Fuck!
The phone rang.
“What is it?” An infuriated Thorncroft answered. Because of the sheer size of his business, he couldn’t afford to be out of communication, no matter how much it interfered with his private life.
He hadn’t bothered to look at the phone’s menu when he’d picked it up, but when he heard Calgleef’s voice on the other end, he—unfortunately—had to take the call.
“What is it, what’s happened?” He ushered his companion from the tub with a wave of his hand.
“Mr. Thorncroft, three more people have just been rescued from the rooftop of the hospital by a TV news helicopter and—”
“A WHAT?” Thorncroft jumped, well, staggered to his feet. Angered by the interruption to his nightly pleasures then being told three more had escaped from the hospital in the United States; he didn’t notice his young lover shaking his head as he stared back from the master bedroom. Thorncroft was not a pretty sight full clothed and close to horrid when naked.
The billionaire ignored him, his libido now gone. There were other more urgent matters that required his attention.
“It appears the TV chopper was filming the hospital for a news story on the legionnaires’ breakout when they spotted the three on the roof.”
“Do they know anything? Could they say something to that might jeopardize our contract?” True to form, Thorncroft’s only concern was for his investment.
“Unfortunately, they do, sir. They’re in a position to do some real harm. One of the three was one of my officers, Grace Delaney. She was the one in charge of the vaccination program at the hospital and had become rather suspicious and asked some awkward questions and also suspected Dr. Moya of following a hidden agenda. And I have to inform you, Mr. Thorncroft…” there was a pause as Calgleef took a deep breath.
“I believed my association with Moya was being probed by the NSA, which could mean your alliance with him is under scrutiny as well, and in order to divert any attention I had to plant the seed of possibility that he may have been an unknowing host of the Baltic flu and responsible for the sudden outbreak.” Calgleef then heard a long, heavy sigh on the other end of the phone.
“I assume then,” Thorncroft began thoughtfully, “that your NSA have Moya in custody?”
“No, sir, not that I’m aware of, but I’m sure they know his whereabouts. It will only be a matter of time and—”
“We can’t take any chances, and… I assume this call isn’t being monitored?”
“No, Mr. Thorncroft, I took the liberty of using one of our secure satellite phones.”
“Good. Now understand this because you have to make this happen. We can’t afford the possibility that either this girl of yours or Moya might spill the beans as it were.” Thorncroft, as a very proper user of the English language—most of the time—liked his old phrases. “You have to prevent that possibility from arising.”
“But how? I mean—”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way, Calgleef, and remember, with Moya no longer having a need for his bonus, I’ll have to pass it on to someone else—you follow?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, indeed.”
“Good, now if you’ll excuse me,” Thorncroft glanced into the bedroom, “I have some unfinished business to take care of.”
“Yes Sir, I under—” Thorncroft ended the conversation before Calgleef finished.
Thorncroft muttered under his breath about his American partners not being able to follow up on instructions; maybe it was just Calgleef overreacting. This thought reinvigorated him, and he quickly toweled himself down and headed into the bedroom. He’d lost interest in a tub soak; besides, the water had gone cold. “Get me another drink, will you?” he said to his young companion, now wearing pair of red satin pajama bottoms and a black Japanese kimono who had stood when Thorncroft entered. “And after you’ve done that, you can get those clothes off. I’ve got quite a deal of tension to work off, you know?” Thorncroft winked at his young courtesan then gently squeezed the young man’s crotch.
Thorncroft would spend the rest of the night working off his “tension,” but for his former representative in the United States, the tension was just about to begin.
Dr. Moya sat down on the edge of the squeaky bed in the out-of-the-way Kansas City hotel. It was late afternoon now of the day the vaccination program began, though it seemed like days had passed. He took a drink from the bottle of lukewarm water he’d bought from the lobby—there was no refrigerator in the rooms of this hotel. During his travels from Des Moines to Kansas City, he avoided all contact until arrival and then called Calgleef for an update. That was almost an hour ago and hadn’t heard from the director of the CDC since then.
“Surely there must be some more developments by now.” He picked up the remote for the TV. Maybe there would be some news about it. He was just in time to see the “live exclusive” news footage taken from a helicopter.
The news anchor commented: “This just in from the unfolding drama at the Riverside Hospital here in downtown in Des Moines, where an outbreak of Legionnaires’ disease has…”
Moya spat a mouthful of water over the floor when he saw the video of three people being rescued from the roof of the hospital.
“That’s the Delaney woman!” he stood up and got closer to the old TV set.
If she told her story, and to a news service of all things, there would be hell to pay.
While she might not be believed—who but conspiracy theorists on the Internet would believe that pharmaceutical companies actually spread the disease in their vaccines rather than treating it? The old adage of, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire” still applied.
He had to call Calgleef. Spot fires were breaking out everywhere and they had to be brought under control.
While he never wished any harm on her, he didn’t think she would manage to escape.
Passing on the combination, the storeroom was his good deed, and it was there, he thought Delaney would remain. How she managed to break free wasn’t his concern. However, the attitude of the authorities in general and the US government in particular toward the contract was.
He turned the sound down on the TV while he called Calgleef. While he pushed the numbers, he watched the rescue of Grace Delaney and her colleagues as it was replayed once more.
Moya became agitated as the phone rang and rang. It was unusual for Calgleef to take this long to answer. The voice mail kicked in asking him to leave a message after the tone. He didn’t. This was strange too. Calgleef, as the director of the CDC, would have to be available 24/7 and especially during a crisis.
“I don’t like how this is shaping up.” He would have to be reachable at all times—would he not? Moya reasoned. Had Calgleef been arrested? Did he have a change of heart? Even worse, did he turn on him and perhaps Thorncroft? All these possibilities ran through Moya’s mind. He didn’t care about Thorncroft, that bastard was safe in England—but he may not be so lucky. He strolled over to the window of this second-floor room as his mind raced away. His view of the street was marred by tall trees, the entrance to the parking lot wasn’t. From his position, he was just in time to see police squad cars followed by a white van entering. From his elevated point, he was able to see the occupants of the van wore white protective cleanup suits. He didn’t need a second guess as to why they were here or who they had come for. Packing his bags was easy—he hadn’t had unpacked yet—and he headed out the door and to the rear stairs that would take him out the back.
The back door of the hotel was a large double-paned glass door, he arrived at the same time a black-and-white of the Kansas City PD did. He quickly backtracked; he couldn’t go to the front lobby, he could hear the voices of authorities there. With no choices, he headed back up the stairs where he coolly waited until he heard the heavy footsteps coming up. Thankfully for him, there were no elevators in the hotel. When he judged them to be about halfway, he made a dash for the fire escape. Positive they would have a photograph of him,
he knew he couldn’t just fake his way past. Once out on the landing of the escape stairs, he looked down to the rear of the parking lot. With no cops in sight, he continued, not that he could go any other way now as his potential captors had arrived on the second floor. The parking lot itself offered no protection or cover, and the hedge line at the end was over seventy yards away, or for him, a European, about fifty-eight meters. Heaving his bag under one arm, he made a dash for it. He might get shot in the back, but it would be preferable to a quarantine with Baltic flu carriers, which he was certain was what awaited him if arrested.
This wasn’t going to be easy; he knew little of getting around in America and even less about Kansas City. Just like Richard Kimble, he was a fugitive—only not as innocent.
This is what happens when you team up with the devil, he thought.
But just who was the devil he referred to? Thorncroft, Calgleef, corruption and greed, the pharmaceutical industry, the vaccine itself, money or all of the above?
14
Fourteen
Two hazmat-suited CDC guards now trained their automatic pistols on the five people who got off the helicopter—they were no longer concerned with Sanders. Four more guards, also in hazmat suits, came and handcuffed them, placed surgical masks over their faces and what looked like travel eye masks on their eyes. The cops and National Guard, with guns at the ready, cordoned off the area.
“Let go of me. You, you… you killed her, you killed her!” Grace continued with her protest. Her emotion had completed a full circle from one of horror to elation of their escape and rescue to revulsion and back to fear again. As a doctor she would recognize these actions she displayed as a precursor to shock or a nervous breakdown—if she was able to observe it.
“Grace, take it easy. There’s nothing we can do for her now, you’re only going to harm yourself, please…” Tilford did his best to calm her down.
“Do you know who I am?” Steve demanded. “We just captured this story and put it out on the air. She’s the one who did the shooting. We filmed it. We can show you, you—”
Mike raised his head from the hard concrete and shook it. “You don’t get it, do you, Steve?”
“What do you mean? They’re arresting us all in connection with the shootings.”
“You stupid fuck. What’s the news that’s been going out all day about the hospital? An outbreak of Legionnaires’. Now, you tell me when have you seen people in biological suits do the arresting?”
“He’s right. This is not about the shooting. We’re being taken to quarantine—well, maybe.” Grace tried to focus on the proceedings and not Sanders execution.
“But why us? We rescued you. We weren’t in the hospital—”
“You were in contact with these people and they were in the hospital,” a CDC officer answered. His voice sounded mechanical through the small external speaker in his hazmat suit.
Grace was struck with the reality that anyone having contact with staff or patients at the hospital would be rounded up—if any were still alive.
She heard the flopping sound made by the rubber hazmat suit, as another CDC officer came up behind. He took her by the arm and lifted, but she didn’t struggle, though she wanted to. She was led a few steps to the waiting CDC van. She and Tilford were placed in one van while the other three were placed in the second vehicle.
Blindfolded, she was spared the sight of Nurse Beth Sanders’ limp body being rolled into a black body bag. She knew Beth’s body would have to be taken away and disposed of, but would the soldiers or the cops know the reason for the masks, the gloves and the hazmat suits. Would they know it was for protection against the deadliest outbreak of influenza since the 1918 pandemic, and not against Legionnaires’ disease?
Grace leaned forward from inside the van after she’d been seated, a chain was snaked through her cuffs and Tilford’s. She started shouting to the gathered personnel outside the van; a last attempt at a warning. “It’s not Legionnaires’, it’s not, it’s—”
The side door of the van slid shut. Her warning went unheard.
As they were led away, another van rolled up to the heliport. It resembled an EMT van except it had no markings. The two occupants who got out were dressed in white full-length cleanup protection suits rather than hazmat suits. With thick green gloves, they pulled the gurney from the back and hoisted the body bag onto it. No precautions were taken; they weren’t interested.
“Where are you taking her?” One of the hazmat-suit wearers stepped forward. It was conversational interest between colleagues, nothing more.
“Where we’ve been told to take her,” the driver of the unmarked EMT van, who showed no interested, said then he jumped into the van and drove off.
“Something tells me they aren’t CDC or FDA. Call it a hunch.” The CDC officer commented aloud.
“What did you say? It’s impossible to hear in these suits at the best of times but worse when you mumble,” a fellow officer called.
“Just talking to myself, buddy, just talking to myself…”
The two CDC men in their space-suits who had stayed behind to clean up the mess—and any traces of their activity—watched the van as it disappeared down the street. They knew all this effort wasn’t for Legionnaires’, and that you don’t declare a “limited state emergency” for it either—whatever the hell that was. And you certainly don’t gun an unarmed woman down with what was, for all intents and purposes, a firing squad. The first CDC officer had wondered at the time about the initial orders he’d received, which included the term “firearms are permitted” in this case. But for the cops and the Guard to open fire without question, he speculated as to what their orders might have been and—more to the point—who gave them.
“Hey, who’s going to clean this blood up over here?”
The two turned and saw a police officer standing by the pool of now rusty-brown liquid; one lace from the officer’s shoe dangled in the pool. “We’ll get right on that. Best you move away, sir.”
A warehouse on the outskirts of Des Moines was the destination of the CDC vans that contained Grace, Tilford, Steve Donalds, Mike Weaver and Richard Perry. The escort of police and National Guard had departed a ways back, as it would only have drawn more attention. A single unmarked car led the way. An industrial area, there was nothing untoward about two vans and a car driving into a warehouse. Grace felt the cold straight away and the stale air as they were led from the van; this wasn’t a building that was used often. She felt a hand on the side of her face, as her “night mask” was pulled off her head. The inside of the warehouse was dark, she saw and was grateful for. It still took some time for her eyes to adjust. In the center of the concrete floor were several prefab mobile homes joined together end on end.
Their new home.
She looked over at Tilford to see if he realized the gravity of the situation. The worried look and single raise of his eyebrows told her he did.
“Now listen here, you can’t be—” Steve began his protests once more but stopped the instant he saw guards in black fatigues and respirators over their faces. He quickly understood the severity of their condition. Like the CDC officers who accompanied them, every inch of their bodies was protected from outside contact.
“Now do you see what we’re up against?” Grace whispered from the corner of her mouth.
Steve did, judging by his reaction. For all these people to be wearing such biological protection it had to be serious—deadly serious. A plague, a new pestilence unleashed upon the world, and he had gone and rescued the very people that could be carrying it. “Why did we pick you up? Why, damn it, why?” he howled at Grace.
“Because, you self-centered asshole, you wanted the big story, you wanted to win a fucking prize and be famous big shot. You prick!” Mike couldn’t tolerate Steve’s self-serving attitude any longer and answered.
He looked over to Grace and Tilford. Whether they had the disease or not, they looked in good shape physically and mentally, and he’d alr
eady seen that she could do when required. Tilford too, proved himself solid and reliable. He could count on them and probably Richard, but he was younger and not the action type, more the arty type. Probably smokes dope too, I bet. And he discounted the reporter without consideration. He knew if they were to get out of here alive, it would be because of their own doing, not from any rescue attempt. None would be forthcoming. In his time in the military, he’d heard about places like this but dared not repeat it—to anyone. This base was essentially a hidden, off the radar, usually under the joint control of CIA/NSA but shared with other government departments that conducted shadowy operations away from the eyes of the public, and from its government in many cases.
“We’re already dead,” Mike whispered to Tilford, who was closer. He wanted to tell Grace, but she was too far away, and the goon squad in black looked ready to draw their pistols at a drop.
“What, what are you saying?”
Pestilence Boxed Set [Books 1 & 2] Page 12
