The room is darkened to allow for the computer projector in the center of the room to cast images on the far wall. Five people are huddled around the chestnut conference table and comprise Josh Fisher’s audience.
Clearing his throat he begins, “The incident in question began in the Four Corners region of the U.S. and dealt with reports of a strange sickness that was circulating.
“It affected mostly young and previously healthy individuals who seemingly without reason would suddenly become sick. Their symptoms began universally with fever, headache, muscle aches—most prominently in the large muscle groups of the back, hips, thighs, and shoulders—stomach problems, dizziness and chills.
“Approximately four to ten days after acute onset of these symptoms, the victim’s lungs would begin to fill with fluid and they would develop shortness of breath. From this point they would either succumb to respiratory failure or recover.”
Reaching over he grabs a tiny remote off the desk and turns the projector on. “As you can see from the following slide, to date there have been fourteen confirmed cases with five deaths over a period of two weeks.
“EIS officer Lynne Bosworth was assigned this case after the fourth case was confirmed and the State Health Departments for Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico called the CDC for help in containing this outbreak.
“Her EPI1 details the specific steps that she took upon arriving on the ground. She began an extensive operation involving the collection of various rodent species in the area, as the symptom set led her to conclude she was dealing with Hantavirus Pulmonary Syndrome, most likely caused by the Sin Nombre virus.
“A case-control study was performed between the households where cases originated and their surrounding neighbors. This study is of course standard procedure when attempting to identify how an unknown agent is transmitted. In fact, a similar study was conducted in 1993 in this area when the first known outbreak of Sin Nombre occurred.
“It appears that this earlier study was not consulted by Dr. Bosworth in her assessment of this outbreak as the results of her case-control study are quite the opposite of what was found in 1993 and yet she reached the same conclusion.
“I’ll now turn the meeting over to Dr. Wendy Rojas who was in charge of examining the laboratory specimens sent back from the Four Corners region.”
At twenty-nine years old, Wendy Rojas is an accomplished biologist, expert in the emerging field of bio-informatics. She has worked for the CDC for the past three and a half years, in charge of her own lab for the past year and eight months.
As the only daughter of Latino immigrant parents in California, she is fiercely proud of her accomplishments.
She has a flowing mane of black hair that falls softly around her shoulders. Rounded cheekbones, an angular nose and doe like eyes are the prominent features of a face that can only be described as exotic and attractive.
Today she’s wearing a size two navy blue business suit that accentuates her slender legs and fits snugly across her chest.
Those who know her well know that whenever she has to do something she doesn’t want to do; her lower lip begins to quiver slightly. Combined with her innocent brown eyes the effect is a soft pout.
As she’s called on today her lower lip is quivering.
“What did the lab results reveal?” the chief of infectious diseases pathology, Charles Womack asks.
“The lab received specimens from a cross section of the local fauna,” Wendy reluctantly begins “A total of 125 individual samples were examined for this case. The majority of specimens collected were Deer Mice—consistent with the initial conclusion of Sin Nombre virus. We also received some rats, squirrels, and a few prairie dogs for examination to rule out any chance that this could be an outbreak of plague.
“The labs came back negative for Sin Nombre virus in all the specimens examined.” She casts a forlorn look at Lynne, who’s seated at the opposite end of the table before adding, “Bacteria found in the blood samples from these rodents is within limits of what would be expected. One of the prairie dogs did test positive for plague, but the infection was latent and not active.
“Blood and tissue samples from the fourteen human cases also tested negative for the presence of Sin Nombre virus.”
“So,” Larry Ward asks, “Where does that leave us then?” His steely gaze briefly passes over Lynne before settling on Josh to wait for an answer.
“Information collected from the field offers a possible connection between the victims that Agent Bosworth overlooked.” Josh diverts his gaze under the weight of the daggers that Wendy is shooting his way as he continues saying, “Patient A, our first victim was employed as a landscaper for a local company. His job brought him into contact with herbicides that if he was careless with could account for his respiratory symptoms. Patients B and E also worked for this company.”
Clicking the remote control Josh changes the image on screen to a flowchart showing the connections between the victims. It’s a collection of white and black boxes with lines snaking out between each of them.
“As you can see from this chart, all of the victims so far either worked for the landscaping company or had their lawns sprayed by them. Due to this fact we can positively trace all the victims back to Patient A, B, or E. The implication of this is that the probability of herbicide exposure causing these symptoms is elevated.”
“What about the labs Wendy?”
Upset by her friend being kept on the spot for so long Wendy snaps, “You know the answer to that Larry.”
An audible gasp is heard in the room as those gathered around the table all raise their eyebrows in shock at the response.
“Indeed,” Roger Whittaker speaks up for the first time in the meeting, “I think the point has been made Larry.”
As the man in charge of the Epidemic Intelligence Service; when Roger Whittaker speaks people usually listen. At just a shade under sixty years of age, Roger carries a distinguished air about him that only comes from experience.
His once black hair is now mostly silver, cut close to his scalp. He’s possessed of friendly brown eyes set far apart and seen through reading glasses.
He’s been with the agency in some capacity for more than thirty years now and for most of those days he’s worn some type of suit. Today is no different.
He’s dressed in a light blue business suit with a matching yellow striped tie that accentuates his charcoal colored skin.
“Lights,” Larry Ward calls for the lights to be turned on revealing three rows of lecture style seats along the back of the room—filled with the students of his class.
Standing up Larry says, “I’d like to thank Charles, Roger, Josh, and Wendy for participating here today in this exercise. I’d also like to make clear that the point of today’s class was not to embarrass Lynne.”
He looks directly at her as she returns his gaze without flinching in the spotlight. “The lesson you all need to learn from this is that when you’re out in the field what you don’t know is just as important as what you think you know.
“Many of you agreed with Lynne in her assessment of this outbreak because the information you were given led you down the garden path, so to speak. Most of you probably never read the footnote to the package that mentioned the connection to herbicides.
“Just because you think you know the answer don’t close your mind to other possibilities. Until the diagnosis is confirmed in the laboratory you need to continue considering all possibilities.
“The second lesson to take away from here today is this: if you’re going to make it as an epidemiologist then get used to being wrong a lot of the time.”
He pauses for a moment to allow the implication of what he’s just said to seep in to his students. “That’s right, you will be wrong more often that you’ll be right. Even an expert epidemiologist with this particular case would most likely have reached the same conclusion as Lynne did.
“To do this job you can’t take your mistakes pers
onally. In the field you’re going to make decisions that are going to be wrong. You cannot allow these decisions to haunt you because most of the time you need to get it wrong—to rule out what it isn’t—before you can get it right.
“If any of you at this point still have delusions that you can ride into an outbreak and stop it in its tracks without losing anyone else—lose them now. If you’re going to be an EIS officer, you’re going to see people die.”
Turning his back to the class Larry begins to gather up his notes saying, “I think that’s enough for today. Class dismissed.”
Wendy immediately leaps to her feet and hurries around the table to grab Lynne’s arm just as she’s leaving the room. “Lynne, hold up.” Hunching her shoulders forward she says, “I’m sorry about in there.”
Shaking her head Lynne pulls her arm free from Wendy’s grasp. “Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t your fault; I was the one who got the diagnosis wrong.”
“Lynne!” Wendy calls to her as she walks away, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“If this outbreak had been real, five people would be dead because I made the wrong call.” Lynne turns to face her closest friend, “I have to be better than that.”
Feeling powerless to find the right words Wendy just watches Lynne walk away. Anger is swelling up inside her as she turns back to the classroom and Larry Ward.
“Don’t you think you owe her an apology?” Larry looks up at her over the rims of his glasses that sit perched on the end of his nose. “This was nothing but a vicious personal attack on Lynne. How many other students reached the same conclusion as her huh?”
“I’m sorry that you feel that way Wendy,” Larry answers “But this was nothing personal.”
“Oh, bullshit Larry!” Wendy scoffs.
Roger steps between them saying, “That’s enough Wendy. This is not the time or the place.”
“You know what Wendy,” Larry says as he stands up “You’re partly right. Out of all the students that reached the same conclusion as Lynne I picked her today for this exercise for personal reasons.”
Roger is surprised by this admission and takes a step backward to face Larry as he continues. “I happen to personally think that Lynne Bosworth could make a great agent. But for that to happen she has to lose the hero complex that she currently walks around with.
“She can’t save everybody and trust me when I tell you this, it’s far better for her to learn that here during simulations than to be blindsided by it in the field. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve places to be.”
Larry brushes roughly past Wendy who turning to Roger asks, “What’s wrong with wanting to save people?”
“Nothing,” he replies solemnly “So long as you accept the reality that most of the time you won’t succeed.”
Chapter 8
October 13, the Present
Des Moines, Iowa
I’m dreaming…I have to be.
This is all a dream, none of it is real. It’s all just a really bad dream that I’m going to wake up from any second now. That’s right, I’m going to wake up and none of this horror will ever have happened.
I’ll just close my eyes and when I open them it’ll all be over.
Opening his eyes he looks up at the all too familiar patch of stained ceiling that he’s been staring at for days now.
In frustration he slams his fist against the broken down mattress and swings his tired legs out of bed. Burying his face in his palms he exhales a silent scream.
Standing up he walks towards the motel bathroom on legs that seem too shaky to support his full weight. Stumbling once before his bare feet touch the linoleum floor of the bathroom, he leans heavily against the chipped marble sink and stares at his expression in the mirror.
The face that stares back is unrecognizable to him. It seems as if he has aged years in the span of just a few days.
His black hair is unkempt and wild where normally it is perfectly groomed. Wetting his fingers he rubs the cowlick at the back of his head until the hair stays flat. Squinting through his thick glasses he’s sure that he can see the start of grey hairs poking through the mass of black.
They were never there before…
Viciously tearing his glasses from their perch on his fleshly nose he tosses them beside the sink and proceeds to run water. When it is good and hot he cups his hands under the flow and splashes some on his face.
As the warm water drips off the end of his nose and hangs in his beard he breathes close to the glass fogging it slightly. His face is exhausted and haggard—the face of a man who hasn’t slept in days.
Closing his brown bloodshot eyes he immediately sees and hears images that he’s sure will haunt him forever more.
What have I done?
Pain sears his chest causing him to double over further and clutch at his heart. He’s not having a heart attack, he wouldn’t be that lucky. He knows this pain intimately as belonging to the cold fingers of panic and fear.
For the past few days they have regularly wrapped around his heart and squeezed slowly until he cries out for it to stop.
Once the pain has passed he rises up and flicks the light off in the bathroom. He moves quietly back toward the sagging bed—as if the slightest noise above the level of a whisper will alert them to his location.
A few times lately he has tried to fool himself into believing that they will just let him go—that they won’t come looking for him. But he can never quite believe that fantasy.
They’re not going to just let me walk away. They won’t allow me to stay hidden for very long. These people are ruthless professionals who will find me no matter where I run to.
And when they do find me…
The thought hangs unfinished in his mind as he collapses onto the bed to try once again to find his way to some sleep.
But as soon as his eyes close the sights and sounds of dying people and debilitating screams flood his consciousness and snap his tired eyes open again.
As the screams fade away Vladimir Tesla prays with the logic of an insomniac for them to find him and end his torment once and for all.
Getting out of bed again he begins pacing the small rented room, his movements tense and clipped like those of a caged and wounded animal.
Why do I need to sleep? Who needs the comfort of dreams when life itself is a nightmare?
Chapter 9
Thump…thump…thump…
The hollow sound of heavy knuckles on wood reverberates around the sparsely decorated apartment. Slouched over in a recliner with a beer gently held in his hand, John Kaczynski sleeps fitfully.
Thump…thump…thump…
Louder now the sound pierces the cocoon of sleep surrounding him. With a start he jerks awake and tips the bottle in his hand over.
The last vestiges of the previous evening spill on his pants. “Shit,” swearing he stands up momentarily confused as to what woke him up.
THUMP…THUMP…THUMP…
He jumps at the sound of his door banging against the frame. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he glances at the clock on the wall and mutters “This better be damn good.”
John Kaczynski has been the superintendent at this building for four years now. He’s a squat man of about forty years, with thinning brown hair, thick pudgy lips, a flat nose, and a temper that indicates how the nose was flattened.
Reaching the door he rips it open “What the hell,” his voice trails off as he sees the two large men standing in the hallway. These guys aren’t tenants.
“Mr. Kaczynski,” the guy in front says as he flips open his wallet, “My name is Lance Covington. I’m with Homeland Security. My partner and I need to look around one of your apartments.”
John is suddenly completely awake as he stares at the official looking badge in front of him. “I-uh, how do I know that’s real?”
His eyes drift away from the badge to the hulking man behind Covington. He’s dressed completely in black with a ball cap pulled down low over his face and
dark glasses over his eyes. The effect perfectly conceals any facial features from view though John can still tell that the man doesn’t exactly look like Homeland Security. In fact, to John he looks like the type of individual that Homeland Security would be after.
“See that number there,” Lance answers “You can call Homeland later and they’ll confirm the number for you. But right now we need to get into Nikolai Markov’s apartment.”
Shit! John curses to himself. I knew I shouldn’t have rented to that fucking Russki—he’s probably an illegal or some shit.
Nodding John closes his door behind him and leads the two men upstairs to Markov’s apartment door. Inserting the master key in the lock he stops before turning it.
Looking over his shoulder at the agents he asks, “What kind of shit is this guy in anyway?”
“That’s a national security matter.” Covington orders “Open the door and return to your apartment. We’ll let you know when we’re done.”
The man’s tone leaves no doubt that he’s not open to discussion so John opens the door and makes himself scarce.
Once inside the two men shut the door and get down to their work. Covington begins searching the kitchen and living areas while his partner heads off down the hallway to the bedrooms.
In the master bedroom at the end of the hall the cap and glasses come off as Kazim El Said gets down to work.
Quickly he rummages through Markov’s drawers and closet. Moving to the bed he drops to the floor and searches beneath the king size bed. Lifting the mattress he ensures nothing is hidden beneath it before moving on to another room. Not before he remakes the bed of course, no trace of his actions will remain.
In the spare room that is set up as a study he finds what he’s looking for—a safe hidden behind the façade of some phony books lining the shelves. Removing the safe from the shelf he searches the desk for the key.
Finding none he concludes that it’s unlikely that Markov would’ve kept the key and the lock in the same room.
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