“Different type, related disease,” said the voice. “Both types of rat-bite fever.”
“Why?” asked Dean, stalling.
“You can identify the type of disease by doing a blood culture,” said the Art Room expert.
“Tell me difference.”
“To me or the rat?”
“Moniliformis is a gram-negative rod; spirillum is a spiral,” said the voice.
“How?” asked Goatee.
“They’re no more than grad students, if that,” said Rockman. “They’re asking real simple questions, but they’re looking for answers they’ve memorized. We think Hercules is the real expert, but these guys are working for the muscle people. They don’t really understand what you’re saying. Hercules is the one you have to worry about.”
Dean had reached the same conclusion about the men’s level of knowledge, but he didn’t agree that he couldn’t worry about them. On the contrary.
“I don’t know how to tell you more clearly than that,” he said to Goatee.
Hercules returned with Dean’s water. Dean took it, nodding in gratitude.
“How can you tell the difference?” asked Goatee again.
“You can use white blood count numbers to diagnose the disease in a patient,” said the expert in Dean’s head, guessing what the man had been told was the answer.
But Dean played it beyond the crib sheet.
“Between bacteria that look like springs all wound up and others that look like pencils or little rods?” he said with exasperation. He looked at Hercules. “You know what I’m trying to say, right? They’re both gram-negative bacteria. One looks like — a string of beads, maybe. The other—” He spun his finger as if demonstrating.
“The relationship between
“None,” said the expert.
Dean knew instinctively that wasn’t the right answer, even if the textbooks might declare it to be. He held Hercules’ gaze. “If I could answer that as precisely as Dr. Kegan,” said Dean, “then I’d be the genius and he’d be the assistant. But even to know that’s a valid question means you’re a step ahead.”
Hercules smiled and pulled over one of the chairs. “No, he’s far ahead.”
“Penicillin resistance,” said the voice in Dean’s head. “Oh, wow — now I see what they’ve done.”
“Let’s get on with it,” said the man with the goatee.
“Let’s,” said the clean-shaven man. “You will take us to the antidote now, Dr. Dean, or we will kill you.”
“I’m not a doctor,” said Dean as the man with the goatee grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him out of the seat.
Lia watched the Fokker feed on the handheld while the guards who had trailed Dean and Hercules to the trailer settled into their posts below the steps, then ran around the side of the building to the door at the front. It was locked, and though the lock itself was easily picked, she wasted time checking for an alarm system — none — before she could get inside. By then, Telach was already telling her to hide because Hercules and Dean were coming in at the far end.
Hiding was not quite an easy matter — the door nearest the entrance was locked and equipped with an alarm system, as was the second. As the outside door at the end of the hallway opened, Lia threw herself down to the floor. This time, she had her silencer-equipped Mac 11 ready.
“In here, first,” said Hercules in English at the far end of the hall. “Let’s take care of nature.”
Lia caught a glimpse of Dean as he followed the Greek into a room at the left at the far end of the hallway.
“Two more outside — they’re coming,” said Telach.
“The alarm system, have you compromised it yet or what?”
“It’s not hooked into a computer. Use your stomper.”
The “stomper” was a glorified alarm buster that could figure out the circuit configuration and disable it, usually — though not always — without detection. It was definitely only a second choice, but there was no alternative now. Lia pulled the cigarette box-sized device from the flap on her jacket and pulled off the end, exposing a magnetic coupler. She got up, slapped it on the door where the sensor was, and pushed in as the indicator bar flashed.
“In,” she said, sliding the door closed as gently as she could. Footsteps approached; neither of the two men spoke.
She swung up the machine pistol, ready to fire.
Neither man stopped. She heard the door at the front of the building open.
“Where’s Dean?” she hissed.
“He’s with Hercules at the other end of the building. There’s a bathroom there.”
“I’m getting him.”
“No, Lia,” said Rubens firmly.
“Yes. You don’t have an antidote. They’ll kill him.”
“We need to get as much information as we can,” said Rubens. “Mr. Dean is not our highest priority.”
“Bull.”
“We want you to look in the trailers and see if there are samples you can remove. We’ve located what looks as if it’s an incubator in one of them.”
“They’re coming,” said Rockman.
Rubens stood holding Chaucer’s headset to his ear. He looked down at the scientist, then covered the mouthpiece so his voice couldn’t be heard over the circuit.
“What is the antidote?”
“Well, assuming they’re talking about a cure, ordinarily it’s penicillin. Rat-bite fever responds pretty well. But they’ve found some way to make it resistant, either by breeding or, I think, recombinant DNA that combines elements from a different bacteria. That’s what the business of streptococcus was all about. Streptococcus is the same organism that causes, among other things, strep throat.”
“Kegan worked with that?”
“Twenty years ago or more. But the important thing is that we understand what he’s doing now — he designed the bacteria. That’s incredible. Even a designer virus—”
“So it could be amazingly contagious,” said Rubens, cutting him off.
“Or not. It depends on what the characteristics are. We don’t know what they might have done. We really need to examine the organism. The people who have already been infected — they’re gold mines.”
“Is it likely it’s in the lab?” asked Rubens.
“I don’t know,” said Chaucer. His face clouded suddenly. “What if there is no cure?” he added, the situation finally dawning on him. “What if this can’t be stopped?”
“Talk to Johnny Bib up in Kegan’s house,” said Rubens. He couldn’t encourage pessimism. “Tell him what you’ve found. Let him babble on until he comes up with something.”
Chaucer gave him a blank look.
“He’s quite crazy,” said Rubens. “But he’s a genius at finding connections. And there’s some sort of connection here between Thailand, these germs, and the odd books he’s looking at.”
“Okay,” said Chaucer, clearly not convinced.
“Stay where you are, Lia,” Rubens said, taking his hand from the mike. “Mr. Dean will be safe, I assure you.”
“Fuck yourself.”
Rubens sighed. “Such language from a professional.”
“Fuck yourself twice.”
