Honing smiled patiently. “I worked for several gossip rags before I came to Richmond,” he said. “I haven’t seen the lock I couldn’t pick.”
The tumblers meshed, clicked, the door swung open, the apartment yawning darkly in front of the men.
“I still don’t understand why you’re so interested in this half-breed spic,” Honing said, pausing for a moment before entering.
“She lives—supposedly—with Dawn Bellever, our president’s steady pussy. I saw her a dozen times at the White House when I was covering that. One night I was going home and passed this apartment, saw her entering, thought it was strange. I waited for several hours. She never did come back out. I thought at first I might blackmail her into working with me… using her shack job as the carrot, but I never could catch a man with her. That’s why I called you to tail her and find out as much about her as possible. I’ll do anything to get that no-good son of a bitch out of the White House. And maybe this will help.”
“Well, let’s do ‘er,” Honing said.
Together they stepped into the dark apartment.
It was seven o’clock before Ben received the news of Jerre’s rescue. For a time he allowed himself the luxury of sitting quietly in his den, savoring the feelings of joy welling up from deep within him.
Ike had told him of her leaving with Matt, and Ben felt only a slight pang of regret at the news. He knew they had run their course months before and it was time for her to settle in with a good person who loved her and would take care of her and the twins.
The twins.
He would make arrangements for the twins to be sent to Jerre as soon as he knew they were settled in and safe.
Ike was returning to the Tri-States, having told Ben Richmond was a great big pain in the ass, as far as he was concerned. He was a farmer and a fighter; fuck politics.
Ben wished it was that easy for him. God! he wanted so desperately to chuck the whole business of big government right out the nearest window and get the hell back to Tri-States.
But he knew he couldn’t. Knew he was not going to leave any job half done.
He looked at his watch. Eight o’clock. He punched the intercom button.
“How many waiting, Susie?”
“An officeful, boss. Got four holding on the horn.”
“Any of them important?”
“No.”
“Tell ‘em I’ll call back. Who is first?”
“The surgeon general.” She paused for a second. “He’s kind of antsy, boss. Pale looking.” She whispered the last.
“Send him in, Susie.”
“You had your coffee, boss?”
“I could use another cup.”
“Coming up. Two cups.”
Doctor Harrison Lane looked rough. Like he hadn’t slept well in a week. They talked of small things until Susie had brought the coffee and left the room.
“What’s on your mind, Harrison?”
“Rats.”
“I beg your pardon?” Ben paused in lifting the cup to his lips.
“I said rats, Mr. President. Of the family Muridae, genus Rattus. The big rat; I’m guessing it’s the big brown rat.”
“The humpback?”
“If that’s what you wish to call them, yes. You find them in sewers and in garbage dumps and alleys. Ugly bastards. Two—two and a half feet long from nose to tail. Filthy sons of bitches.” He spat out the last and lit his pipe with shaking hands. Ben could see he was wound up tight as a dollar watch.
“But these are bigger rats. I haven’t seen them, Mr. President; only had reports of them. And I hope to God the reports are wrong. I can’t imagine a rat the size of a small poodle.”
“Are you serious?” Ben asked.
“One report said they spotted rats that stood maybe six to eight inches, weighing in at between five to eight pounds.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“The rats are only part of the problem, sir. It’s what they carry
“Fleas.”
“Yes, sir. One thing I have confirmed: they are carrying the plague.”
“What kind?” Ben felt a cold shiver race around the base of his spine. The nation had been lucky in that respect. Despite the millions and millions of dead bodies and animal carcasses that rotted under the summer sun of ‘88 immediately following the bombings, there had been no serious outbreaks of disease. No anthrax or airborne deadly viruses.
Yet.
Until now.
“We don’t know.”
“Again, I beg your pardon?”
“It’s… a type of black plague, sir. Bubonic… but it’s more. I wish to hell the CDC was bigger. When Logan relocated the people, the stupid bastard pulled out of Atlanta and left all that equipment to rot and rust.”
Ben smiled. “We have it.”
“Sir?”
“I ordered my personnel to go in and get it. It’s in Tri-States. Most of it safely hidden in concrete storage bunkers, deep underground.”
Harrison matched his smile. “Very good,” he said dryly. “Well, I have the microbiologists and epidemiologist in my department working on it. But… like I said, it’s more—much more. Hemorrhagic pneumonia.”
“Meaning every time they cough, they spread it.”
“Well… yes, you can put it that way.”
“And the blood they spit up—and the phlegm—is contagious?”
“God, yes!”
“I wrote a book about this sort of thing years ago,” Ben said. “In my book the hero wiped it out using… let me think. Yes. Tetracycline, streptomycin, and… I can’t recall the other drug.”
“Chloramphenicol,” the doctor finished it.
“Yes, that was it.”
“Tests indicate the… disease will respond to any of those drugs. But if the victim has already been exposed—already has the disease in his or her system, the success ratio is drastically reduced.”
“I see,” Ben said, shaking his head. “Suppose we initiated a crash program of inoculation—say, oh, tomorrow morning. How long would it take?”
“Weeks, if we’re lucky and have enough of the drugs. But… this is moving much too fast for any ordinary type of plague. Anyway we’re using streptomycin and chloramphenicol, together, in full therapeutic doses as the antibiotic. It isn’t stopping it if the victim has been exposed.”
“You saying that as if Jesus had suddenly lost the power to heal. What’s the matter with tetracycline?”
“Nothing. It’s a good antibiotic. It’s just that we wanted to really punch this disease out so we used the two I told you we were using. Should have stopped it cold. It didn’t. A hundred reported cases so far. Incredible!”
“In layman’s language, Harrison, please.”
The surgeon general rose from his seat to pace the carpet. He stopped, whirled around, and glared at Ben. “I’ll tell you what it means, Mr. President. It means we’ve got a stem-winding son of a bitch on our hands. If we had the drugs to pop everybody in America, and if we could somehow do it in a month—which is impossible. We’d still lose half the population—if we were lucky! One infected person can infect five hundred, a
