Germ

the other and back again. Quietly he said, 'But I had a lot to do with all this. I worked on the project. I ran field tests, mostly in Africa.'

'Africa? Is that where you worked?'

'The lab is far from there, that's the point. You shouldn't play with fire in your own backyard.' He smiled thinly. 'Plus, there's a lot of apathy about Africa. Westerners like to say that's not true, but it is. Deception is easier when people don't care.'

'So why didn't you go to one of the CDC's offices in Africa? Or the European Center for Disease Control and Prevention in Sweden? It's much closer, and if time is a factor—'

'We only field tested in Africa. I was here . . . to release it. . . the germ.'

His head dropped farther, until it nearly touched the shot glass. His shoulders hitched, and Donnelley realized the man was fighting back tears.

Vero said, 'Que Deus me perdoe.' He lifted a wet cocktail napkin and wiped his face. He raised his gaze to Donnelley, as though seeking absolution.

'Wait a minute.' Donnelley reached across the table and grabbed his shoulder. 'Are you saying now, here? That's what you were doing here?'

Vero nodded, lowered his gaze once more.

'Where? What exactly is it?'

'I came down the coast,' he said. 'There were four of us, working each time zone. I got Boston, New York, DC. In each city, I picked up a package at a mail center. A canister. I'd go to a mall, sit on a bench with a coat covering it. Turn the valve.'

'You exposed thousands of people to a deadly virus?'

He seemed to be intensely studying something on the bottom of the shot glass. 'Rhinovirus, most of them. Most common of common colds. Spreads fast, though.'

'You're not talking about a common cold.'

'Remember what I said about delivery systems.' He shot his gaze around, checking for eavesdroppers. He scratched the inside of his ear and looked at the blood on his fingertip—some red and fresh, some brown and flaky. 'When I got sick, I thought something had gone wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen. I called Karl. He—'

'Karl?'

'Karl Litt, my boss. A monster.' He said it with conviction 'Karl he sounded concerned, said, 'Oh no, Despesorio. Hurry, finish the job and come home.' But I know him too well. I heard it in his voice There had been no mistake. But I should have kept my big mouth shut '

He punched himself in the cheek. Hard. Donnelley flinched but said nothing, could say nothing.

'I thought I could buy my way back, threaten my way home. I told him about my insurance policy.'

'The memory chip.'

'Instead of bargaining with me, he laughed. He said the list of targets had already gone out.'

'Already gone out?'

'Made public. That way people would know it was planned, not just some act of God or biological accident. I told him I had more than that list. I had details about our field tests, the capabilities of our lab . . . He hung up on me. That's when I called the CDC I thought. . . I thought. . .'

He shook his head, a slow, painful movement.—

'Listen, you've got to—' Donnelley let the thought die. What Vero had come to reveal was big. He didn't want to blow it by saying the wrong thing, pushing the wrong button. Vero needed to be interrogated someplace safe, with one of the Bureau's interrogation teams—psychologists, mostly—and at least a few CDC scientists who would know the virologist's vernacular and the implications of his words.

He felt shaky, as though he'd been given a glimpse of the future and it wasn't pretty. He shifted on the bench seat and saw the bartender watching him. When they'd first sat down, the man had come around the bar to take their drink order. Assessing them, he'd said, 'Get you—dudes something . . . beer, well drink, an ambulance?'

Donnelley said they had just walked away from a detox program

'Feelin' a li'l thin, ya know?' That seemed to satisfy him, but he'd been keeping an eye on them just the same.

Vero mumbled, and Donnelley leaned in. His words came in stuttering whispers, part confession, part rant. Donnelley listened, afraid to ask questions, afraid to disrupt what may have been the fevered speech of a sick man who didn't know he was talking. After a while—it could have been minutes or hours, Donnelley was so lost in the words—Vero grew silent. His body jerked, as if startling awake from trance or sleep. Donnelley thought it had to do with his illness.

Vero leaned back. He used his hand to wipe tears from his eyes, pink spittle from his lips, snot and blood from his nose. His breathing was labored, deep, chest-moving breaths. Heavily bloodshot eyes locked on Donnelley's. He said, 'I'm sorry. I—'

Donnelley stopped him. 'We've got to get you someplace safe. You need medical attention, and you've got to tell your story.' He touched the wad of napkins at his side. Again, it had become a sopping mess. Good thing the injury was in a part of the body that gave up its blood reluctantly; if it had been a head or chest wound, blood loss would have laid him out by now. He checked his watch and wondered if he was placing too much reliance on the SATD to lead Julia to them.

He surveyed the bar and slid out of the booth. 'I'll be right back.'

Vero grabbed his arm.

'I don't want to use my cell phone, in case someone's watching for it,' Donnelley said. 'Julia shouldn't use hers, either, but I can't contact her any other way. I'm going to call her from that phone over there.'

Vero cranked his head to see the phone booth, how close it was to the door.

Donnelley leaned down to whisper. 'Look, I know you've been through hell. You tell me you're dying and a lot of innocent people may die because the guy you're running from is neck and neck with Satan in the evil department, and I guess he is. You want to do what's right and tell someone about it. I appreciate that, okay? I'm going to get you to where you need to go; that's my job.' He touched Vero's shoulder. 'I don't disappear when things get hairy. You believe me?'

Vero stared into his eyes. Slowly he nodded.

'You can come with me if you want.'

Vero smiled dully. 'I trust you.'

Donnelley concentrated on walking as steadily and normally as he could, ignoring a wave of nausea and spasms of pain. At least they weren't as bad as the lightning bolts he'd felt before. The phone was in an old- fashioned booth tucked into a dark corner by the front door. He slipped in and pulled the bifold door shut. In the ceiling, a fluorescent tube sputtered to half-life and continued to flicker after it should have given up; that and its brightness made his eyes ache. He backed the door open a few inches until the light went out.

He looked out at the mostly empty bar and the back of Vero's head. Not the where and who he'd prefer right now. His left arm had grown numb, so he let the handset hang from its metal braided cord while he punched in his long-distance calling card number, the area code, and his home phone number.

After five rings, his wife's voice came on.

'Hello!'

His heart jumped at hearing her, then sank when he recognized their outgoing voice mail message.

'You've reached Jodi. . .'

His own voice: 'Goody . . .'

Brice, trying to sound older than his ten years: 'Brice!'

And the sweet voice of his six-year-old: 'Barrett!'

All of them: 'Leave a message and we'll call you back,' followed by uncontrollable laughter and beeeeep.

'Hey, guys. Just wanted to say hi. You must be out. Hope you're having fun. I'll see you soon.' He raised the handset to the cradle, then brought it back. 'I. . . I love you, Barrett. I love you, Brice. You be good now, okay? Honey . . . thank you for being so good to me. I love you. Bye.'

He dropped the handset and held the disconnect button down for a few seconds, then dialed the calling card