Never Say Die / Whistleblower

by Tess Gerritsen

  Dafoe couldn’t let such a man, such a friend, down.

  He dialed Sam Polowski’s home phone and left a message on the recorder.

  This is a direct order. You are to withdraw from the Holland case immediately. Until further notice you are on suspension.

  He was tempted to add, by special request from my friends in Washington, but thought better of it. No room for vanity here. The Cowboy had said national security was at stake.

  Dafoe had no doubt it truly was. He’d gotten the word from Matt Tyrone. And Matt Tyrone’s authority came direct from the President himself.

  “This does not look good. This does not look good at all.”

  Ollie Wozniak squinted through his wire-rim glasses at the twenty-four photographs strewn across Milo’s dining table. He held one up for a closer look. Through the bottle-glass lens, one pale blue eye stared out, enormous. One only saw Ollie’s eyes; everything else, hollow cheeks, pencil lips and baby-fine hair, seemed to recede into the background pallor. He shook his head and picked up another photo.

  “You’re right, of course,” he said. “Some of these I can’t interpret. I’d like to study ’em later. But these here are definitely raw mortality data. Rhesus monkeys, I suspect.” He paused and added quietly, “I hope.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t use people for this sort of thing,” said Cathy.

  “Not officially.” Ollie put down the photo and looked at her. “But it’s been done.”

  “Maybe in Nazi Germany.”

  “Here, too,” said Victor.

  “What?” Cathy looked at him in disbelief.

  “Army studies in germ warfare. They released colonies of Serratia Marcescens over San Francisco and waited to see how far the organism spread. Infections popped up in a number of Bay Area hospitals. Some of the cases were fatal.”

  “I can’t believe it,” murmured Cathy.

  “The damage was unintentional, of course. But people died just the same.”

  “Don’t forget Tuskegee,” said Ollie. “People died in those experiments, too. And then there was that case in New York. Mentally retarded kids in a state hospital who were deliberately exposed to hepatitis. No one died there, but the ethics were just as shaky. So it’s been done. Sometimes in the name of humanity.”

  “Sometimes not,” said Victor.

  Ollie nodded. “As in this particular case.”

  “What exactly are we talking about here?” asked Cathy, nodding at the photos. “Is this medical research? Or weapons development?”

  “Both.” Ollie pointed to one of the photos on the table. “By all appearances, Viratek’s engaged in biological weapons research. They’ve dubbed it Project Cerberus. From what I can tell, the organism they’re working on is an RNA virus, extremely virulent, highly contagious, producing over eighty-percent mortality in its lab animal hosts. This photo here—” he tapped one of the pages “—shows the organism produces vesicular skin lesions on the infected subjects.”

  “Vesicular?”

  “Blisterlike. That could be one route of transmission, the fluid in those lesions.” He sifted through the pile and pulled out another page. “This shows the time course of the illness. The viral counts, periods of infectiousness. In almost every case the course is the same. The subject’s exposed here.” He pointed to Day One on the time graph. “Minor signs of illness here at Day Seven. Full-blown pox on Day Twelve. And here—” he tapped the graph at Day Fourteen “—the deaths begin. The time varies, but the result’s the same. They all die.”

  “You used the word pox,” said Cathy.

  Ollie turned to her, his eyes like blue glass. “Because that’s what it is.”

  “You mean like chickenpox?”

  “I wish it was. Then it wouldn’t be so deadly. Almost everyone gets exposed to chickenpox as a kid, so most of us are immune. But this one’s a different story.”

  “Is it a new virus?” asked Milo.

  “Yes and no.” He reached for an electron micrograph. “When I saw this I thought there was something weirdly familiar about all this. The appearance of the organism, the skin lesions, the course of illness. The whole damn picture. It reminded me of something I haven’t read about in decades. Something I never dreamed I’d see again.”

  “You’re saying it’s an old virus?” said Milo.

  “Ancient. But they’ve made some modifications. Made it more infectious. And deadlier. Which turns this into a real humdinger of a weapon, considering the millions of folks it’s already killed.”

  “Millions?” Cathy stared at him. “What are we talking about?”

  “A killer we’ve known for centuries. Smallpox.”

  “That’s impossible!” said Cathy. “From what I’ve read, we conquered smallpox. It’s supposed to be extinct.”

  “It was,” said Victor. “For all practical purposes. Worldwide vaccination wiped it out. Smallpox hasn’t been reported in decades. I’m not even sure they still make the vaccine. Ollie?”

  “Not available. No need for it since the virus has vanished.”

  “So where did this virus come from?” asked Cathy.

  Ollie shrugged. “Probably someone’s closet.”

  “Come on.”

  “I’m serious. After smallpox was eradicated, a few samples of the virus were kept alive in government labs, just in case someone needed it for future research. It’s the scientific skeleton in the closet, so to speak. I’d assume those labs are top security. Because if any of the virus got out, there could be a major epidemic.” He looked at the stack of photos. “Looks like security’s already been breached. Someone obviously got hold of the virus.”

  “Or had it handed to them,” said Victor. “Courtesy of the U.S. government.”

  “I find that incredible, Gersh,” said Ollie. “This is a powderkeg experiment you’re talking about. No committee would approve this sort of project.”

  “Right. That’s why I think this is a maverick operation. It’s easy to come up with a scenario. Bunch of hardliners cooking this up over at NSA. Or joint chiefs of staff. Or even the Oval Office. Someone says: “World politics have changed. We can’t get away with nuking the enemy. We need a new weapons option, one that’ll work well against a Third World army. Let’s find one.” And some guy in that room, some red, white and blue robot, will take that as the go-ahead. International law be damned.”

  “And since it’s unofficial,” said Cathy, “it’d be completely deniable.”

  “Right. The administration could claim it knew nothing.”

  “Sounds like Iran-Contra all over again.”

  “With one big difference,” said Ollie. “When Iran-Contra fell apart, all you had were a few ruined political careers. If Project Cerberus goes awry, what you’ll have is a few million dead people.”

  “But Ollie,” said Milo. “I got vaccinated for smallpox when I was a kid. Doesn’t that mean I’m safe?”

  “Probably. Assuming the virus hasn’t been altered too much. In fact, everyone over 35 is probably okay. But remember, there’s a whole generation after us that never got the vaccine. Young adults and kids. By the time you could manufacture enough vaccine for them all, we’d have a raging epidemic.”

  “I’m beginning to see the logic of this weapon,” said Victor. “In any war, who makes up the bulk of combat soldiers? Young adults.”

  Ollie nodded. “They’d be hit bad. As would the kids.”

  “A whole generation,” Cathy murmured. “And only the old would be spared.” She glanced at Victor and saw, mirrored in his eyes, the horror she felt.

  “They chose an appropriate name,” said Milo.

  Ollie frowned. “What?”

  “Cerberus. The three-headed dog of Hades.” Milo looked up, visibly shaken. “Guardian of the dead.”

  It wasn’t until Cathy was fast asleep and Milo had retired upstairs that Victor finally broached the subject to Ollie. It had troubled him all evening, had shadowed his every moment since they’d arrived at Milo’s house. He c
ouldn’t look at Cathy, couldn’t listen to the sound of her voice or inhale the scent of her hair without thinking of the terrible possibilities. And in the deepest hours of night, when it seemed all the world was asleep except for him and Ollie, he made the decision.

  “I need to ask you a favor,” he said.

  Ollie gazed at him across the dining table, steam wafting up from his fourth cup of coffee. “What sort of favor?”

  “It has to do with Cathy.”

  Ollie’s gaze shifted to the woman lying asleep on the living room floor. She looked very small, very defenseless, curled up beneath the comforter. Ollie said, “She’s a nice woman, Gersh.”

  “I know.”

  “There hasn’t really been anyone since Lily. Has there?”

  Victor shook his head. “I guess I haven’t felt ready for it. There were always other things to think about….”

  Ollie smiled. “There are always excuses. I should know. People keep telling me there’s a glut of unattached female baby boomers. I haven’t noticed.”

  “And I never bothered to notice.” Victor looked at Cathy. “Until now.”

  “What’re you gonna do with her, Gersh?”

  “That’s what I need you for. I’m not the safest guy to hang around with these days. A woman could get hurt.”

  Ollie laughed. “Hell, a guy could get hurt.”

  “I feel responsible for her. And if something happened to her, I’m not sure I could ever…” He let out a long sigh and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Anyway, I think it’s best if she leaves.”

  “For where?”

  “She has an ex-husband. He’ll be working down in Mexico for a few months. I think she’d be pretty safe.”

  “You’re sending her to her ex-husband?”

  “I’ve met him. He’s a jerk, but at least she won’t be alone down there.”

  “Does Cathy agree to this?”

  “I didn’t ask her.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “I’m not giving her a choice.”

  “What if she wants the choice?”

  “I’m not in the mood to take any crap, Okay? I’m doing this for her own good.”

  Ollie took off his glasses and cleaned them on the tablecloth. “Excuse me for saying this, Gersh, but if it was me, I’d want her nearby, where I could sort of keep an eye on her.”

  “You mean where I can watch her get killed?” Victor shook his head. “Lily was enough. I won’t go through it with Cathy.”

  Ollie thought it over for a moment, then he nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Tomorrow I want you to take her to the airport. Buy her a ticket to Mexico. Let her use your name. Mrs. Wozniak. Make sure she gets safely off the ground. I’ll pay you back when I can.”

  “What if she won’t get on the plane? Do I just shove her aboard?”

  “Do whatever it takes, Ollie. I’m counting on you.”

  Ollie sighed. “I guess I can do it. I’ll call in sick tomorrow. That’ll free up my day.” He looked at Victor. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  So do I, thought Victor.

  Ollie rose to his feet and tucked the envelope with the photos under his arm. “I’ll get back to you in the morning. After I show these last two photos to Bach. Maybe he can identify what those grids are.”

  “If it’s anything electronic, Bach’ll figure it out.”

  Together they walked to the door. There they paused and regarded each other, two old friends who’d grown a little grayer and, Victor hoped, a little wiser.

  “Somehow it’ll all work out,” said Ollie. “Remember. The system’s there to be beaten.”

  “Sounds like the old Stanford radical again.”

  “It’s been a long time.” Grinning, Ollie gave Victor a clap on the back. “But we’re still not too old to raise a little hell, hey, Gersh? See you in the morning.”

  Victor waved as Ollie walked away into the darkness. Then he closed the door and turned off all the lights.

  In the living room he sat beside Cathy and watched her sleep. The glow of a streetlight spilled in through the window onto her tumbled hair. Ordinary, she had called herself. Perhaps, if she’d been a stranger he’d merely passed on the street, he might have thought so, too. A chance meeting on a rainy highway in Garberville had made it impossible for him to ever consider this woman ordinary. In her gentleness, her kindness, she was very much like Lily.

  In other ways, she was very different.

  Though he’d cared about his wife, though they’d never stopped being good friends, he’d found Lily strangely passionless, a pristine, spiritual being trapped by human flesh. Lily had never been comfortable with her own body. She’d undress in the dark, make love—the rare times they did—in the dark. And then, the illness had robbed her of what little desire she had left.

  Gazing at Cathy, he couldn’t help wondering what passions might lie harbored in her still form.

  He cut short the speculation. What did it matter now? Tomorrow, he’d send her away. Get rid of her, he thought brutally. It was necessary. He couldn’t think straight while she was around. He couldn’t stay focused on the business at hand: exposing Viratek. Jerry Martinique had counted on him. Thousands of potential victims counted on him. He was a scientist, a man who prided himself on logic. His attraction to this particular woman was, in the grand scheme of things, clearly unimportant.

  That was what the scientist in him said.

  That problem finally settled, he decided to get some rest while he could. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out beside her to sleep. The comforter was large enough—they could share it. He climbed beneath it and lay for a moment, not touching her, almost afraid to share her warmth.

  She whimpered in her sleep and turned toward him, her silky hair tumbling against his face.

  This was more than he could resist. Sighing, he wrapped his arms around her and felt her curl up against his chest. It was their last night together. They might as well spend it keeping each other warm.

  That was how he fell asleep, with Cathy in his arms.

  Only once during the night did he awaken. He had been dreaming of Lily. They were walking together, in a garden of pure white flowers. She said absolutely nothing. She simply looked at him with profound sadness, as if to say, Here I am, Victor. I’ve come back to you. Why doesn’t that make you happy? He couldn’t answer her. So he simply took her in his arms and held her.

  He’d awakened to find he was holding Cathy, instead.

  Joy instantly flooded his heart, warmed the darkest corners of his soul. It took him by surprise, that burst of happiness; it also made him feel guilty. But there it was. And the joy was all too short-lived. He remembered that today she’d be going away.

  Cathy, Cathy. What a complication you’ve become.

  He turned on his side, away from her, mentally building a wall between them.

  He concentrated on the dream, trying to remember what had happened. He and Lily had been walking. He tried to picture Lily’s face, her brown eyes, her curly black hair. It was the face of the woman he’d been married to for ten years, a face he should know well.

  But the only face he saw when he closed his eyes was that of Catherine Weaver.

  It took Nicholas Savitch only two hours to pack his bags and drive down to Palo Alto. The word from Matt Tyrone was that Holland had slipped south to the Stanford area, perhaps to seek out old friends. Holland was, after all, a Stanford man. Maybe not the red-and-white rah-rah Cardinals type, but a Stanford man nonetheless. These old school ties could run deep. It was only a guess on Savitch’s part; he’d never gone beyond high school. His education consisted of what a hungry and ambitious boy could pick up on Chicago’s south side. Mainly a keen, almost uncanny knack for crawling into another man’s head, for sensing what a particular man would think and do in a given situation. Call it advanced street psychology. Without spending a day in college, Savitch had earned his degree.

  Now he was putting
it to use.

  The finder, they called him. He liked that name. He grinned as he drove, his leather-gloved hands expertly handling the wheel. Nicholas Savitch, diviner of human souls, the hunter who could ferret a man out of deepest hiding.

  In most cases it was a simple matter of logic. Even while on the run, most people conformed to old patterns. It was the fear that did it. It made them seek out their old comforts, cling to their usual habits. In a strange town, the familiar was precious, even if it was only the sight of those ubiquitous golden arches.

  Like every other fugitive, Victor Holland would seek the familiar.

  Savitch turned his car onto Palm Drive and pulled up in front of the Stanford Arch. The campus was silent; it was 2:00 a.m. Savitch sat for a moment, regarding the silent buildings, Holland’s alma mater. Here, in his former stomping grounds, Holland would turn to old friends, revisit old haunts. Savitch had already done his homework. He carried, in his briefcase, a list of names he’d culled from the man’s file. In the morning he’d start in on those names, knock on neighbors’ doors, flash his government ID, ask about new faces in the neighborhood.

  The only possible complication was Sam Polowski. By last report, the FBI agent was also in town, also on Holland’s trail. Polowski was a dogged operator. It’d be messy business, taking out a Bureau man. But then, Polowski was only a cog, the way the Weaver woman was only a cog, in a much bigger wheel.

  Neither of them would be missed.

  Chapter Nine