There were training manuals, rocket-propelled grenades, and enough ammunition to keep a regiment supplied in a weeklong firefight, but no fungus, no bark, and no plants that Karr could see. He went outside and hiked over to the pen where the animals had been kept.
“It all begins and ends at the cell wall,” said the scientist in a flourish. “Imagine if your house had no walls or roof. Water would rush in — swoosh, you’d be wiped out.”
“Actually, we’re guessing that it’s attacking the cell wall. It may be protein synthesis,” said another scientist.
“Give me the bottom line, guys,” said Karr.
“You need to find the fungus. It’s probably a cure for the disease. See, it’s very similar to penicillin, except that the bacteria is resistant to penicillin. Penicillin, remember, is also a fungus:’
Ordinarily that would have provoked some sort of joke from Karr, but he felt too tired and drained to even respond. He finished his search of the area without finding anything that looked remotely like a mushroom. He met Foster back at the hut, also empty-handed.
“Lot of old weapons,” said the Marine. “No trees, though. No plants. Hey, look who finally got here.”
He gestured toward Gidrey, who was walking into the camp with the Thai squad he’d been working with.
“Stinking jungle’s thicker than a whore’s bush,” said Gidrey.
“You’d know,” said Foster.
“You see any fig trees?” Karr asked.
“Figs?”
“Twisted ones,” the NSA op told him, explaining.
“Jeez, I don’t know.”
“All right,” said Karr. “Come on with me and let’s have a look. We got some time before we have to leave for the helicopter.”
52
Keys stood before him in a surgical gown.
“You’re going to be okay, Charlie.”
“Keys — what do I have?”
“Fever. Fever!” Keys started to swirl around in the room. Dean blinked and he was in the middle of a basketball court, heading down on the left side of the court as Kegan dribbled ahead. Dean knew the ball would be coming a second before it squirted in his direction; he grabbed it and leaped in the same motion, laying the ball into the hoop.
Except it didn’t quite go in. It rolled and rolled around the rim. Dean stayed suspended in midair, watching it as it twirled and twirled.
Then his stomach began to tighten.
He saw Keys as a doctor again, standing before him, sweating himself. They were in the jungle.
“I can’t cure all these people,” said Keys. “I can’t cure them. They call me the Good Doctor, but I can’t cure them.”
“Cure me,” said Charlie, grabbing for him. “Cure me.”
Keys took a step back. They were sitting in his living room in Athens. The dead man lay on the floor behind the desk. Every so often Dean would glance over, but Kegan seemed oblivious to the body.
“That was the best time of my life. And the worst. They killed her. Changed everything for me,” said Kegan.
“Yeah,” said Dean. He knew what Kegan was talking about — and yet the exact memory stayed out of reach, back in his brain.
“You’d be amazed. These people had none of the basic medicines, nothing. We trained some good nurses, though,” said Keys. “She was one of the best.”
“Who?” said Dean.
“They killed her, though.”
“Who?”
53
By the time Rubens returned to his office, Hadash had called over twice for an update. Rubens began to pick up the phone but was interrupted by a knock on his door. Only one person in the agency would knock on his door without an appointment — Rubens looked up and saw Vice Admiral Brown, the Director.
“George Hadash has been calling over,” said Brown. “He wants you to update the President.”
“Okay,” said Rubens.
“They want you to do it in person.”
“It’s not a particularly good time to do that,” said Rubens. He wanted to check with the medical people, find out about the autopsies, push the researchers to make the link between Dean’s captors and UKD — or the Russians, or anyone.
“It may be worse in a few hours,” said Brown. “Apparently the
Rubens wanted to ask Brown about the Secretary of State, but the admiral spent the entire flight on the phone. They landed on the White House lawn, hustling inside quickly and walking briskly to the President’s office in the West Wing, where President Jeffrey Marcke was meeting with Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare Debra Jodelin, Surgeon General Peirs Fenimore — and Secretary of State James Lincoln.
“Admiral, very good of you to come,” said Marcke, who leaned back in his chair. “Billy, I’m glad you’re here — you can answer some pressing questions for us.”
Stifling his displeasure at being called Billy in front of the others, Rubens took a seat. Westhoven from the FBI and a CDC official Rubens didn’t know very well came in almost on his heels; Westhoven kept his eyes pasted on the carpet, seemingly resigned to being made the scapegoat.
Rubens took over the meeting, very briefly laying out the most obvious points: they were trying to track down a doctor who had disappeared who was somehow involved in the manufacture — the possible manufacture — of a synthetic bacteria.
“A killer bug,” said Dr. Fenimore, the Surgeon General.
Jodelin winced.
“That may be an overstatement,” said Rubens.
“There are a hundred people sick with it in New York already,” said Fenimore.
“I took the liberty of updating myself on the way over,” said Rubens. “We have only twelve confirmed cases.”
“That’s not what the newspaper reporter told me,” said Fenimore.
“Well, with all due respect to the fourth estate…” Rubens began. He paused as the President laughed. “… they do tend to exaggerate. We are confident of those diagnoses. There are a large number of cases that have to be checked, but so far it’s been running less than one out of ten confirmed. And they can all be traced back to Athens, New York, and the doctor in question in some way.”
“I’ve spoken to Dr. Lester,” said Jodelin. “There are a cluster of cases in New York City with similar symptoms and no clear connection, and he is very concerned.”
“As am I,” said Rubens. “Nonetheless, I’m sure he told you the cases there have not been confirmed.”
“How long will that take?” asked the President.
“It’s ongoing. The hospitals are following a very strict protocol,” said Jodelin.
