E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “If I were Vyrogen, I’d negotiate to use BioShield money to fund the remaining clinical testing for my miracle drug. Then, in addition to my government contract, I’d have an FDA-approved product I could turn around and sell in the private sector for tens of billions of dollars.”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “This product is like Excalibur. Whoever possesses it holds the power to rule Camelot. In this case, Camelot is the global market share for therapeutics associated with infectious disease.”
A. Archer—RS:Bio: “I think we have a working theory.”
E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Coordinator, we need a list of names, Director Level and above, in every company that competes with Vyrogen in the infectious disease and vaccine sector.”
R. Parish—RS:Coordinator: “Understood. Any other instructions?”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Give us everything you have on Meredith Morley. I’m not ready to rule out her involvement.”
R. Parish—RS:Coordinator: “I’m sorry Ms. Mesnil, but Meredith Morley’s personal file is restricted access. Founder Level only.”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “What? On whose authority?”
R. Parish—RS:Coordinator: “Founder One. I’m sorry but you’ll have to take this matter up directly with Founder One.”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Understood. While we’re waiting on the data to come back to us, we should focus on locating Foster before his trail goes cold. The first step is to—”
R. Parish—RS:Coordinator: “Excuse my interruption, but I just received a report from one of our assets in Prague that three individuals have checked into a hospital in Prague exhibiting plaguelike symptoms. They were immediately placed into quarantine and are undergoing further testing.”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Looks like Foster’s trail has just heated up.”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Mr. Parish, please make the necessary transportation arrangements upon our landing. Interviewing the infected witnesses is our number one priority . . . that is, if they’re still alive by the time we get there.”
Chapter Sixteen
Czech–Austrian Border
JULIE STOOD AT the back of the sedan fumbling with her keys. The border patrol officer stood next to her, impatiently tapping the toe of his boot on the pavement. She tried to steady her hand as she reached to unlock the trunk, but the keys rattled noticeably. The lock mechanism clicked when she turned the key, and the trunk popped up. She lifted the lid the rest of the way, and the young officer eagerly shined his flashlight inside.
After a quick survey, he turned to her. The look on his face was a mixture of both disappointment and suspicion. He stared at her a long moment, but said nothing. Except for an old gray blanket and the spare tire, the trunk was empty. The fugitive whom the officer was hoping to find was presently one kilometer to the west, hoofing it across the border.
“You can close the lid,” the officer said.
Julie exhaled and walked toward the driver’s side door.
“Ms. Ponte, are you certain you do not know this American, William Foster?” he said following her.
She paused. It was critical to sound convincing, but not too convincing. She told herself to imagine he was talking about someone else, a different William Foster. The man he was referring to probably called himself Bill or Billy. She had never met Billy Foster before.
“I’m sorry, but no, I do not know the man you are looking for.”
He fixed his icy stare on her. She surmised he was looking for nonverbal cues to indicate she was lying—rapid blinking, averting of the eyes, or maybe a tensing of the facial muscles. She knew trained interrogators used facial expressions as litmus tests for truth telling, but she was not an expert in such matters. In trying to manipulate her expression, she might inadvertently tip off to the very secret she was working so hard to conceal.
Then, like Apollo in his sun chariot chasing away the stygian night, the headlights of an approaching semi-truck illuminated the space around them. Someone brazenly honked. The traffic queue, now four vehicles deep, created psychological pressure for progression. An expectation of advancement. It was time for Julie Ponte to be on her way. With purpose, she reached for the door handle.
“Ms. Ponte?”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes, officer?”
“Don’t you want to close the lid?” he questioned, gesturing back to the open trunk.
“Oh, yes. Thank you for reminding me.”
A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead and fell to the ground, glistening in the yellow glow from the headlights of the car now idling ten feet behind her Opel.
She jogged back and shut the trunk lid.
“Is there anything else, or am I free to go home?”
The young border patrolman’s brow furrowed. His mouth twisted into the frustrated expression she had become so intimately familiar with over the past ten minutes. He clicked off the flashlight and slid it into a holster ring fastened to his belt.
“No more questions. Welcome back to Austria, Ms. Ponte.”
“Thank you. Gute Nacht.”
Chapter Seventeen
Schrattenberg, Austria
“CHRIST, WILL, YOU scared me to death,” Julie said with one hand on her chest.
“You were asleep inside a locked car. How else was I supposed to get your attention besides by knocking on the window?”
“I mean back at the border. I watched you get into the trunk of the car. How did you pull off that Houdini act?”
“I started to get in, but at the last minute I panicked and ran for cover. I ducked into the field before the car behind us got close enough to see me in their headlights.”
She gave him a hard look. “At the border, they were looking for you, Will.”
“I told you.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here.” She started the engine and piloted the car onto the motorway in the direction of Vienna.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, tentatively.
“Panicked, now that I know you aren’t delusional,” she said. She was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the skin on her knuckles was pulled taut and shown like eight tiny snowcapped peaks in the glow of breaking dawn.
“I knew I shouldn’t have involved you. It’s too dangerous.”
“Knock it off, Will. I just need time to think.”
After an awkward silence he said, “You’re not feeling sick, are you?”
“No.”
“Have you been sneezing, or coughing, or having chills?”
“No, I feel fine. Don’t worry about me.” She put her hand on her purse and jiggled it. “Remember, I’ve got a whole pharmacy in here.” Then, she added, “Hey, why don’t you finish your saga.”
He took a deep breath. She was making an effort to keep calm; he appreciated that. “Where did I leave off?”
“Quarantine and Xavier Pope.”
“Ah yes, quarantine. It was strange because even though I exhibited no symptoms, they kept me locked up anyway. At first I thought it was just a precaution, a way to safeguard everyone else in case I was contagious, but by the end of the second week, the hospital had transformed into the Twilight Zone. I asked to be discharged and my request was refused. I asked to be transferred out of quarantine, and instead they posted a security guard outside the door to my room. I asked for phone and Internet access, and they told me I was not authorized to communicate with anyone until I was cleared from quarantine.”
“They wouldn’t let you make a phone call?”
“No.”
“Will, this is highly unusual. I don’t understand,” she said. “The CDC has rules and protocols to follow. They can’t deny you your basic human rights.”
“Maybe on paper they can’t, but they did. They stalled for two weeks. Every time I asked for a status report, they told me in twenty-four to forty-eight hours I could expect the necessary paperwork to be issued by the CDC for my release from quarantine. That was just a line t
o keep me placated. Eventually, I got fed up and demanded to be released. I shouted and pounded on the door, but they were like robots. Everyone, except for Xavier Pope. He put on a pressurized biohazard suit and came into the room to talk to me.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me that they could not release me because the level of virus in my bloodstream had not decreased. He said that they did not understand why I was asymptomatic, but that I was a carrier and that the virus was dangerous. He said I would be a Typhoid Mary and that the lab technician who had taken my blood had contracted the mutated virus and died within forty-eight hours. He asked me if I wanted my legacy to be remembered as Swine Flu Foster. I said no, of course not, but that I refused to spend the rest of my life in quarantine. He said he would personally guarantee that would not happen and assured me that they would check my blood every twenty-four hours. Once the live virus was not detectable, then the government would authorize my release. Until that day, he said, I would be living like a rat in cage. He apologized repeatedly and asked what he could do to make my stay more comfortable. I told him that I wanted a TV and a mobile phone. They brought me a TV.”
“If it was anyone other than you telling me this, I wouldn’t believe it. This is all so unorthodox. They were holding you prisoner.”
“Pretty much.”
“What happened next?”
“Next, I was drugged and woke up in Prague. Of course, I didn’t know it was Prague at the time, because nobody told me anything. What they did tell me was that I had been transferred to a secure military hospital. And, they changed their story about the virus, now claiming that it was not a naturally occurring H1N1 mutation, but by a biologically engineered variant of unknown origin. I was told that my case fell under government jurisdiction, and I was going to remain in quarantine for additional testing. That’s when it began.”
“What began?”
“The injections,” he said.
“What kind of injections?”
“I’m not sure. That’s something I was hoping you could help me figure out. Do you think that traces would still be in my bloodstream?”
“It depends on what the substances were,” she said.
“If we can solve the mystery of the injections, then we can solve the mystery of why I was put in quarantine.”
“Then we better start looking. When we get to my apartment, I’ll draw a blood sample and take it to my lab for testing. If you were injected with something unusual or dangerous, antigens will show up in a blood panel. If you’re infected with mutated H1N1, or anything else for that matter, then we’ll know. We need answers, and you need peace of mind.”
“Okay, I’m in. But you need to understand, that the people we’re up against are powerful, dangerous people. I don’t think we’re dealing with the CDC anymore. Everything I was told in quarantine was subterfuge. This is a conspiracy that crosses continents. If they can put me in quarantine and smuggle me out of the United States without anybody knowing a thing about it, then God only knows what else they’re capable of. If we’re not careful, you’ll end up like me . . . a fugitive.”
Her face softened and she seemed close to tears.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
She swallowed. “It’s just that you’re not alone in this. I’m with you.”
Dormant feelings he thought lost and forgotten washed over him. His emotions were a raging river, dragging his mind toward a dangerous cascade. To stay one step ahead of his enemies, he needed to stay focused, free his mind from distraction. Emotion was a liability, passion a luxury, neither of which he could afford. If he somehow managed to survive unscathed, then and only then, would he think about rekindling a relationship with Julie. His first priority was evading capture long enough to unravel the mystery behind his quarantine.
He exhaled. Trust was a splinter digging in his mind. Could he trust Julie unconditionally as he once had? Could he trust her with his secret? His hand instinctively went to the one remaining vial in his pocket. He had not told her everything. It was prudent to be cautious, he told himself, even with Julie. He would dole out information as he deemed necessary. What was the military expression? On a need-to-know basis. Was Julie being equally cautious? Was she hiding secrets too? If so, he wondered, what was she was not telling him?
Chapter Eighteen
Prague, Czech Republic
“BMW SEVEN SERIES. I should’ve guessed.” AJ mumbled as he stepped out of the NIATROSS and onto the airport tarmac in Prague, squinting in the early morning sun.
“760Li to be precise, equipped with special order security and comms packages,” Kalen said, standing beside him. “I spec’d it out myself. Do you like?”
“Does a baby like milk? The black on black with privacy glass tint is a nice touch too. It says I’m dangerous and pretentious.”
“Actually, I was going for ‘Outta my way, asshole.’” Kalen grinned. “But these wheels aren’t for me. I prefer to ride alone.”
The whir of a high revving Diavel Testastretta 11˚ engine pierced the night. A helmeted rider on a black Ducati Diavel Carbon rocketed onto the tarmac and then abruptly came to a stop next to the parked BMW.
“This job is not about the money,” Kalen said as he walked toward the motorcycle. “It’s about the toys.”
AJ shook his head. He turned to Albane who had walked up to stand next to him. “Is he always like that?”
“No. He’s usually much more excitable,” she said.
From inside the BMW they heard VanCleave yell, “Every minute we delay increases the cone of uncertainty for Foster’s position.”
AJ looked at Albane and raised an eyebrow. “Is he always like that?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Albane began walking toward the black BMW. “Let’s go. We have plague victims to interview, and I fear our window of opportunity may be closing.”
• • •
A TALL BLONDE woman with a Russian accent and horned rimmed eyeglasses greeted the team as they stepped out of the BMW. “My name is Veronika Viskaya. I work inside the Ministry of Health. I contacted your Coordinator, Mr. Parish, a few hours ago when your team was en route. I am assuming that he has fully briefed you on the situation here, but if you have any questions for me before we go in, now is the time to ask.”
“Is access for interviewing going to be a problem?” Albane asked Veronika.
“I do not think so. I filed the necessary clearances myself this morning, but if the military has arrived in the interim, things could get . . . complicated.”
“Aliases?”
Veronika nodded. “Mr. Archer and Dr. VanCleave, you are both doctors from the CDC in Atlanta, and Ms. Mesnil, you are from the World Health Organization in Geneva. Here are your papers. Any other questions?”
“Are the patients lucid enough to interview?” AJ asked.
“The situation is grim. One of the two American college students died this morning, and the other is in critical condition with full-blown pneumonic plague. The Czech woman’s infection was not as advanced as the others. Her body is responding to the antibiotics, and the infection has not spread to her lungs. The only problem is that she is not talking. She’s in shock, I suppose. We’ve had three different people try to get through to her, including a psychologist, but she just stares off into space,” Veronika explained.
“Don’t worry, she’ll talk to me,” Albane said quietly.
“Will you need a translator?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’m fluent in Czech.”
“Okay, very good,” Veronika said, then added, “There is something else I did not report to Mr. Parish, but given the facts of this case I am beginning to suspect it may be relevant.”
Albane nodded, “Go on.”
“One of my duties in the Ministry of Health is to monitor and track all mysterious, contested, or unexplained deaths reported by hospitals, prisons, elderly care facilities, and law enf
orcement agencies in the Czech Republic. These records are aggregated, reviewed, categorized, and then entered into a database so that they may be readily requisitioned by Interpol, the Czech Central Intelligence, forensic investigators, legal counsel, and even family members in cases associated with civilian deaths. Military records are exempt and maintained by the military. I mention this because I flagged an anomaly in the database last month which I am presently investigating.”
VanCleave fidgeted excitedly and then pounced. “Anomaly? What kind of anomaly? Regressional, correlational or outlier?”
Veronika cracked a smile at VanCleave’s statistical bravado. “Actually a skewing of the mean in an annual distribution of reported deaths of homeless persons in Prague over the past four months. We’ve seen a spike in the number of homeless deaths from January to April of this year. One hundred and forty-eight percent higher than last year.”
“Have you run correlations with mean winter temperature?” asked VanCleave.
“Yes. No correlation. This winter we have recorded historically average temperatures in Prague.”
“What about inflation of food prices or food shortages?”
“We’ve looked at that. No correlation. I’ve also investigated into the possibilities of increased closures of homeless shelters, increased city drug proliferation, a change in police policy toward the homeless, and so on and so on. The one and only thing I’ve found a positive correlation with is an increased number of coroners reporting organ failure due to acute toxicity as the cause of death. I just assumed this meant the homeless were drinking homemade vodka or isopropyl alcohol from the pharmacy this winter, but now I’m not so sure.”
Albane looked to AJ. “Does this mean anything to you?”
“In my line of work, acute toxicity can result from a hyper-immune response to gene therapy. It is a well-documented phenomenon in primate-based gene therapy studies where adeno-virus vectors are used to deliver the transgene, especially when targeting the liver. Alternatively, toxic shock syndrome is not unusual in cases of severe bacterial infection, such as those caused by antibiotic-resistant Streptococcus pyogenes or Staphylococcus aureus. Did you happen to have a bad influenza season in Prague this year?”
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