“Remarkable, isn’t it?”
“Beyond words.”
“As some things are.”
“Including this house.” He could feel the halls and countless dark rooms winding around him like the passages and chambers of a great cave, dark space with weight, pressing, a sense of threat. “Is this yours?”
“Is my name on the deed? No. It belongs to a family of my acquaintance.”
“It looks very old.”
“Built in 1854 by Uriah Sadler. A shipowner.”
“What kinds of ships did he own?”
Mr. Adelheid smiled. “Fast ships with big holds and hard crews. He was a slave trader.”
He thought of the black man who had let him out of the car. “Your own crew. Impressive.”
“You mean Adou. Yes. A Ugandan. Mostly civilized.”
He saw chopped limbs, brained babies, changed the subject. “The place is huge.”
“And bigger than what you can see. Captain Sadler had unusual tastes even for a slaver. The cellar beneath is vast. Rooms with granite walls and drains. To contain the screams and flush the blood, I’ve been told.”
“A horrible time.” He could think of nothing else to say.
Mr. Adelheid sipped, watched him. “I hope you will stay to dine with me.”
“I had planned on it.”
“Wonderful. Please, come and sit.”
They took places at a table set for four. Crystal and silver sparkled on white linen. He had never been good at small talk, but Mr. Adelheid was extraordinary, so after a while he felt as though he were in one of those foreign films where people speak endlessly across fabulous tables, every utterance freighted with wit and irony. They talked about Washington’s execrable weather, the visitor’s workload, AfPak, one subject flowing smoothly into the next. Mr. Adelheid made a story about hunting wild boar in Russia sound like an elegant fable.
A waiter appeared, removed his empty tumbler, replaced it with a full one.
“Shall we begin with some Strangford Lough oysters?” Mr. Adelheid smiled, then looked abashed. “I’m so sorry. You do like oysters, don’t you?”
The few raw oysters he had ever eaten had made him think of toilet bowls. “Absolutely,” he said.
The waiter set down silver plates with the slick, pink things in iridescent shells on crushed ice. Mr. Adelheid tipped one to his lips, slurped, savored. Steeling himself, the guest did the same. A taste like very dry champagne with a hint of salt wind. He smiled, agreeably startled.
“Incredible, no? I could eat them every day.” Mr. Adelheid lifted another. “This morning they were in the Irish Sea.”
They concentrated on the oysters. He had always known that certain people lived this way: palatial homes on estates that sprawled like counties, enormous yachts, exquisite women, the food and drink of royalty. Relishing ecstasies
He had never known how such lives were made. Now he might learn.
When he had finished eating the oysters, Mr. Adelheid pushed his plate aside, dabbed his lips.
“Let us speak now. You have a very important job at BARDA. The Biomedical Advanced Research and Development Authority, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Created in 2006 by President George W. Bush to counter biowarfare threats and responsible for, among other initiatives, Project BioShield.”
“Yes.”
“Fascinating work, I imagine. Would you care to tell me about it?”
He paused while the waiter set down new plates. Velvety, chocolate-colored filets in a scarlet sauce. “Medallions of Black Forest venison with Madeira and black truffles,” Mr. Adelheid said. Then wine, poured into crystal goblets from a bottle with a label like parchment. He had drunk wine, of course, even, on a few occasions, in very expensive restaurants. Now he understood that he had never tasted
How many other great things had evaded him in this life? He suddenly felt regret so intense it made his eyes glisten. Too quickly, he brought the wine glass to his mouth, spilling a few drops onto the immaculate tablecloth, embarrassing himself. His moist eyes, the soiled linen—he felt thick and stupid in the presence of this polished man.
“I do microbiology. MDRBs.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. Multiple-drug-resistant bacteria.”
“Is it like in the movies? You know, exotic germs, that kind of thing?”
A little flare inside him. “Calling them germs is like calling diamonds rocks. They are miracles of evolution. And beautiful. Think of a spiral nebula on the head of a pin. Every color in the universe.”
“You speak of them as friends.”
“We get along well. I respect them. And admire their good qualities.”
“Which are?”
“Astonishing evolutionary speed, for one.”
“Do you work in space suits?”
“Sometimes. Those in BSL-4.”
“What does that mean, exactly, ‘BSL-4’?”
“Biosafety Level Four. The highest security level. Positive-pressure environments. Chemturion protective suits. Respirators. Disinfectant showers and ultraviolet germicidal lights. Double-door air locks. Unbreakable labware.”
Mr. Adelheid nodded, touched his right ear with the tips of two fingers. The door swung open and Erika walked in. Even moving, she seemed to be in repose. Everything about her was
“Good evening, Erika. Would you care for a drink? Some champagne, perhaps?”
“No thank you, sir.”
She sat, crossed her magnificent legs, and something caught in his chest.
“Erika, you have met our friend.” No name offered, none asked for.
“Would you like to spend time with our friend?”
“I would love to.” A voice like chimes, exultant, as if it were the greatest opportunity life had offered.
He almost dropped his fork, fumbled, felt like a fool.
“Would you find that agreeable?” Mr. Adelheid smiled at him.
He hesitated, thoroughly unsure how to respond.
“We could have Christina come in. Or Gisele.”
“No, no.” He reddened. “No. I mean,
“And Erika, would you like to accommodate our friend’s wishes?”
“Oh, yes.” She placed her fingertips on the back of his hand, four small, cool circles on his hot skin. There was something about the way she moved, slowly, dreamily, as though underwater. “There is a villa in the Mediterranean, on an island all its own, with a waterfall in the bedroom. Floors of pink marble, walls of glass.” She flicked her eyes at Mr. Adelheid.
He smiled. “No rules we do not make, the only laws those of nature.”
His thoughts twirled, huge black eyes, white fog, shining oysters, golden whiskey, scarlet wine, a turquoise sea scattered with flakes of light. This woman’s scent, heavier now, gardenia sweet. He closed his eyes, breathed.
“Thank you, Erika.” She rose and turned to their guest.
“I hope to see you again.”
