Lethal Dose

the same time we raid the labs. We’ll find an upside to this somewhere, J. D.”

“Thanks, Craig,” Rothery said. His eyes scanned the room again. “Gentlemen, we have a potential crisis here and we have to chop it off at the knees. So far, what I’ve seen from every person in this room is absolute cooperation between agencies, and that’s exactly what we need right now. Know this: Each of you has the full cooperation of the Department of Homeland Security. There is no request you can make of us right now that we will not do everything humanly possible to respond to. My line is open twenty-four seven to each man in this room. And when we merge the resources of the CIA, FBI, NSA, and DHS, there is nothing we cannot do. We will find the source of this virus, and we will eliminate it.”

He stood up to indicate that the meeting was adjourned. He turned to Jim Allenby. “Jim, excellent work keeping the lid on the Miami thing.”

Allenby nodded and filed out with the rest of the men. They split up and left individually in dark cars with tinted windows. Allenby glanced about as he drove onto the street from the parking garage. He knew the sight of these four men together on a Thursday afternoon would create a media storm that would be difficult to extinguish. Top operatives of the country’s premier spy and investigative agencies didn’t get together for coffee and donuts. They met in times of crises. And right now there was no spin the Department of Homeland Security could put on this that was positive.

Rothery waited for an hour after his visitors left before calling his driver and departing the office. He sat in the backseat of his chauffeur-driven Lincoln, watching the procession of D.C. monuments slide past. Washington was a beautiful city, especially in the summer when the trees and shrubs were in full foliage. They slowed for traffic, and the J. Edgar Hoover Building caught his attention. He personally thought they should rename that structure. They continued on Pennsylvania, past the White House, and then over the Potomac on the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. Roosevelt’s monument seemed to shimmer in the afternoon sun, surrounded by the nature and wildlife the twenty-sixth president had so dearly loved. The island with all its boardwalks and trails disappeared as they increased speed and headed up the George Washington Memorial Parkway toward McLean.

The car slipped into his driveway, and he dismissed his driver after requesting a six-thirty pickup the next morning. He walked the last few yards to his home, a low-slung ranch-style brick house surrounded by mature hickory. He opened the front door and heard the television from the back of the house. His daughter, Marissa, eighteen and registered to start her first year of college at Harvard next week, peeked out from the family room.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, smiling. She was an attractive young woman, with her mother’s finer features and his tenacity. Boys had been calling constantly since she was thirteen, but so far she’d been very choosy and had dated only a handful of eligible men. She met him halfway down the hall and gave him a big hug. “How was work?”

“Interesting,” he said. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

“I’m going to college in six days,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be in a good mood?”

“No more parents for a while.”

“None. And tons of keg parties and visitors popping into the dorms at all hours of the night. I mean, that’s what you did when you were in Harvard, right?” She grinned and let him go. “Mom called to say dinner will be late. They teed off late today and she won’t be home until seven or so.”

“Okay,” Rothery said, watching her head downstairs to her space. She liked to be upstairs when he and his wife were not home, but the minute they arrived she headed to the basement and her fully accessorized bedroom. The chief of DHS walked through his house to the private backyard. He sat on the interlocking stone patio and put his feet up on the glass table. The trees swayed in the breeze and the barely audible gurgle of the distant garden fountain tickled his ears. He closed his eyes, the rigors of the office slowly dissipating into the warm evening air. The sound of the patio doors opening caused him to turn slightly and see who was there. It was Marissa.

“Dad, what do you think this is?” she asked. She came closer, gesturing at the side of her head.

He sat up and looked at his daughter. Her eyes were red, tiny veins almost obscuring the white. The color of her skin wasn’t right: It was gray and mottled with dark patches. A trickle of blood ran between her nose and her upper lip. She wiped at her ear and her hand came away stained red. More blood. Rothery jumped from his chair and stared. Dark fluid was forming at the edges of her mouth, and as quickly as she wiped it away, more of the dark, viscous fluid appeared.

“I don’t feel very well, Dad,” she said, falling forward. He caught her and almost dropped her on the stones, she was so hot. Burning up.

“Oh God,” Rothery screamed. He had seen the pictures of the victims in Austin and San Diego. He knew exactly what he was looking at. Hemorrhagic fever. The virus. He let his daughter slip to the ground and grabbed for the telephone. He hit the talk button and dialed his office. No answer. He dialed Jim Allenby. Voice mail. He hung up and dialed 911.

“Emergency,” the voice said.

“I need an ambulance,” he said. He recited his address.

“Yeah, you and everyone else,” the dispatcher said. “You think you’re the only one with the virus. Think again, buddy.”

He jerked awake, sweat running down his face and staining his shirt. His heart was beating faster than he had ever felt it, and his breath was coming in short gasps. Marissa stood in front of him with a scared look on her face.

“Dad,” she said. “Wake up. You were having a nightmare.” She was fine, her skin nicely tanned, her face and mouth showing concern but healthy. “Are you okay?”

He took a couple of deep breaths. “Yes, Marissa, I’m fine. Thanks for waking me. Must have had too much coffee today.” His breathing was returning to normal.

“Okay,” his daughter said hesitantly. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah, sure, honey.”

She reentered the house and closed the door behind her. A nightmare. She had called it a nightmare. Was that it? he asked himself. Was it a nightmare?

Or was it a premonition?

30

“She’s all-wheel drive,” the salesman said as he approached the potential customer. “Three-point-six-liter rear-mounted engine, 320 horsepower, and 0 to 62 miles per hour in five seconds.”

Wes Connors whistled. He lightly stroked the sleek silver-gray sports car, the metal cool to his touch. “It’s beautiful.” He continued to walk slowly around the vehicle, taking in the elegance of its design.

“This color is Arctic Silver Metallic, one of the most popular in the Carrera 4S series. And this baby has the Tiptronic transmission. It’s a five-speed automatic with a couple of manual gearshift controls.” He leaned over the door of the convertible and pointed to the steering wheel. “And if you brake really hard, the transmission automatically downshifts to help stop the car.”

“How much?” Connors asked. “As it sits.”

“Ninety-three thousand two hundred.”

“Ouch.” Wes shook his head. “Too rich for me. I’ll have to look at something else.”

The salesman waved his arms at the showroom. “They’re all Porsches.” He extended his hand. “Jack Fraser.” “Wes Connors.” They shook, and Wes said, “A friend of mine referred your dealership.”

“Who would that be?” Fraser asked.

“Albert Rousseau. You know him?”

A startled look swept across Fraser’s face. “Albert? Yeah, I know Albert. That’s the exact model he was looking at. But you must have talked with him some time ago.”

Wes nodded and gave Fraser a grim look. “Yeah, just before he died. He was excited about getting a Porsche and told me if I was ever looking to come here.”

Fraser shook his head. “God-awful thing, that. Getting blown up in your own house. And it happened two