by A. G. Riddle
“It’s okay,” she said. “What’s happened?”
“I just emailed you.”
“Hang on.”
Peyton’s bare feet again slapped against the hardwood floor as she raced to the second bedroom. She sat at the cheap Ikea desk, woke her laptop, and activated her secure VPN software, opening a remote link to her terminal at the CDC.
She studied the pictures in the email, taking in every detail.
“I see it,” she said.
“The Kenyan Ministry of Health sent us this a few hours ago. A doctor at a regional hospital in Mandera took the photos.”
Peyton had never heard of Mandera. She opened Google Maps and studied the location, which was in the far northeast of Kenya, right at the borders with Somalia and Ethiopia. It was the worst possible place for an outbreak.
“It’s obviously some kind of hemorrhagic fever,” Jonas said. “Rift Valley is endemic to the region. So are Ebola and Marburg. After the Ebola outbreak in West Africa, everybody here is taking this very seriously. I’ve already had a call from the director-general’s office.”
“Are these the only known cases?”
“At the moment.”
“What do we know about them?” Peyton asked.
“Not much. All three men claim to be westerners visiting the country.”
That got Peyton’s attention.
“The two younger males are Americans. They’re recent college graduates from UNC-Chapel Hill. They went to Kenya as part of a startup of some kind. The other man is from London. He works for a British company installing radar systems.”
“What kind of radar systems?”
“For air traffic control. He was working at the Mandera airport when he became ill.”
“They have an airport?”
“Not much of one. It was a dirt airstrip until a few months ago. The government has been upgrading it: paved runway, better equipment. It opened last week.”
Peyton massaged her temple. A functioning airport in a hot zone was a nightmare scenario.
“We’re inquiring about the airport—traffic, who was at the opening ceremony, other foreigners who might have worked on the project. We’ve also contacted Public Health England, and they’re already working on it. It’s eight forty in the morning there, so they’ll be in touch with the British man’s family and co-workers soon. When we know how long he’s been in Kenya, we’ll make a call on quarantining them.”
Peyton scanned the email’s text, noting the names of the two younger men. “We’ll start tracing contacts for the Americans, see if we can build a timeline of where they’ve been, how long they’ve been in the country. What else can we do?”
“That’s about it for now. The Kenyans haven’t asked yet, but if things go the way they did in West Africa, it’s safe to assume they’re going to need a lot of help.”
Help meant money and supplies. During the Ebola outbreak in West Africa, the CDC had deployed hundreds of people and supplied equipment including PPE, thousands of body bags, and countless field test kits.
“I’ll talk to Elliott,” Peyton said. “We’ll loop in State and USAID.”
“There’s something else. We’ve just had our security briefing here. Mandera County is a very dangerous place. There’s a terrorist group in the region called al-Shabaab. They’re as brutal as ISIS, not fans of Americans, and when they hear you’re in the region, it could get even more dangerous. We’ll be in Nairobi late tonight, but I was thinking we would wait for your team. We can link up with a Kenyan military escort and head north together.”
“It’ll probably be Saturday before we get there.”
“That’s okay, we’ll wait. There’s a lot we can do in Nairobi.”
“Great. Thank you, Jonas.”
“Safe travels.”
Peyton placed the phone on the desk, stood, and studied the world map that covered the wall. Colored pushpins dotted every continent. Each pin corresponded to an outbreak, except for one. In eastern Uganda, along the border with Kenya, deep inside Mount Elgon National Park, hung a silver lapel pin. It featured a rod with a serpent wrapped around it—the traditional symbol of medicine known as the Rod of Asclepius, most frequently seen inside the six-pointed Star of Life on ambulances. The pin had belonged to Peyton’s brother, Andrew. It was Andrew who had inspired her to pursue a career in epidemiology, and she always took his pin with her when she went into the field. It was all she had left of him.
She took the silver keepsake off the map, placed it in her pocket, and pushed a red pin into the map where Kenya, Ethiopia, and Somalia met, marking it as an outbreak of a viral hemorrhagic fever.
She always kept two duffel bags packed: a first world bag and a third world bag. She grabbed the third world bag and added the appropriate AC adapters for Kenya.
As soon as things slowed down, she’d have to call her mother and sister to let them know she was deploying. Thanksgiving was in four days, and Peyton had a feeling she was going to miss it.
She hated to admit it, but in a way Peyton was relieved. Her sister, Madison, was Peyton’s only remaining sibling. The death of their brother had brought them closer, but recently every conversation with Madison had ended with her sister asking Peyton why she wasn’t dating and insisting that her chance for a family was rapidly slipping away. At thirty-eight, Peyton had to concede the point, but she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted a family. In fact, she wasn’t at all sure what she wanted from her life outside of work. Her work had become her life, and she believed what she was doing was important. She liked getting the calls in the middle of the night. The mystery every outbreak brought, knowing her hard work saved lives, that every second mattered.
And as of right now, the clock was ticking.
On the street below, a man sitting in a car watched Peyton pull out of the underground parking deck.
He spoke into the open comm line as he cranked the car. “Subject is on the move. No visitors. No text messages. Only one phone call—from her contact at the WHO.”
Chapter 4
Desmond stared through the peephole, watching the hotel security guard bring the key card toward the door lock. Two uniformed Berlin police officers stood beside him, hands on their hips.
Desmond flipped the privacy latch, preventing the door from opening. “Just a minute, please,” he said in English, trying his best to sound annoyed. “I’m not dressed.”
“Please hurry, Mr. Hughes,” the security guard said.
Desmond studied the dead man lying on the floor.
His mind rifled through options.
Option one: go out the window. He walked to the tall glass and examined it. He was at least ten stories up, and there was no fire escape or any other means to get to the ground in one, non-splattered piece. Besides, it looked like the window didn’t open.
Option two: make a run for it. He gave that zero chance of success. He was in no shape to push past three men, much less beat them in a foot race.
That left option three: hiding the body and seeing it through.
But where?
The living room was furnished with a desk and office chair, a couch, a side chair, and an entertainment center. A heating unit sat under the tall windows and floor-to-ceiling drapes. A wide opening with double pocket doors led to the bedroom, which held a king size bed with two nightstands, another window with a heating unit under it, and a closet. The narrow bathroom opened only from the bedroom.
Quickly, Desmond made his decision.
Lifting the dead man sent pain through his body. His ribs radiated sharp spikes that overwhelmed him, nearly gagging him at one point. The man was tall, about Desmond’s height at nearly six feet, but lean. He was likely only 150 pounds, but he felt more like 300. Rigor mortis had set in. Gunter Thorne had been dead for hours.
As he dragged the body, Desmond wondered how he knew how long it took rigor mortis to set in. But what concerned him the most was that he had never really considered just opening the door, letting the police in
, and explaining his situation. It was as if somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew he was someone who needed to avoid the police—that he had something to hide. That if all the facts came to light, it wouldn’t be good for him. He needed his freedom right now. He needed to find out what had happened to him.
He was sweaty and panting when they knocked again. He dried his face, raced to the door, and cracked it, peering out suspiciously.
“Yes?”
The security guard spoke. “May we come in, Mr. Hughes?”
Saying no would arouse suspicion, and Desmond couldn’t keep them out. Without a word, he swung the door wider.
The three men strode in, their eyes scanning the room, hands near their waists. One of the officers wandered into the bedroom, nearing the closet and the bathroom. The doors to both were closed.
“What’s this about?” Desmond asked.
“We had a call about a disturbance,” the police officer in the living room said, without making eye contact. He glanced behind the couch, then over at the entertainment center. He seemed to be in charge.
Through the opening to the bedroom, Desmond saw the other officer eyeing the closed closet doors. He reached out, opened them, then froze. His eyes moved from the floor to the ceiling. He turned to look at Desmond.
“No luggage?”
“I sent it down already,” he said quickly, trying to seem as if they were wasting his time. He needed to turn the tide, go on the offensive to get them out of the room. “What sort of disturbance? Are you sure you have the right room?”
The officer in the living room seemed to have finished his search. He turned his attention to Desmond.
“Are you in town for business or pleasure, Mr. Hughes?”
“Bit of both.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
“Technology,” he said dismissively. “Listen, am I in danger here? Should I call the American embassy?” He let his voice rise with each line, sounding more frantic. “Can you at least tell me what’s going on?”
The policeman pressed on. “How long are you in town for, Mr. Hughes?”
“A week. What does it matter?”
The police officer was unshaken. It wasn’t working.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other officer setting up just to the left of the bathroom door, one hand on his gun, the other reaching for the doorknob.
Desmond changed tacks. He focused on the security guard and spoke rapidly. “You know this is going in my online review.”
The guard’s eyes grew wide.
“Yeah, it is,” Desmond pressed on. “I think an apt title would be: Stay here for Gestapo-style police interrogation and crappy WiFi.”
The guard looked at the officer. “Are you finished?”
Desmond heard the bathroom door creak open. A second later the lights flipped on. The police officer looked back at his partner and the security guard. Standing his ground, his hand still on his sidearm, he shook his head quickly.
“Yes. We are done here,” the other officer said. “Very sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Hughes. Please enjoy your stay in Berlin.”
The three men gathered at the door. The security guard had just gripped the handle when a sound erupted in the room: skin sliding across glass. The squealing noise ceased, and all three men paused, then turned back to face Desmond. Behind him, gravity had taken over, pulling Gunter Thorne’s dead body down toward the floor. Desmond had propped the dead man against the window in the corner and covered him with the drapes—but he was free now. His face rubbed across the glass a second more before his body hit the heating unit and tumbled to the floor with a thud.
Desmond didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, covering the distance to the three men in less than a second. He swung his right hand with all the force he could muster. It collided with the rightmost police officer’s face, on the cheekbone below his left eye. The man’s head flew back and hit the metal door casing. He was knocked out instantly.
Desmond rolled and pressed his body into the security guard, who was standing between the two officers, keeping the man from extending his arms. The remaining police officer drew his gun and was raising it, but Desmond quickly completed a 180-degree spin and rammed his elbow into the officer’s forehead. The man slammed back against the wooden door, then tumbled forward, unconscious, his gun flying. Desmond leapt to it, picked it up, and pointed it at the security guard.
“Hands where I can see them. Step away from the door.”
The guard’s hands trembled as he raised them.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but if you yell out, I will. Do you understand?”
The man nodded.
“Why were they here?”
“It is as they said—a call.”
“Who called them?”
He shook his head. “I do not know—”
“Who?”
“They said it was an anonymous tip.”
“Are there more downstairs?”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Desmond said, raising the weapon.
The man closed his eyes. “Two cars arrived. I don’t know if they stayed or not.”
“Turn around.”
The man didn’t move.
“Do it.”
Slowly, the security guard turned, his hands shaking violently now. Desmond drew the butt of the gun back and clocked the man on the head, sending him to the floor.
He dragged the guard’s body back from the door, then ejected the gun’s magazine and verified that there was no bullet in the chamber and the safety was on. He pulled his shirttail out and tucked the gun into his waistband, then collected the spare magazines from both police officers. He took the younger officer’s police ID and the radio from the security guard. He tucked the clear earpiece in and listened to the chatter for a moment. It was sparse and in German, but he understood it for the most part.
He had to decide: stairs or elevator. Front door or back.
Each route had pros and cons. Racing down the stairway would only raise the suspicion of anyone monitoring the security cameras, as would going out the back. So: elevator, front door.
He collected all the cash the three men carried—312 euros in total. He needed the money to get away, and as he was already on the hook for resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer, and possibly murder, he figured robbery wouldn’t complicate his situation that much.
In the hall, he marched casually to the elevator and punched the button. It opened after a few seconds, revealing a white-haired woman who didn’t acknowledge him.
There was no chatter on the security channel as he rode down. When the door opened to the lobby, Desmond stood aside, allowing the woman to exit first.
On the radio, a voice in German asked, “Gerhardt, are you still in 1207?”
Desmond fell in behind the woman.
“Gerhardt, come in.”
By the revolving glass door, two uniformed police officers stood chatting and smiling. They were twenty feet away. When they saw Desmond, they fell silent and stared at him.
Chapter 5
Peyton arrived at CDC headquarters shortly before four a.m. The campus, though typically associated with Atlanta, was actually located just outside the city limits, to the northeast, in the affluent Druid Hills community in unincorporated DeKalb County. The CDC’s precursor organization had been founded in Atlanta for one simple reason: to combat malaria. At the time, in July of 1946, the disease was America’s greatest public health concern, especially in the hot, humid southeast. Being centrally positioned in America’s malaria hotbed had been a significant advantage.
When Peyton first began working at the CDC, getting into the building had been as easy as swiping her card. Now the process was much more stringent and included an x-ray and pat-down. She knew security was important, but she was still anxious to get in and get started. Every second mattered.
Once security checked her in, she made her way directly to the CDC’s Emerge
ncy Operations Center—the organization’s command center for outbreak responses. The EOC’s main room looked like mission control for a NASA launch, with rows of connected desks filling the floor, all with flat-screen monitors. A wall-to-wall screen showed a map of the world and tallied statistics related to current operations. The EOC could seat 230 people for eight-hour shifts, and soon the center would be buzzing with activity. Even at this early hour, more than a dozen EOC staff members sat at their desks, fielding phone calls and typing away.
Peyton said hello to the staffers she knew and asked if there were any updates. The EOC’s large conference room was dark, but a sign on the door announced an all-hands meeting for the Mandera Outbreak at eight a.m.
A color-coded marker on the wall indicated the CDC’s current Emergency Response Activation Level. There were three possible levels: red meant level one—the highest, most critical level. Yellow was level two, and green was for level three. The marker on the wall was yellow, which meant that the EOC and CDC’s Division of Emergency Operations would be calling in staff and offering significant support to the outbreak response. Peyton was glad to see that.
At her office, she began prepping for the deployment. Her duffel bag contained the essentials for any outbreak investigation: clothes, toiletries, a satellite GPS, sunblock, gowns, gloves, goggles, a portable projector, and MREs—meals ready-to-eat. The MREs were particularly essential for outbreaks in the third world; often the local food and water harbored the very pathogen they were fighting.
Peyton put in rush orders for the other things the team would need in Mandera, including location-specific medications, mosquito netting, insect repellent, and satsleeves—sleeves that slid onto smartphones to give them satellite phone capability with data access. The satphone sleeves would enable team members to keep their regular phone numbers and contacts as well as access their email and other data. Being able to take a picture in the field and instantly upload it could well change the course of an outbreak response—and save lives.
Next, she began preparing packets for the team. She printed maps of Mandera and surrounding areas, and made lists of contacts at the CDC’s Kenya office, the US embassy, the EOC, WHO Kenya, and the Kenyan Ministry of Health and Public Sanitation. She pulled up a questionnaire she had used in the field during the Ebola outbreak in West Africa and made a few modifications, adapting it to the region. She printed hundreds of copies. Some epidemiologists were pushing to go paperless in the field, but Peyton still preferred good ol’ printed forms: they never crashed, their batteries never died, and roadside bandits were infinitely less interested in file folders than tablets. Paper worked.
