Germ

Diseases.

Pressure behind her eyes. She wanted to cry . . . and she didn't want to.

What are the five stages of grief? Or are there six? Denial . . . anger . . . depression . . . No, bargaining, then depression . . .

Ahhhh! Goody went into the Excelsior. The SATD was working. His wire was working. Some white noise, maybe the hotel's AC. He ordered orange juice, then Vero came in, asked if he was Sweeney.

Her top teeth found a ridge on her bottom lip, the scab from having bitten into it earlier. She bit down, feeling the pain, letting it move her away from her grief. She tasted blood.

He said Vero didn't look well. Then . . .

She remembered the gunfire, how loud it was through the ear-piece. Goody had yelled. People were screaming in the background.

She closed her eyes, pinching out a tear. She bit harder on her lip, swallowed against the lump in her throat, fought the flood at her eyes.

If Julia had distracted herself by stepping outside and

looking north, she would have seen in the distance the shape of Missionary Ridge. It was discernable at that time of evening by the lights radiating from the large homes perched on it. If it had been pointed out to her, she could have seen, near the very peak of the mountain, a light glowing in the study of the recipient of Goody's last mortal words.

Dr. Allen Parker sat at his desk, a fire roaring in a nearby hearth, Mozart's Requiem streaming through ceiling-mounted speakers. He was torn between two piles of books and papers. One pile contained everything he needed to finish an article he was writing for the Journal of the American Medical Association on the benefits of partial liquid ventilation for patients with severe respiratory failure. It was already three days overdue.

The other pile interested him more. He pulled a book off the top of the stack—Field Virology.

'Okay, Mr. Donnelley,' he said out loud. 'You got me. Now let's see if you knew what you were talking about.'

He turned to the table of contents, ran his finger down the chapter titles, then turned to chapter 39. A single word in large type at the top of the page read Filoviridae. As he began to read, words and phrases seared into his mind—hetnorrhagic fever, outbreak, abrupt onset of illness, death, no known vaccine. A headache brewed behind his eyes, but he continued reading. Epidemic. Biosafety level 4. Human pathogen. Mortality.

Occasionally he'd look up from an article or book to Google a phrase on the iMac on his desk. One online search would lead to another, and twenty minutes would pass before he'd return to the hard copy he'd been reading.

More than a few times he'd light a cigarette and promptly forget about it. He'd find a butt attached to a delicate cylinder of ashes in the ashtray and have to light another one. In his study, he puffed away as if it were the best thing he could do. Erlanger had become smoke-free, forcing him to smoke outside with the other diehards. It made him feel ostracized and dirty. More times than not, when people saw him in the hall heading for the door with cig and lighter in hand, they'd say, 'Doctors smoke?' like Cops commit crimes? He'd answer, 'This one does.'

He liked to think he didn't care what people thought, but he did. At thirty-six he was already one of the leading thoracic surgeons in the country, thanks to a nearly flawless record in the operating room. That, and a procedure he had invented that happened to save a senator's life. He had been featured in Time magazine as a 'Top Ten Doc'; other articles followed in news, medical, and financial publications. Even his house got coverage in Architectural Digest and Southern Living. Before long, movie and television producers began offering ungodly sums for his opinion of their shows' medical veracity. He was one of the few practicing surgeons with a Hollywood agent; a tidbit he carefully dropped into as many conversations as possible.

Parker pushed back his chair and stood. The tambour clock on the mantel told him it was a little after nine; he'd been in research mode for over two hours. The rest of the house was dark, except for the light over the stove, which spilled into the hall and glowed faintly outside his study doors. It reminded him that he had thrown a Hungry Man turkey dinner in the microwave and forgotten about it. He snatched the nearly empty pack of Camels off the desk, shook one out, and lit it with habitual fluidity. He held the smoke in his lungs for a reassuring moment, then sent it billowing over his head. Then he sat down again, pulled the iMac monitor closer, and tapped into a medical database.

It was going to be a long night.

nineteen

Finally, some good news. Litt had just heard from one of his 'control subjects'—people on his First Wave list whom he had paid to keep him informed. A school janitor in Chicago had called to let him know that a New York Times reporter had contacted him. The reporter wanted to know why the janitor's name was on a list he had received.

Litt knew it was too early for the reporter to develop definitive conclusions about the list. But either the reporter would make follow-up calls and realize everybody on the list was getting sick, seriously sick, or he would become aware of news reports around the country of people getting sick and eventually make the connection. It wouldn't be long before one of the reporters who received the list realized that someone knew who would get sick before they'd gotten sick.

And that's when Litt would make his entrance onto the world stage.

All he could do now was wait. But he was anxious, and for years his only source of relaxation had been lab work. So he left his room and headed for his laboratory. He would find something to do.

Litt walked stiffly, feeling the lack of fluid in his joints, feeling bone rub against bone. It didn't help that his skin itched all over as well—more than usual. Talking to Kendrick had taken its toll. It had dredged up painful memories, which took away from his ability to handle the here and now.

Kendrick Reynolds. He wished he'd never met the man, even if it meant dying on the docks with his father. He took that back. He had not met Rebecca then, and that was an experience that made everything else bearable. She was morphine in an otherwise painful existence.

He smiled, felt his bottom lip crack. Doubtful you'd find that line in a love song. But it was true. And it was true that she was gone, leaving only the pain.

His father had expected better for him. Then the Reich had fallen, and so had his father. Que sera, he thought bitterly.

A fluorescent tube overhead sputtered and hummed. He shuffled a little farther to a bench and sat. Today, he was tired. A good day to stay in bed. If only he had that luxury. He closed his eyes.

And remembered.

1945

Ten-year-old Karl Litt yearned for sleep. His muscles and

tendons throbbed with fatigue; his eyes were burning embers pressed into his head. Still, he willed his body to stand tall. He resisted the temptation to gaze at the peacefully sparkling stars and tendrils of fog wafting over the harbor's black water. Doing so would surely lull him to sleep. He could not afford that.

He fixed his gaze on the underseeboot moored at the battered wharf. Scars from vicious battles creased and pocked her metal skin. Unimaginable clashes had beaten and blasted away huge chunks of gray paint. She appeared ready for scuttling, not for sailing the most crucial mission of the war.

The U-boat rose on a swell from a deep ocean current. Shadows shifted on her hull, and her entire length seemed to flex into bands of impenetrable flesh, unbeatable muscle. In fact, she was only one in ten U-boats to