“We’re just in the process now of preparing the tests for the organisms,” said Lester. “Rat-bite fever is very rare in the U.S.”
“If you haven’t done tests, how do you know that’s what you’re looking at?” asked Marshall.
“We’ve diagnosed it clinically,” said Lester.
“But you just said it could be confused with half a dozen things.”
Lester glanced at Rubens in exasperation.
A good sign, thought Rubens. He could count on the doctor after all.
“There are indications unrelated to the disease itself,” said Rubens. “Intelligence indications.”
“What sort of indications?” asked Marshall.
“Until we’re really sure, I’d prefer not to get into methodology. We are assisting in the investigation, for reasons that the FBI can get into.”
Westhoven’s face blanched from sheen to high-gloss white. He began explaining the link with Kegan and briefly — very, very briefly — gave the scientist’s background. A thorough review of his current work was ongoing, but at the moment there appeared no connection with germ warfare of any kind, nor was there an apparent link with rat-bite fever.
“So, what’s the link then?” asked Marshall.
“None that we can ascertain.”
“Well, the house,” said Lester.
“The dead man there?” asked Marshall.
“As I intimated, rat-bite fever would not be something commonly looked for,” said Dr. Lester. “The dead man will have to be examined for that. He was possibly a carrier.”
“What was his contract work for the government?” asked Marshall.
“I don’t have the exact contracts in front of me,” said Westhoven. “But suffice it to be said that these bacteria were not involved.”
“But he could have constructed them?”
“Well…”
“Could he have, Dr. Lester?”
“Not really my area,” said Lester, demurring.
“I believe you might mean propagated them,” said Rubens, stepping in. “If he did, there’s no indication in any of the records anyone has found at any of his work areas.”
“Which you’ve accessed?”
She meant that as a jibe, Rubens realized, but he ignored her, continuing on. Kegan’s work with bacteria would permit him an opportunity for many things; the FBI tests of his labs would have to reveal whatever they could reveal.
“At this stage, the important thing to do is gather information,” added Lester. “We don’t really want to rule anything out. Because, frankly, the symptoms are very confusing. It’s very open-ended, and if it weren’t for the fact that Dr. Kegan was involved, we might not even be thinking in this direction at all.”
“Which direction, exactly?” asked Marshall. “Candidly, Doctor, I feel as if I’ve come in on the middle of a conversation. I don’t entirely understand what’s going on.”
“If the disease was caused by an engineered organism, which I emphasize we have no evidence of,” said Lester, “then we’ll need to study it very intensely. Is it penicillin-resistant?”
“Is it?”
“We don’t know yet. Patient Two hasn’t responded to the first course of treatment. Or the second.”
Lester backed up and once more went through the basic situation, this time studiously using simple terms. Was Marshall really a notch slower than the rest, Rubens wondered, or was it an act to disarm the others?
What was she really after?
Westhoven had tamed his belligerence considerably in the few hours since the video conference. He didn’t mention his opinion of what Lester called a soft quarantine — extensive tests of everyone who had been at Kegan’s house. Instead, Westhoven concentrated on the investigations the Bureau had done. Thus far, there was no indication that Kegan had done any work on bacteria except for those involved in the pollution projects — but those were, indeed, engineered.
Perhaps, Westhoven hinted, something had morphed out of control. Perhaps it simply appeared to be rat-bite fever.
“But how would that account for the dead man in the house?” asked Marshall.
Westhoven simply shrugged. It wouldn’t.
Marshall headed Rubens off at the door, reminding him that they had agreed to discuss the biometric IDs this evening. Trapped, Rubens offered dinner; he was hungry, he decided, so he might as well eat. She suggested Clancy’s, a fancy restaurant considered the latest trend on the Potomac. Under other circumstances, Rubens would have suggested a much quieter place, but he realized that might send the wrong message — here at least people would surely see them and it would be clear that he had nothing to hide.
The food turned out be surprisingly good, if slightly pretentious, even by D.C. standards. Rubens ordered the most basic selection on the menu: lamb chops with foie gras and apple-pear chutney.
“Lovely man, Dr. Lester,” said Marshall as they finished dinner.
“Oh yes,” said Rubens.
“Do you work with CDC often?” Marshall asked.
“We work with whom we work.” He paused, emphasizing the mystery. “But I would say rarely.”
“Rarely?”
“We do adhere to our charter.”
“Your operations are offshore.”
Actually, he had meant that the NSA’s primary concerns had little to do with the disease. Nor did the NSA charter specifically dictate that it conduct overseas operations only, a common misperception. But Rubens smiled in a way that he knew might suggest agreement yet leave things open-ended.
“I don’t suppose we should really talk about business,” she said.
“What would you like to talk about?”
“Oh, art. Are you really related to Peter Rubens, the Flemish painter?”
“Yes,” he said.
This wasn’t a secret, surely, but he was nonetheless surprised that Sandra Marshall — a California ladder climber — knew not only that his famous seventeenth-century ancestor was a great painter but that he had been a diplomat and almost certainly a spymaster as well. And Rubens was further surprised when she turned the conversation to the Matisse exhibit due at the Metropolitan in New York next month, discussing the early modem painter quite knowledgeably.
And then, before he could even ask how she had come by all this knowledge — an art history major in her undergrad years was his guess — she abruptly brought the conversation back on point.
“Have you thought of the Internet proposal?” she asked after the waiter had left them with a pot of coffee.
“Candidly, no,” said Rubens.
Marshall’s face flickered with disappointment.
“You really think it would be a good idea? Everyone gazing at a computer and embedding their ID in every keystroke?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.
“You think we should use iris scans then?” she said.
“No, I was just throwing it out as a metaphor.”
“The President was inclined toward something similar.”
“Interesting. And George?”
He had debated how exactly to refer to the National Security Advisor. Rarely did he in fact call Hadash “George,” even to his face, and it took a supreme effort to make it seem natural.
“George seems to favor a thumb monitor that would work via the keyboard,” she said. “The specifics really are the realm of the experts. That’s why we need a study. You still oppose it?”
“Formally, we have no opinion.”
