by Jenifer Ruff
“I have an infectious disease physician conferenced in. He wants you to describe the boy’s symptoms.”
Quinn described the boy’s yellow eyes, the blood leaking from his body cavities, and the rash covering his neck, a rash that appeared to extend down under his clothing. He wondered what the descriptions might mean to a doctor.
“What is he saying? What does he have?” shouted Owen from several yards away.
“He hasn’t said yet,” said Quinn, moving his mouth away from his radio.
“You did the right thing, separating those who touched him,” said the physician. “Keep everyone like that. Keep everyone away from his body. Did you touch him?”
“No, but Owen did.”
Quinn heard the commander say, “Shit” in the background and then, “Good job, there, Quinn. Tell Owen he’s done a good job too. Hold tight. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Their connection ended.
Quinn waited, pacing in the dim light, wondering what would happen next, aware of the separation between him and Owen. His skin felt itchy and tingly as images of the dead boy flashed into his mind without warning. Maybe they should have taken the body out of the camp. He hadn’t thought that far ahead when he had decided to try and contain the disease. After thirty anxiety-filled minutes, the sound of large engines broke the silence outside the camp. Glaring cab lights illuminated the darkness through the holes in the fence, as they zoomed to a stop outside the refugee camp.
“What the hell?” said Owen, shielding his eyes from the bright light.
“I’ll go see,” said Quinn. He jogged to the gate so he could see through the holes. Military and commercial trucks had arrived. One with a giant biohazard symbol on the side. Doors opened and men jumped to the ground.
His radio squawked again. “We’re throwing masks and protective suits inside for you and Owen. Walk to the front gate.”
“Okay, I’m here,” he said, wondering what they had learned. “But what about everyone else?”
He didn’t receive an answer, but he caught the masks and packages intended for him.
“Do you know what’s going on?” he asked an officer on the other side of the fence.
“Only that it’s some sort of fuckin’ emergency and no one is allowed in or out of the camp for now. Especially not out. We have directives to shoot to kill if they do. Sorry.”
Bile rose up his throat. Quinn thought he might be sick. Forcing his panic away, he opened the tightly-folded contents of the package and discovered an extra-large protective suit. He delivered one to Owen, tossing it to him from the other side of a makeshift divide, then moved back to the gate so he could see what was going on. Awkwardly, he pulled and stretched the suit on over his heavy gear and attached the mask. He secured his gun belt to the outside of the suit. Through the holes in the gate he could see men wearing similar masks on the other side of the fence. His eyes darting around desperately, he watched them surround the camp and assemble a second layer of fencing. When they were finished, other men followed quickly behind, securing a large yellow banner around the perimeter of the new gate. An unfamiliar Arabic word stretched across the banner, repeating itself in large black letters.
“What does that word mean?” Quinn yelled to one of the soldiers hanging the banner.
The soldier answered, “Quarantine.”
Inside the camp, the refugees spoke in hushed tones and Quinn tried to imagine what they were saying. They weren’t freaking out like he’d expected, as if they had accepted their lives were beyond their control. Quinn passed on the meal he was entitled to eat. He felt alone, alienated, not just because of the language barrier and because he was military, but also because of the constricting protective suit and mask and because Owen had to be feeling even more alone than he. One small bit of comfort, the suit helped keep him warm.
Before the sun rose, he and Owen alone were released, decontaminated with a series of chemical washes, and sent to different rooms enshrouded in plastic. A medic took samples of his blood. He sat in a quarantine tent for three weeks, more than enough time to analyze his entire life, pray hard, and monitor every small twinge or ache with a heightened, panicky awareness. Had he done something brave by locking everyone inside, or had he done something cruel and stupid? With the dawn of each day, Quinn continued to feel fine while Owen grew sicker.
After three long weeks of waiting, Quinn was free and Owen was dead.
They government said it took courage to close the gate with himself inside, to protect the rest of his unit. The disease was highly virulent. Instead of being contained, it could have spread across the country. He received a Bronze Star. Owen received his posthumously.
Iraqi Sunnis under Sadaam claimed responsibility for sending the infected child in hopes of sickening the Kurdish refugees and especially, the U.S. military. Quinn never learned how the boy became infected, if he just happened to be fatally ill, or if he was made that way. The image of Owen cradling the child in his arms was seared into his memory. He intended to make good use of the life he had been spared. Protect others. Make Owen proud.
Now, fifteen years later, something about Pivani’s situation made Quinn’s experience feel acutely relevant. He had never shared his story with anyone, and he wasn’t about to share it with Rick. Instead, he said, “Just remember that we can’t do our jobs if we become victims. And if anything happens to you, especially to you, our whole department, no, the whole entire agency will be in deep shit on account of your father. The media will go crazy with the story.”
Rick laughed. “I hear you. No worries. Ken and I are about to go through Pivani’s trash right now. I was just grabbing some aspirin first.”
“Good. Drop off a handful for me when you come back this way.”
In the evidence room, Rick and Ken put on masks and double gloves and got to work.
“This is some of the cleanest garbage I’ve ever seen,” said Ken. “Last year, I searched an insane amount of garbage from an ISIS group who had been hiding inside a house for months. Somehow food was coming in, but nothing was going out. Disgusting.”
Ken picked out a plastic microwave container and put it aside. He did the same with an empty carton of orange juice. After removing a few other empty food containers, the bag was almost empty.
“All that’s left is this envelope.” Rick held it under the fluorescent light. “The stamp and postmark are from Paris. The return address is the Paris Yoga Institute. Was it possible the prayer mat you saw was a yoga mat?” Rick asked.
“I guess.” Ken shrugged. “But this envelope is our first clue about what he might have done when he landed overseas.”
“Here’s a thought,” said Rick. “If he had lupus like he claimed, maybe he went to this institute for some sort of holistic healing thing.”
“You’re all about innocent until proven guilty, in a big way,” Ken said.
“Maybe.” Rick lifted the envelope off the table with tweezers and deposited it in a bag. “I’ll take this to be tested for fingerprints.”
“There’s shredded paper on the bottom. Some with ink. A letter maybe,” Ken said. He tilted the plastic bag so the pieces fell together. Rick moved closer to look.
“Let’s bring it to the lab too. They can piece it together, right?”
“Sometimes. It depends.”
“People with lupus feel so tired they can barely get anything done. Everything becomes a monumental effort. Did you know that?” said Rick.
“Yeah. And?”
“That’s what I’m starting to feel like.”
“Same,” said Ken.
“Finally, we agree on something.”
“I think we can also agree that neither of us smells too fresh right now.”
Ken snorted a laugh. “Let’s get some caffeine and then go sit down close to Stephanie and Rashid. That ought to wake them up.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Los Angeles
November 4th
Quinn had jus
t stepped out of his office and into the hallway after speaking with Rick when his cell rang. His mind preoccupied, he answered without looking to see who it was.
“Good afternoon. This is Laura Purvis from the Los Angeles Times. Cynthia Fryberg is representing the Muslim Rights Organization. She said you were in charge of apprehending Dylan Redman. Can you please comment on—”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any comments for you.”
“Wait. Mr. Traynor, can you just tell me—”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Purvis, I can’t tell you anything.”
He hung up just as another call came through. He saw it was Madeline and pressed accept.
“Quinn, it’s me.”
“Hi, Maddie. Did something new turn up from the exam?”
“Not yet. We have a second victim.”
“Already? Same neighborhood? Or from the nuclear facility?”
“Not even close. He’s in Boston.”
“As in, Massachusetts? How do you know they’re connected?”
“Because of you. Well, I mean, we wouldn’t have known so quickly if you hadn’t sent an alert to all agencies asking about similar cases. I sent something through the CDC, but your message got attention.”
“My alert wouldn’t have gone out if you hadn’t thought to call me so quickly.”
“Thanks. Anyway, the victim’s name is Mike Spitz. A neighbor discovered him today. Paramedics called the CDC and an investigating physician found him in a similar condition to Pivani. We’ve already established the connection. The DxH device readings and our preliminary results indicate the viral strain is identical. It’s the same engineered virus.”
Quinn logged into his computer. Sure enough, a response to his earlier alert had been posted from the CDC in Boston. He wrote down the name Mike Spitz and said, “I’m having a hard time believing a second body was found clear across the country. How many more bodies are we going to find? We might already have an epidemic on our hands.” His heart beat faster as adrenaline coursed through his body.
“Tomorrow, we might have an epidemic. Right now, we only have two dead bodies. Unfortunately, the second victim was also dead when he was found, so we still don’t have information on where he contracted the E.C.1 virus. I wish we had a crystal ball.”
“What type of exposure are we looking at from these two?” Quinn asked.
“We don’t know, Quinn. On the positive side, Pivani’s illness came on quickly. We haven’t identified anyone who got close to him once he had symptoms. As far as Pivani is concerned, it’s possible we have this under control.”
“And the second victim?”
“Six people we know of came in close proximity to Mike Spitz after he died. For all of them, contamination is possible, but not probable. They’re currently isolated. Detectives interviewed everyone in the apartment complex. So far, they haven’t turned up anyone who saw him when he was symptomatic.”
“Sounds too easy,” Quinn said.
“I agree. There’s too much we don’t know. If there’s been exposure, a significant loss of life could occur. It all depends on the infectivity and lethality of the agent and the length of time it takes to detect and treat those who are exposed or have become ill. All factors we’re working on.”
“You said treat? There’s no cure for a hemorrhagic fever. Unless something’s changed?”
“I guess by treat, I meant isolate. ZMapp is still under development. We used it in 2014, but we’re not even sure if it’s effective, or safe. Ebola still kills about half of those infected. We have supportive therapies, like hydration and oxygen, but that’s all. We’ve already begun working on something specific to this unique virus, but it will take months, at least. And if we were successful we just might end up with something to lessen the severity and decrease mortality.”
“We don’t have the luxury of months.” Quinn paused. “We’ve got two bodies, three thousand miles apart.”
The ensuing silence allowed them to appreciate the terrifying nature of the situation.
“Find out what Pivani and Spitz were doing in Paris, Quinn. Find the connection between these guys so we can stop this disease from spreading.”
“I will.”
“Call me as soon as you know anything else. I’ll do the same.”
Quinn’s phone rang again immediately. He typed an urgent message to his team while he listened to the FBI director confirm what Madeline had already told him. He instructed Rashid to stick with Pivani’s computer, and told the rest of the team to research Mike Spitz. They would meet in the conference room at 1700 hours. He stared at his monitor, concentrating momentarily on all the questions needing answers. Who was responsible? Could an engineered virus have accidentally escaped from a lab or a pharmaceutical company? Were the two deceased men innocent victims, terrorists, or victims of terrorists? Thoughts raced through his head in a continuous loop like a fever dream: Information. Containment. Communication. Manage the media. Epidemic. Pandemic. His fingers gripped his mouse as if it might sprout wings and fly out of his grasp. One step at a time. Who else needs to know about the situation right now? Will we be able to handle it? Is it already too late?
Rashid, an expert at multi-tasking, followed the links in Pivani’s browsing history at the same time he called the CDC in Boston. “I’d like to speak with Dr. Amanda Cooney, please,” he said.
“Dr. Cooney is not available. Can I take a message?”
“I’m calling from the Los Angeles FBI field office on a matter pertaining to the body Dr. Cooney discovered today. Our office sent the national alert on the first victim. It’s important I speak with her. Do you know if she was at the home of the deceased?”
“She was there with her assistant, Karen Smith.”
“Would they be the ones who gathered evidence from the scene, or did someone else do that?”
“I can’t answer your question. Would you like to leave a message for Dr. Cooney’s assistant to call you back?”
“Yes, I would, please.” The thought of leaving a message and waiting for a call back was unacceptable, but perhaps he would only have to wait a few minutes. And he still had plenty of information to go through on Pivani’s computer.
“Hold on, I’ll connect you.”
He didn’t need to leave a message or wait for a call back because Karen answered after two rings.
“Karen, this is Agent Usman with the FBI’s Counterterrorism division. I’m working on a related investigation.”
“Yes. The CDC director informed us that another body with the same virus was identified in Los Angeles.”
“That’s correct. He was found this morning. I understand you examined Mike Spitz.”
“Well, I didn’t examine him. Dr. Cooney examined him. I saw him, but my job was to collect the evidence we might need from his home.”
“Perfect. I know this sounds strange, but could you look through what you collected and see if by chance you found a ticket to an NFL game. And if you didn’t, can you let me know who I can—”
“I don’t have to look. I know he had a football ticket in his wallet.”
“Can you tell me which team it was for, and what day?”
“Umm, sure. It will just take a few minutes for me to get down to our evidence room. Can I call you back at this number?”
“Please do,” Rashid said. “I need you to scan both sides and send them to me. And run it for fingerprints. Please. It’s urgent.”
“May I ask why you want to know about the ticket?”
“I’m trying to establish a connection.”
“Okay. I believe you when you say it’s urgent. I saw Spitz. The sight of him . . . It’s not something I’ll soon forget. I’ll go look right now.”
At seventeen hundred hours, Quinn called his team together in the conference room. One person was missing. “We’ll wait another minute for Rashid,” he said.
“Would you like me to get him?” Jayla asked, pushing her chair away from the table.
“No. Th
ank you, Jayla. In fact, let’s get started.”
Ken spoke first. “We had just finished sorting through Pivani’s trash when you called about Spitz. The only—”
Quinn didn’t let him finish. “Hold up on that. First, quickly share everything we know about this second victim.”
Rick spoke up. “The deceased, Mike Spitz, was a twenty-three-year old, Caucasian male. Single, no children. Born and raised in Cherry Hill, NJ. Two parents, both deceased, and one much older sibling. Graduated high school and attended a year of community college. Lived alone in his apartment for the past three years while working at Logan airport. He was responsible for checking airplane fuel, pressure levels, and refueling planes.”
“And he had access to the Secured Area of the airport?” Quinn asked
“Yes. He cleared the Security Threat Assessment and the Criminal History Record check,” Rick said.
“Just because someone hasn’t done anything criminal yet doesn’t mean they aren’t going to,” Ken said. “Remember the terrorists who plotted to blow up the underground fuel lines for JFK airport? They worked there for years, I don’t remember how many, but more than three anyway, plotting away. Spitz could have secured the job at the airport waiting for an opportunity to strike from the airport. Maybe a different opportunity came along.”
“Is there any evidence of what Ken suggests. Has Spitz been biding his time for the past three years, waiting to play his part in some attack?” Quinn asked.
“Nothing I’ve found,” Rick answered. “But I didn’t get to his employment records yet. Spitz recently applied for a passport and traveled to Paris. He left a few days after Pivani and returned on the same day. That was his first trip out of the country. He’s three generations of American. No religious background of any sort. He was in trouble once for a minor assault, but never convicted of anything. I think it could be a coincidence that he contracted the same disease through exposure.”
“I did a quick check of his bank records and found the same situation as Pivani,” said Ken. “No record of purchases during the time he was abroad. He dropped off the grid. That’s all the proof I need to think he’s a terrorist. He’s an ideal candidate for some group to recruit. No close friends, no family, no significant other. Maybe he was picked on in junior high school.”