Lisa kept near him.
As Devesh passed inside, Lisa spotted a familiar figure sprawled atop the room’s bed, draped in an isolation tent: a woman, tangled amid monitoring equipment, her blond hair a match to Lisa’s own, but shaved to a close crop. Lisa had spotted the gurney used to transport the patient here out in the main room. It was the woman taken off the helicopter. Her features were still obscured behind an oxygen mask that covered her full face.
Two men, the same orderlies who had transported the patient down here, were busy hooking and securing the final leads and lines that ran from the woman to a neighboring bank of monitoring equipment. Lisa took it all in with a glance: electroencephalogram, EKG, Doppler blood pressure monitor. A central lead was already established in the patient’s chest, tied to an intravenous drip. One of the men straightened the drape of a urinary catheter.
Devesh lifted a hand toward the figure in the bed. “May I introduce you to Dr. Susan Tunis, a marine biologist out of Queensland. One of the first people to encounter the toxic bloom of cyanobacteria. I believe you have met another of her party already. The John Doe down in the isolation ward.”
Lisa remained near the door, unsure why she was brought here, still numb from the casual slaughter of Dr. Lindholm. Even if this was one of the first victims, what did it have to do with her? She was not a virologist or a bacteriologist.
“I don’t understand,” she said, voicing her confusion. “There are more qualified medical doctors aboard the ship.”
Devesh waved away her statement. “We have technicians to meet her medical needs.”
Lisa frowned. “Then why—?”
“Dr. Cummings, you’re a proficient physiologist. With significant field research experience. But more importantly, you’ve proven yourself quite resourceful in your service to Sigma in the past. We’ll need that innovation and experience here. To assist me personally. With this one case.”
“Why her? Why this case?”
“Because this one patient holds the key to everything.” Devesh stared down at the woman. His eyes narrowed with worry for the first time. “She holds a riddle, one that extends deep into the historical past, back to Marco Polo and his trips through these waters…and into a larger mystery.”
“Marco Polo? The explorer?”
Devesh waved a hand. “Like I said earlier, that’s a trail we are leaving to another arm of the Guild.” He nodded to the woman. “All our efforts here, all the research aboard the ship, all the sacrifices to come, center on this one woman.”
“I still don’t understand. What’s so important about her?”
Devesh’s voice lowered. “This woman…she’s changing. Like the bacteria. The Judas Strain is growing inside her.”
“But I thought you said the virus doesn’t infect human cells.”
“It doesn’t. It’s doing something else inside her.”
“What?”
Devesh faced Lisa. “It’s incubating.”
INCUBATION
7
Of a Journey Untold
In less than a day Gray had escaped halfway around the globe — and landed in another world. From the minarets of Istanbul’s countless mosques, muezzin called the Islamic faithful to morning prayer. Sunrise cast long shadows and ignited the city’s domes and spires.
Gray had a bird’s-eye view from the rooftop restaurant where he waited with Seichan and Kowalski. No one looked happy. They were jet-lagged and on edge. But the dull ache behind Gray’s eyes had more to do with his own concerns. Pursued by assassins, hunted by his own government, he had begun to doubt the wisdom of this current partnership.
And now this strange summons to Istanbul. Why? It made no sense. But at least for once, Seichan seemed equally baffled. She dripped honey into a tiny gold-rimmed cup of Turkish tea. The tea waiter, dressed in a traditional blue-and-gold embroidered vest, offered a refill to Gray.
He shook his head, already buzzing from the caffeine.
The waiter did not bother with Kowalski. The large man — dressed in a pair of jeans, black T-shirt, and long gray duster — had skipped the tea and gone straight for dessert. He nursed a chilled glass of grape brandy, called
Gray had no appetite. He was too full of worries, too full of questions.
He stood up and crossed to the half wall that encircled the rooftop terrace, careful to stay in the shadow of a table’s umbrella. Istanbul, a terrorist hot spot, was under constant satellite surveillance. Gray wondered if his features were already being run through a facial-recognition program in some intelligence agency.
Was Sigma or the Guild closing in even now?
Seichan joined him, resting her teacup on the tiled ledge. She had slept the entire flight here, reclined in first class. With the rest, her color had much improved, though she still walked with a limp, favoring her wounded side. Aboard the jet, she had changed into a looser outfit, donning khaki pants and a billowing midnight-blue blouse, but she’d kept her black Versace motorcycle boots.
“Why do you think Monsignor Verona called us all the way here?” she asked. “To Istanbul.”
Turning, Gray leaned a hip on the wall. “What? So we’re talking now?”
Her eyes rolled ever so slightly, exasperated. Since they had left the doctor’s office back in Georgetown, Seichan had refused any further explanations. Not that they’d had much time. On the run, Seichan had stopped only long enough to make one call. To the Vatican. Gray had listened in on the conversation. It seemed Vigor had been expecting her call and was not at all surprised to find Gray with her.
“Word has spread,” the monsignor had explained. “Interpol, Europol, everyone is searching for you. I assume it was you, Seichan, who left me that little message in the Tower of Winds.”
“You found the inscription.”
“I did.”
“You recognized the writing.”
“Of course.”
Seichan had sounded relieved. “Then we don’t have much time. Many lives are in jeopardy. If you could gather your resources, figure out what—”
“I know what the inscription means, Seichan,” Vigor had scolded, cutting her off. “And I know what it implies. If you want to know more, you’ll both meet me at Hotel Ararat in Istanbul. I’ll be there seven in the morning. At the rooftop restaurant.”
After the call, Seichan had hurriedly arranged false papers and coordinated their transportation. She had assured him the Guild knew nothing of her contacts. “Just favors owed,” she had explained.
Seichan twisted with a wince to face him, drawing him back to the present. Her elbow bumped her cup of
