it. It was a simple operating system, like something his grandmother would use. Phone book, messages, Internet, and an emergency icon were all that you could scroll through.
“This phone is ancient,” he laughed, shocked that the tenacious Donna had even presented it to him. “My grandmother uses a better one.”
“Go into the phone book then,” she said.
He pressed a button to bring him into the list of contacts, and instead of showing it on screen, the list was projected out of the phone into the air, along with images of people beside each name.
“Impressive,” he said. “But nothing that mightn’t be sitting around in a testing lab.”
“Look at the numbers,” she hollered. “White House and Pentagon offices, FBI and CIA directors, prime ministers, and presidents. The head of the CDC isn’t usually that well connected.”
He had to admit she was right, and the more he scrolled down the list, the more high-profile names he came across.
“What’s Council?”
“I don’t know. I tried calling that number, but they hung up. Watch this,” she said. “Search Oran Killies, Chicago National.”
Oran was shocked to see all his contact details come up, including a private mobile number he only used with his mistress.
“Now don’t tell me this is standard. Roberts is telling the truth. Think how much it would explain.”
“I wish it was a lie,” said Oran.
“So do I. But we’ve just picked up the biggest story in history,” said Donna. “Oran, fuck our reputation. The world has a right to know about this.”
Oran felt hot under the collar and had a deepening desire to just run away. Even if he told her no, she wouldn’t sit on it.
“Oran!”
“Work something up and get it to me as soon as possible.”
“Already done,” she replied, handing him a USB pen with a full front-page article proposal. “If you approve it, we can get it on the website this afternoon and in print first thing in the morning.”
“That’s not giving our legal team much time,” he said. The paper still received much more revenue from printed copies than its online website.
“Oran,” she said, leaning over his desk and making full use of her assets, “we can’t afford not to get this into the media now. I can get another job. You can’t. This article will have everyone the world over talking. If they’re talking about it, they’re also talking about us.”
“Well,” he stuttered, forcing his eyes elsewhere, “we’ll get it out today. Tell tech to prepare the full works—diagrams, charts, everything. I’ll review this. Give me an hour. Now get out of my office.”
Donna smiled with satisfaction. “Suits me. I’m heading to New York to follow up some leads.”
As Oran began reading the full article spread, his nerves really set in. If what Donna had written was true, then everyone was in trouble. If it wasn’t, the paper would become demonized. Lifting the phone to his legal department, he ordered them to review a copy of the article he was emailing. He wouldn’t publish until they gave the go-ahead.
Chapter 32
In London, Ursula Barrington and her team of Britain’s finest scientists spearheaded the charge against the virus that was knocking on the door of Eastern Europe.
“The CDC?” asked Kevin, scratching his smooth baby-like face.
“Brain dead,” said Ursula. “I’m not amused. I can’t get in touch with Dr. Roberts, and the deputy director is as useful as English tea without the china teacup.”
They watched, from behind safety glass, as an infected Chinese human male was wheeled into their sealed bio-containment room. He was heavily sedated but now strapped to a steel bed. Kevin used the robotic arms to administer a shot of adrenaline.
“Can’t work with him?” said Kevin.
“Who?” said Ursula, watching the robotic arms carefully.
“The deputy.”
“He doesn’t want to work,” said Ursula. “I don’t know why Dr. Roberts kept him on so long. Such a useless little man.”
“Roberts?”
“No,” said Ursula. “His deputy. Peter is usually efficient. Just not at the moment. He’s gone AWOL. The adrenaline should work quite quickly.”
“It should,” agreed Kevin. “We haven’t even named this virus yet.”
“The Eugenics Virus,” said Ursula. “That’s what the Americans are calling it.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t ask,” said Ursula. “Normally, it would make me suspicious but they seemed as lost as we are. They’re scrambling over there.”
A long, sleek console was in front of them, with displays and action buttons across it. She could control everything in the containment room from here. She pressed a few touch buttons, and the bed began moving until it sat in an upright position, the Chinese man looking straight at them.
“He’s almost barbaric,” gasped Kevin. “I’m taking a blood sample.” As a thin metal rod, controlled electronically by Kevin, pierced the vein, the Chinese man let out a deafening scream. He struggled to break loose. Two large vials of blood filled up outside the bio-containment room and were removed for immediate testing.
“Status of atmosphere containment?” said Ursula. They didn’t know how to eradicate it and instead contained it safely until they did.
“Operating within normal working parameters. All chambers are 100 percent sealed.”
Her eyes scanned across the control panel, noting the 100 percent green readout in front of Kevin. She trusted him, but they couldn’t afford one little slip-up.
“I don’t want any record of those chambers,” she said.
“Why?” said Kevin. She knew he was a stickler for protocol.
“I just don’t,” she said. “I don’t trust government, Kevin. They have a habit of ‘storing’ things for later research.”
“Yes, boss,” he said.
“This virus speeds to our shores,” said Ursula. “We need to lift the bridges and ready the defenses.”
“You’d have been a good general,” said Kevin.
She laughed, knowing her militaristic way of speaking was a source of humor in the scientific community.
“This is a war, though,” she said, returning to serious. “This virus threatens life and our country. We must battle it. With a virus, we sta
rt in a lab.” The Chinese man continued to scream and growl at them.
“Has the government initiated isolation procedures?” said Kevin.
“They have,” she replied. In fact, they were based on her own reports submitted to the emergency cabinet. “Complete isolation. All air and sea vessels are being turned away from our borders.”
“Boss, you know as well as I do that it can take just one infected animal to wash up on our shores.”
“And some child to touch it on the beach, and the infection begins,” said Ursula. “I know. It is vital we educate the public about these dangers.”
Ursula thought about the report she’d received before meeting Kevin, from the security services, protesting that her staff had contacted their loved ones and advised them to head into the countryside. Normally, she’d have called them on the carpet over it, but she herself had no family. How could she tell them off for doing something she didn’t have to worry about herself?
“We might be able to contain a small village infection,” said Kevin. “But if it reaches a city, then I can’t see any form of containment working. Has the government prepared for that?”
They stood together, watching the sample travel.
“There is no planned response at the moment, officially,” said Ursula, checking her hair. It remained scrunched up in a tight bun; she was in work mode.
“And unofficially?” said Kevin.
“The Royal Air Force stands at the ready,” she said, and nothing more. She knew he would understand. “Our first goal, Kevin, is to find out exactly what this virus does to the human body and how—cause and effect. I suggest a step-by-step approach. We look at what happens when the virus enters the human body and document every physical and physiological change.”
“How?” said Kevin. “He’s already infected.”
The White Death Page 16