first human hosts probably were bitten by infected animals or ate their meat.”
“Here’s a closer look. You will see the variety of shapes: some long and stringy and some circular.” She traced an oval on the screen with her laser pointer.
“Looks like a Cheerio,” somebody said. Chuckles skittered through the darkened room.
None of the SSI men realized that they had been set up. The dull clinical speech had lulled them into indifference. Here came the right hook, fast and hard.
She clicked the button again. Even some macho men gasped audibly.
“This is a patient in the terminal phase of Ebola. As you’ll note from the red spots, he’s bleeding through his skin. He died two days after this was taken.”
“And this is what he looked like when we opened him up.” CPS was pleased: she was controlling her voice nicely. “You will note the partial liquification of the lungs and major organs.” She traced the affected areas with her laser. “This patient died coughing up lung tissue and brackish, dark blood. He also hemorrhaged from other orifices.” She allowed that image to sink in.
The clinician turned to face her audience. Gauging the expression on most of the faces, she had made her point.
“As you may know, Marburg and can Ebola affect the brain, so…”
A high male voice exclaimed “Holy Christ!”
“When we removed the brain we found these areas noticeably degraded.” She leaned close, as if admiring the wretched specimen. “In the terminal phase, portions of the prefrontal cortex that control personality are often destroyed or damaged, hence the erratic mood swings often observed.”
Dr. Padgett-Smith turned back toward her audience. “Now, Marburg is not as virulent as Ebola but I think you should know the worst. We are now partners, gentlemen. I’ll do as you say in the field, but it would behoove you to defer to me in other areas.”
In the front row, Bosco swallowed hard. “Ye… yes, ma’am!”
She nodded decisively, her light brown hair bobbing around her ears. Then, nailing the lid on the male egos, she said, “Please excuse me, gentlemen. I’m meeting my husband for dinner.”
On the way out, the Briton heard someone ask, “My god! How can she eat after
During the salad course, Charles Padgett-Smith grinned at his wife. “It sounds as if you laid it on a bit thick, Carolyn.”
CPS sipped her champagne. “I intended to. I’ve only a day or so to bond with these men. They need to know that I’m all business, and they won’t catch me in a game of slap and tickle. They may not like me, but by God they’ll respect me.”
He slipped his left hand across the linen tablecloth and touched hers. “I rather suspect that they respect
“They seem a competent bunch — what Tony would call a good mob. And honestly, Charles, I wouldn’t be going if I felt otherwise. You know Phillip Catterly: I accept his judgment implicitly, and…”
“And you always liked adventure.”
She squeezed his hand. “Charles, if anything goes…”
“It’s quite all right, darling. Everything is set.” The investment broker in him had ensured that Charles Padgett-Smith had read Carolyn’s SSI contract forwards and backwards. The insurance provisions were more than ample.
Her violet eyes were moistening around the edges. “Oh, Charles. I miss you already.”
Loading Padgett-Smith’s equipment took little time. But as some of the operators could have imagined, selecting her Pakistani wardrobe took longer.
Padgett-Smith accepted the help offered by some of the SSI hardies. Her field kit was more than she could easily handle, especially with two large cases. But Steve Lee and one of his White Team cronies one-handed the two large items without visible exertion. Padgett-Smith did not remember the other man’s name, but she would not forget his physique. His friends called Ken Delmore “Mr. Clean” for his resemblance to the ad character: he was huge and completely bald with twenty-inch biceps. Padgett-Smith suspected he could bench-press a Yugo without visible exertion.
Leopole appeared at the doorway. “All set, Doctor?”
She turned at the sound of his voice. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Leopole. This is all I need, other than my personal items.”
“What’s in the cases, ma’am?”
“Oh, field test kits. Two microscopes, test tubes, the like…”
“Two microscopes?”
She shrugged her round shoulders. “Better too much than too little, don’t you think?”
Leopole suppressed a smirk. “I would agree with you if we were talking about ammo. But all this stuff has to be man-portable, you know. We may not have pack animals, let alone vehicles in some areas.”
CPS folded her arms and speared the American with her violet eyes. “Tell me… Frank. If you broke your only microscope in the wilds of Baluchistan, where would you get another?”
Leopole’s gunmetal blue eyes lowered momentarily. “Point well taken.” Painfully aware that he had been outscored, he sought to regain the initiative. “Now then, let’s see about your mountain clothes.”
In an adjoining room, Leopole sifted through a pile of miscellaneous clothing of approximate Afghan-Pakistan origin. All items were earth toned; most showed some evidence of previous use. He held up a shapeless shirt and not-so-matching vest. Padgett-Smith took the garments and held them against herself. She grinned. “The height of Pakistani fashion, no doubt.”
Leopole looked her up and down in a manner devoid of appreciation. “The fit’s okay, I guess. Loose is better, since it doesn’t show your… ah, outline.” CPS would have sworn that the retired marine blushed. Privately, Leopole guessed her at a 34B.
Leopole recovered quickly, turning to Mohammed. “Omar, what do you think?”
SSI’s training officer stood with one arm folded, one hand beneath his bearded chin. “The clothes aren’t the problem, especially with the long shirt and vest. The trouble is her face.” Abruptly he looked at his colleague. “Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean to imply…”
“I know what you mean,” the immunologist interjected. “I can’t very well grow a beard, and a false one would appear… false.”
“There is one other option,” Leopole offered.
Mohammed looked back at him. “Yes?”
“Women’s clothes?”
The Iranian turned his head slightly. “Well, certainly. But then we have to ask ourselves what the locals will think, seeing a party of armed men with one woman. They’re bound to be curious.”
Padgett-Smith began to resent the conversation. The marine and the Muslim — products of two ultra- masculine cultures — were discussing her as if she weren’t there. Or as if she were a mannequin. However, she reminded herself that much of her education had been funded in exactly that role: a living, breathing, walking, non- talking doll. Fashion runways; poofter photographers… and the other kind.
Leopole held up his hands. “Then I’m Winchester.”
Padgett-Smith cocked her head. “You’re
Mohammed laughed aloud. “Military shorthand, Doctor. It’s a radio call that means, ‘I am out of ammunition.’”
CPS rolled her eyes. Finally she realized she still held the grayish, tannish garments and let them drop on the table.
