animals” — but what if they’re using it on us, eh?’
‘Then why poison horses?’
‘Who knows how far this Delmar will go. I don’t understand why, why… a doctor would do such a thing.’
Wolff gazed at him for a few seconds. ‘Men like us have to, well, prove we belong somewhere.’
Thwaites looked at him quizzically. ‘Don’t… don’t… follow…’
‘A bad joke, that’s all.’
‘You know there have to be laws, Wolff,’ he muttered, then louder, ‘There… there have to be limits — without them there’s no civilisation.’
31. Breaking the Seal
THERE WERE TELEPHONE calls, telegrams, and on the second day Thwaites caught the train to Washington, but he was back in the hotel at dusk. ‘We’re to sit tight while they put the pieces together.’ Time had meant little to Wolff in a Turkish cell with only dreams and memories to measure the dark hours between interrogations. A wristwatch and a square of leaden sky made for harder time, the hours trickling like grains of sand through a glass. Too bored and restless to read, he sat on his bed wrapped in a blanket, fighting the future, his past, civilised society and his feelings for Laura. After a few drinks he recalled her large blue-green eyes gazing up at him with a smile; a few more and he wanted to kick down the door.
‘Are you sick?’ Thwaites enquired warily.
‘Aren’t you? Delmar may be halfway across the Atlantic.’
‘Ah. I see.’ Thwaites couldn’t disguise his relief. ‘Don’t worry — Masek’s people say there’s nothing unusual. Hinsch is still aboard his ship, Hilken in his Hansa Haus. The man at the remount depot may have kept his mouth shut.’
Wolff didn’t think so.
‘This anthrax — it’s very nasty,’ said Thwaites uncomfortably. ‘You know, Sir William thinks you should see someone.’
‘Oh?’ He muttered impatiently. ‘It isn’t necessary, I feel fine.’ It was a lie; he felt terrible — hungover and out of sorts.
‘Don’t be an ass,’ Thwaites chided. ‘It’s for your own good — and mine.’
The Johns Hopkins Hospital was a five-minute cab ride, its tissue culture laboratory on the third floor of a red-brick neo-Gothic block that resembled the station hotels of the last century.
‘I’ve told Sir William I want to keep you a while,’ Dr Reid said, breezing into his office in a spotless white coat; ‘a few tests, a skin and a blood culture.’ He bent over his desk, distracted for a moment by some paperwork. He was a tall man with boyish features and a shock of ginger hair he must have spent most of fifty years trying to tame. ‘Blood,’ he muttered in his Scots American brogue; ‘blood,’ and lifting his gaze to Wolff at last, ‘How are you feeling? Any shortness of breath, sneezing, light-headedness? Fever? Any itching or blisters?’
No aches and pains that couldn’t be placed at the door of a longshoreman with fists the size of dinner plates, Wolff assured him.
‘We’ll see. Put this on, would you,’ and he handed Wolff a surgical mask. ‘Just a precaution, and please — don’t touch anything.’
As old as man, he explained as he guided Wolff along the corridor to the tissue laboratory.
His laboratory was larger and better equipped than most, perhaps; brighter than some, with arched windows facing south, and emptier than many at midday, with just a single research student bubbling a flask at a bench.
‘This won’t take long,’ Reid declared, summoning his assistant with a wave. ‘Cutaneous infection from a diseased animal is the most common cause — the tiniest unseen abrasion on your skin is enough, or by touching eyes, nose or mouth.’ He was busying himself with a microscope and some slides. ‘Here, this is a gram stain — it’s the rod-shaped bacilli between the cells.’ Wolff bent over the eyepiece. The bacilli looked unnervingly like tiny jointed worms and he said so. ‘If you’ve spoken to Sir William, you’ll know…’
Reid had closed his eyes and was shaking his head irritably. ‘I live here now and whatever dirty little war is being fought behind the backs of the authorities…’ He sighed heavily. ‘Yes, it can be used as a weapon. It spreads quickly — horses brushing against each other. If you’re asking me about people…’ he paused, his gaze fixed on the microscope slide. ‘It’s a zoonosis. Human-to-human transmission is rare. The reservoir for the infection is the animal.’
For a few strained seconds they stood in silence while the laboratory assistant laid syringes and dishes on a surgical trolley. Reid reached for some rubber gloves. ‘You can thank the Germans for this test,’ he said with a sardonic smile.
He took some mucus from Wolff’s nose, some blood from his arm; he examined his mouth for ulcers and his skin for blistering, tapped his chest and prodded for signs of soreness. ‘I’m fine,’ Wolff repeated, hoping to God it was true.
‘Yes, you’re probably free from infection,’ Reid conceded a little reluctantly. ‘Too early to be sure. Did you bring some things?’
But Wolff refused to stay. ‘I’ll let you know if I find any blisters.’
‘Too late by then,’ the doctor observed savagely. ‘Want to know how you die?’
‘No. You can spare me the details.’
They parted without a handshake even though Reid was wearing his gloves. But as Wolff was approaching the end of the corridor he came bounding like a camel in pursuit, his white coat flapping about him. ‘Do you read German?’ He thrust some medical papers and a book into Wolff’s arms. ‘Put them in the mail when you’ve finished, if you please.’
Wolff was turning away again when Reid grabbed his arm. ‘Just a minute.’ He waited for three nurses to rustle by, then said, ‘Since Wiseman came to see me I’ve given this…’ he hesitated, searching for a suitable corridor euphemism, ‘…problem. I’ve given this problem some thought, and it occurs to me the clever thing about
‘I’m sorry, Doctor, I don’t…’
‘Look, it’s in those papers,’ he reached a finger across to them. ‘Just a possibility — I hope I’m wrong. I’m sure I’m wrong,’ and with a curt nod he walked away.
The summons to the British Embassy in Washington was delivered by telegram the following morning. Thwaites wanted to drive. They arrived in the middle of a downpour and were escorted without ceremony up the ornate oak stairs to a salon on the first landing.
‘You must be frustrated,’ said Wiseman, advancing across the silk carpet to greet them. ‘It’s taken an age.’ They shook hands and he drew them into the circle of chairs about the fireplace. The room was furnished with pretentious gilt pieces of a sort favoured by diplomats of all nations. The King-Emperor hung above the black marble chimneypiece and on the longest wall a large canvas of British soldiers engaged in another battle.
‘Congratulations the order of the day again,’ said Gaunt from his place at the hearth.
‘Plaudits from everyone,’ agreed Wiseman, squeezing his hips into a fragile-looking fauteuil. ‘Agent W — the toast of Whitehall.’
‘How gratifying,’ Wolff replied.
‘Must be.’ Wiseman smiled weakly. ‘So, let’s begin. We’ve tested the poison, spoken to C, the Admiralty, the War Office, the British Army chaps here, and we’ve enough information to be sure the Germans are trying to infect
