watch more die tomorrow, and that stinks. But thousands is better than millions, isn't it? I think this epidemic is going to burn out.' He didn't add that it was somewhat easier for him. Cathy was an eye cutter. She wasn't used to dealing with death. He was infectious diseases, and he was used to it. Easier? Was that the word? 'We'll know in a couple of days from statistical analysis of the cases.'
The President nodded silently. Van Damm spoke for him: 'What's the count going to be?'
'Less than ten thousand, according to the computer models at Reed and Detrick. Sir, I am not being cavalier about this. I'm saying that ten thousand is better than ten million.'
'One death is a tragedy, and a million is a statistic,' Ryan said finally.
'Yes, sir. I know that one.' The good news didn't make Alexandre all that happy. But how else to tell people that a disaster was better than a catastrophe?
'Iosef Vissarionovich Stalin,' SWORDSMAN told them. 'He did have a way with words.'
'You know who did it,' Alex observed.
'What makes you say that?' Jack asked.
'You didn't react normally to what I told you, Mr. President.'
'Doctor, I haven't done much of anything normally over the past few months. What does this mean about the no-travel order?'
'It means we leave it in place for at least another week. Our prediction is not carved in stone. The incubation period for the disease is somewhat variable. You don't send the fire trucks home as soon as the last flame disappears. You sit there and watch for another possible flare-up. That will happen here, too. What's worked to this point is that people are frightened to death. Because of that, personal interactions are minimized, and that's how you stop one of these things. We keep 'em that way. The new cases will be very circumscribed. We attack those like we did with smallpox. Identify the cases, test everyone with whom they've had contact, isolate the ones with antibodies, and see how they do. It's working, okay? Whoever did this miscalculated. The disease isn't anywhere near as contagious as they thought—or maybe the whole thing was just a psychological exercise. That's what bio- war is. The great plagues of the past really happened because people didn't know how diseases spread. They didn't know about microbes and fleas and contaminated water. We do. Everybody does, you learn it in health class in school. Hell, that's why we haven't had any medics infected. We've had lots of practice dealing with AIDS and hepatitis. The same precautions that work with those also work with this.'
'How do we keep it from happening again?' van Damm asked.
'I told you that already. Funding. Basic research on the genetic side, and more focused work on the diseases we know about. There's no particular reason why we can't develop safe vaccines for Ebola and a lot of others.'
'AIDS?' Ryan asked.
'That's a toughie. That virus is an agile little bastard. No attempt for a vaccine has even come close yet. No, on that side, basic genetic research to determine how the biologic mechanism works, and from that to get the immune system to recognize it and kill it—some sort of vaccine; that's what a vaccine is. But how to make it work, well, we haven't figured that one yet. We'd better. In twenty years, we might have to write Africa off. Hey,' the Creole said, 'I got kin over there, y'know?
'That's one way to keep it from happening again. You, Mr. President, are already working on the other way. Who was it?'
He didn't have to tell anybody how secret it was: 'Iran. The Ayatollah Mahmoud Haji Daryaei and his merry men.'
Alexandre reverted to officer in the United States Army: 'Sir, you can kill all of them you want, as far as I'm concerned.'
IT WAS INTERESTING to see Mehrabad International Airport in daylight. Clark had never experienced Iran as a friendly country. Supposedly, before the fall of the Shah, the people had been friendly enough, but he hadn't made the trip soon enough for that. He'd come in covertly in 1979 and again in 1980, first to develop information for, and then to participate in, the attempt to rescue the hostages. There were no words to describe what it was like to be in a country in a revolutionary condition. His time on the ground in the Soviet Union had been far more comfortable. Enemy or not, Russia had always been a civilized country with lots of rules and citizens who broke them. But Iran had ignited like a dry forest in a lightning storm. 'Death to America' had been a chant on everyone's lips, and that, he remembered, was about as scary as things got when you were in the middle of the mob singing i that song. One little mistake, just contacting an agent who'd been turned, would have been his death, rather a frightening thought to a man with young children, spook or no spook. Locally they shot some criminals, but spies they mostly hanged. It seemed a gratuitously cruel way to take a man's life.
Some things had changed in the intervening years. Some had not. There was still a suspicion of foreigners here at the customs post. The clerk was backed up by armed men, and their job was to prevent the entry of people like him. For the new UIR, as for the previous country, every new face was a potential spy.
'Klerk,' he said, handing over his passport, 'Ivan Sergeyevich.' What the hell, the Russian cover identity had worked before, and he already had it memorized. Better yet, his Russian was letter-perfect. He'd passed as a Soviet citizen before a uniformed official more than once.
'Chekov, Yevgeniy Pavlovich,' Chavez told the next clerk over.
They were, again, news correspondents. Rules prohibited CIA officers from covering themselves as American reporters, but that didn't apply to the foreign media.
'The purpose of your visit?' the first clerk asked.
'To learn about your new country,' Ivan Sergeyevich replied. 'It must be very exciting for everyone.' For their work in Japan, they'd brought camera gear, and a useful little gadget that looked like, and indeed was, a bright light. Not this time.
'He and I are together,' Yevgeniy Pavlovich told his clerk.
The passports were brand-new, though one could not have told it from casual inspection. It was one of the few things Clark and Chavez didn't have to worry about. R VS tradecraft was every bit as good as the former KGB's had been. They made some of the best fake documents in the world. The pages were covered with stamps, many overlapping, and were creased and dog-eared from years of apparent use. An inspector grabbed their bags and opened them. He found clothing, clearly much used, two books, which he flipped through to see if they were pornographic, two cameras of medium quality, their black enamel well-chipped but the lenses new. Each had a carry-on bag with note pads and mini-tape recorders. The inspectors took their time, even after the clerks had done their work, finally passing their country's visitors through with a palpable reluctance.
'Spasiba,' John said pleasantly, getting his bags and moving off. Over the years, he'd learned not to conceal his relief completely. Normal travelers were intimidated. He had to be, too, lest he stand apart from them. The two CIA officers went outside to catch a cab, standing together in line silently as the rank of taxis ate up the new arrivals. When they were two back, Chavez dropped his travel bag, and the contents spilled out. He and Clark let two people jump ahead of them in line while he repacked the bag. That almost certainly guaranteed a random cab, unless they were all being driven by spooks.
The trick was to look normal in all respects. Not too stupid. Never too smart. To get disoriented and ask for directions, but not too often. To stay in cheap hotels. And in their particular case, to pray that none of the people who'd seen them during their brief visit to this city crossed their path. The mission was supposed to be a simple one. That was usually the idea. You rarely sent intelligence officers out on complex missions—they'd have the good sense to refuse. The simple ones were hairy enough once you got out there.
'IT'S CALLED TASK Group COMEDY,' Robby told him. 'They got their doorbell rung this morning.' The J-3 explained on for a few minutes.
'Playing rough?' the President asked.
'Evidently, they gave the P-3 a real air show. I've done that myself a few times, back in my young-and-foolish days. They want us to know they're there, and they're not intimidated. The group commander is Greg Kemper. I don't know him, but his rep's pretty good. CINCLANT likes him. He's asking for a ROE change.'
'Not yet. Later today.'
'Okay. I would not expect a night attack, but remember dawn there is midnight here, sir.'
'Arnie, what's the book on the P.M.?'
'She and Ambassador Williams don't exchange Christmas presents,' the chief of staff replied. 'You met her in the East Room a while back.'
'Warning her off risks having her call Daryaei,' Ben Goodley reminded them all. 'If you confront her, she'll
